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peachesofteal · 13 days ago

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Fix You

John Price/female reader 11k words - AO3 - story is set in Through Me (The Flood) but is an AU and can be read as a standalone. Tags: 18+ major character death, heavy angst, loss of a loved one. Grief. Overconsumption of alcohol. Explicit sexual content. Emotional hurt/comfort. Complicated feelings. Angry sex. Caretaking. Trauma. Tenderness. Reader is a widow.

John Price knocks on your door in the late afternoon.

When the doorbell rings, you slip the baby into her bouncer and rub Orion’s hair affectionately at the table where he’s scribbling away with some crayons.

You’re not expecting anyone, but you guess it could be Cami. Though she usually just waltzes through the front door after using her key.

But it’s not.

It’s John.

You’re silent in front of him, eyes wide. He’s holding a bag, a black duffel, still dressed for work, for battle, face pinched in despair. Your heart lurches. “What is it?” He peeks over your shoulder to where the kids are, preoccupied, happy.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“No,” you tell him sharply. “No, I- what is it? Where is he? How bad is it?” His eyes soften, and he whispers your name. You barely notice when he reaches over to close the front door, too busy cycling through every worse case scenario. He eyes the chairs on the porch.

“Let’s sit down.”

“No.” You’re going to be sick. “Just tell me. Say it.” There’s a long moment where your life plays out in front of you. The stretch of before, and after. John takes a deep breath.

“He’s gone.” Gone. Gone as in, missing? Gone as in, on a different mission? What does gone mean? Your confusion must be blatant, because he reaches for your shoulder. “He’s dead. I’m so sorry.” You jerk away and laugh. That’s all you can do. Laugh. Laugh at the absurdity. Simon's not dead. He can't be. That makes no sense.

“No, he’s not, he can’t be. I literally just talked to him, like three days ago. He said you guys were wrapping up, that you were done.” He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, he’s-“

“Stop. Don’t- don’t say that. He’s coming home. You’re all supposed to be home next week, he promised, he-“ Your mind is fighting something your heart already knows. “It’s not true.”

“We ran into a situation, there was-“

“Stop!” You back away, bumping into the railing. You’re shivering, sobbing, unable to catch your breath.

“C’mon,” he says gently, trying to guide you towards the chair, but you don’t budge. You can’t. If you don’t move from this spot, you don’t have to accept it. If you don’t move from this spot, you don’t have to move forward. You don’t have to live a life without him. You don’t have to walk inside and tell your son his father is dead. Your daughter won’t have to grow up without ever knowing him.

“Please.” Your voice cracks, and you stare up at him. “Please, it’s a mistake, it must be. It has to be. He can’t- He promised, he promised.”

“I know.” You shake your head.

“Please.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. I couldn’t save him, I-“ His voice breaks, and then you do, sobbing so loud you’re sure it can be heard over the hills. A scream is building up inside you, burning and itching to get out, and he tugs you forward, cradles a hand around the back of your head and pushes your nose to his chest.

When it finally breaks free, it echoes directly over John’s heart.

You’ll never understand how people can say funeral services are beautiful.

They’re not.

They’re agonizing. Devastating. The last screw in the finality of your new reality.

It’s only you, the kids and his team. That’s all he had.

“You’re everything mama. I love you so much.”

Orion’s barely old enough to understand. He asks when he’ll see his dad again, and your answer is traumatizing for your child, at best. Daddy’s not coming home, you tell him. Daddy’s going somewhere else now, somewhere better.

He’s dead.

You black out during the entire thing. There are words being said, by a priest, by Johnny, by John, flowers being thrown. Cami stands at your side, holding your daughter, the child who will grow up never knowing her father. Barely five months old. Occasionally you look over at her, blissfully asleep, and you feel envy. Envy of your own child, who will never know this loss. Who will never feel the pain of losing Simon Riley.

Someone asks you if you want to do the honors of dumping the first shovelful of dirt onto his coffin.

You laugh out loud.

What a ridiculous custom.

Johnny and Kyle exchange a look of concern, you ignore them. You know what they think.

“Let’s get you home.” John’s eyes linger on your face, their sapphire and gunmetal shine holding you captive for a second as you grapple with what he’s said. If you were more present, more aware in this moment, you’d probably say they were akin to the palest hydrangeas, the color of the shrubs growing in your own front yard.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, you’re not in any state at all, you’re just here, standing at the edge of the cemetery, staring at a mound of fresh dirt.

The dirt covering your husband.

Orion hugs your legs, trying to force his way between your knees. You’ve long tuned out the sound of his wails, unable to give him more, give him anything except your relentless grief.

You should be stronger, for them. Should handle this better.

There are a lot of things you should have done. Should have told him you loved him more. Should have been the one to hold his hand as he died. Should have made sure he wasn’t scared and alone at the end.

The gaping wound in your heart tears wider, and your knees buckle.

John wraps his arm around your shoulders, steadying you, shifting your weight into him, keeping you upright. Cami watches, gaze glossed over with tears, baby in her arms. Your baby. You and Simon’s baby. Orion cries louder.

“I can’t do this.” You whisper, to no one, to the wind-

But it’s John who answers. “You can.”

There are voices in the kitchen.

It’s late now, long after sunset, the day you buried your husband almost over. More and more of him slips away. You get farther and farther away from the last time you saw him, spoke to him, heard his voice with every second.

It aches, so you close your eyes instead and tuck the blanket under your chin, curled up with your nose in the couch cushion.

The kids are asleep. You’re hoping you’ll follow. Soon.

“-want us to stay?” It’s Kyle. He’s trying to keep his voice down but you’re only in the other room, on the couch, staring at the wall.

“No,” John assures him. “You guys go home. I’ll be here.”

“You sure? The kids… if she’s not feeling up to it, or needs help…” Cami’s voice is wet, still heavy with sadness.

“I’m here. I promised him.” There’s a long pause, and he clears his throat. “I’ve got her.”

You can’t dwell on them for too long, exhaustion of the day finally dragging you down, slowing your breathing and cutting off your consciousness, giving you a reprieve from the grief by sealing you away from it in your sleep.

“Mama?” Orion’s little voice calls for you in the dark, and you jerk awake. The baby is crying. Someone is knocking on the door.

“Hey little man,” your throat is raw, your voice not your own. His little eyebrows crease together.

He looks so much like him.

You glance around. You’re no longer on the couch but tucked away in bed, slippers placed neatly on the carpet, phone plugged into the charger. Odd, considering you fell asleep on the couch.

“You hungry?” He nods as you sit up and wipe the sleep from your eyes. “Alright, let’s have breakfast then. What do you think sounds good?”

“Waffles?” “Okay. Go wash up while I go get Nix.” And figure out who’s at the door.

“John.” His hands are in his pockets, beanie folded up on his forehead, and you don’t miss the way he evaluates you, crying, wriggling baby in your arms, still in your pajamas, Orion hollering about breakfast in the background.

“I wanted to come by and check on you guys.” Right. Of course. Come check on the widow. What if she can’t get herself out of bed? What if she’s too sad to take care of her kids? He grimaces and clears his throat. “You’re uh… you’re wet.” He inclines his head towards Nix, who is mouthing at your chest over your t-shirt. Shit.

“Oh, crap. Uh, come in. We were about to have breakfast. Well, not just about. Ry wanted waffles and I was about to start them,” you’re babbling down the hall, glancing at Orion in his booster seat at the counter, banging around a bowl and spoon like a little king waiting impatiently for his meal.

“’cle John!” He claps, and John smiles.

“I’ll start them for you while…” He trails off and you smile awkwardly.

“Thanks.”

Phoenix is an easy baby. She latches easily, eats easily, goes down to sleep easily. She’s a breeze compared to Orion at this age.

Small blessings, you guess.

Simon said it was you earned it, after Ry. You deserved it.

What did you do to deserve this?

“Mama sad.” Orion whispers, his mournful little voice the first thing you hear when you shuffle out of your room. Nix went down after a change and a burp. Easy.

“She misses your daddy,” John answers, “like us.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip so hard it stings at the sound of his voice, dejected, depressed, palm finding the wall to stay upright.

The world tilts, falling out beneath you. For a second, you can see him. Standing on the other side of the counter, black sweatpants low on his hips, pouring some milk in Orion’s little orange cup, Nix cradled against him, stretched across his forearm. Simon laughs, licks his finger, and rubs something off the corner of Orion’s mouth.

You want to scream.

It’s a memory. Nothing else.

“.. okay?” John’s standing in front of you, head tilted, cupping your elbow. “You alright?” You raise your eyebrows, and he rolls his lips inward. “Sorry, course. You just… you looked a little sickly there for a minute.”

“Mama!” Orion yells, rocking back and forth to see you on either side of where John blocks the hallway. “Waffles!” You slide your hands down your shirt, Simon’s shirt.

“You made waffles?”

“Pre-mixed batter isn’t so hard. The lad was hungry.” Guilt simmers in the pit of your stomach, pinches your cheeks inward. “Hey, it’s okay. He was fine, jus’ a little impatient.” You nod, and he jerks his head back to the kitchen. “C’mon, I made you some too. And there’s fresh coffee.”

“Did you put me in bed last night?” You’re wiping down the countertop, some movie enrapturing your toddler in the background. He hesitates, and then nods.

“You were falling off the couch. Didn’t want you to brain yourself on the coffee table.” Your fingers curl around the mug, still warm to the touch, shoulders bunching beneath your ears before you forcibly relax them.

“Well, thanks.” I guess. An uncomfortable silence settles between you, questions evaporating on the tip of your tongue.

“I was going to head into town today for some groceries, can I get you anything?”

“Formula.” You blurt. “I can’t… we’ll need formula.” You don’t want to explain to him how it’s too much now, to breastfeed. How you won’t be able to handle it on top of everything else. How you think your milk will probably dry up anyway, bowing and breaking with the waves of your despair.

“What are you thinking about for dinner?” He scratches at the underside of his chin. The beard is overgrown, something you haven’t seen on him in a while, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

He’s grieving too. You know it.

You just can’t find it in you to care.

Something is weighing on John. Something is tied around his ankles, tethered to the sea floor, waiting to drag him beneath the surface. You see it. There’s guilt in the lines of his face, tension between his brows.

You wonder if there is blood on his hands.

“Why are you here, John?” You don’t intend to ask, but the words have a mind of their own and slip free.

“Wanted to stop by.” His voice is tight, rough like yours this morning. “Check in, see if you needed anything.” There are a million things you want to say, but words fail you. You don’t know how to tell him he should just leave, because nothing will ever be okay. You’ll always need something.

Simon.

Your husband.

The father of your kids. The man whose shirts are hung up in the closet. His paperback book still sitting open on his nightstand. His toothbrush still in the cup by the sink.

The agony you’ve managed to lock away for a few brief moments breaks free again, and you clap your hand over your mouth to muffle the heaving sob. John looks past you to where Orion still sits in front of the screen, mesmerized, and then takes you by the elbow to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, settling on the closed lid of the toilet, still choking on the lump in the back of your throat. “I told you, I can’t do this, I can’t. I can’t be without him, I don’t know how to be without him, I can’t-“

“Hey,” He’s crouched down, evening the height difference, looking at you with an expression so serious it quells your spiral for a fleeting moment. “You can do this. You have two beautiful kids who need you to do it for ‘em.” He hands you a square of toilet paper, and you wipe your nose.

“I want him back, John, I- I need him back.” You tuck your hands between your thighs, suddenly freezing, cold from the inside out.

“I know,” he murmurs gently, “I know you do.”

“There’s a lasagna in the fridge. Cami left it last night.” He’s tugging on his jacket, your handwritten grocery list from the fridge tucked in his pocket.

“Oh.” She’s texted you multiple times today, and all have gone unanswered. You don’t know what to say. “That was nice of her.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours after I take care of a few things and do the grocery run. You’ll be alright?” He’s treating you like glass. Like you’re a bomb primed to explode, big red letters counting down to an inevitable explosion. You manage to nod.

“Yeah.” The smile you give him is painfully fake, and you know he clocks it. “I’m going to hang out with the kids. Cuddle on the couch.” His smile is more genuine, but small.

“I’ll help you with dinner later.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.” He turns to leave, but you call his name before he hits the door.

“John?” His eyes meet yours. Blue. Crystalline like the sapphire on your finger. You clear your throat. “Thank you.”

He nods.

John finds you catatonic on the couch one morning. Nix in her day crib, the one that’s a permanent fixture in the living room, and Orion perched in front of an old Disney movie for the hundredth time this week.

You’re failing. Failing your kids, failing as a mother, failing to keep yourself patched together.

You thought you’d be stronger if it ever happened. You promised him you would be, but the promises have turned meaningless, your integrity torn to pieces.

You can’t remember the last time you showered or brushed your teeth. You’re sure you smell.

At least the kids are clean. Dressed. Fed. You’re not a complete disaster, you guess.

Still, when John appears in your line of sight, brows knitted together with worry, you’re caught off guard.

“Oh.” You blink, his frown deepens.

“I was calling your name. Were you somewhere else sweet?” Sweet.

“Sorry, I was… lost in thought.” He takes you in from head to toe, you in all your grimy glory.

“How about you take a break?” Irritation ignites, and you grit your teeth.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I don’t need help.” His arms cross his chest.

“It’s not a request. You’ve been wearing those sweatpants for four days. Get up, and get in the shower, or I’ll put you in myself.”

“Fuck off.” You hiss, and his eyes widen, surprised. How many people have surprised John Price? Close to none, you imagine.

“That’s enough.” He hauls you off the couch by your forearms just as Orion glances your way, little brain no doubt trying to understand the situation. “Be right back, bud.” John soothes him, and you seethe at how easily your son, Simon’s, nods and returns to his movie.

He’s gentle somehow, dragging you to the bathroom, but still forceful as he holds you by the elbow and reaches into the shower to turn the tap on.

The little fight that was inside you is gone. You wilt. “I’m sorry,” you whisper to the floor, fingers knotted together.

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” You’re sniffling, crying for the hundredth time in the last few days, and he rubs your upper arm.

“Nothing is going to be okay for a while,” he murmurs, “forever, even. But you’re not alone, okay?”

“Okay.”

The rest of the week goes too fast. You’re getting farther and farther away from it, from the moments when Simon was still alive in this world, when he still existed.

Desperate to slow it down, you don’t sleep. You sit in the kitchen and scroll through your phone, replaying the same videos over and over again, tears dripping down your cheeks. Grief is an emotion, but it’s a physical ailment too. It rots in your stomach and starves you. It aches between your ribs, so viscerally it’s like there is a knife twisted there, scraping against your bones, sawing between your muscle.

You take care of the kids in a daze. Feed and change Nix on autopilot. You give in to Orion’s every wish without a second thought, and he has waffles every morning. Chicken nuggets every night. Ice cream sundaes with too much chocolate syrup and a mountain of whipped cream. As much screen time as his little heart desires. You let him sleep in your bed, curled up in your arms, his little fist clinging to the neck of whichever shirt of Simon’s you’re wearing.

He can’t sleep in his own. He wakes up crying.

Cami comes over and stocks your fridge and freezer. She refills your tea canister. She vacuums the entire house. She feeds and changes the baby. You watch, listlessly, and when she’s finished, she squeezes your hand with a promise to be over again in a few days. You don’t have the words to thank her, so you don’t try. You want to believe she knows anyway.

John is the steady presence. He’s here, doing the dishes, making sure the three of you are eating, helping with the kids. He watches you shrewdly, careful.

A ticking time bomb.

One he’s afraid to set off.

It doesn’t matter how much they try to lessen the burden of living. How much they try to support you. They can’t change anything. They can’t stem the bleeding of your broken heart.

Seven days after Simon’s funeral, you crack the bottle, the one you had shipped from the states, stupid expensive Kentucky bourbon, caramel colored gasoline.

The baby is asleep. Orion is exhausted from his day with Gaz and Cami.

You’re alone on the front porch, curled up in a blanket, the hood of Simon’s sweatshirt pulled over your head. The only light you have is the green glow of the baby monitor. Otherwise, it’s just you, the moon, and the stars.

The hoodie still smells like him. So do the pillows. His t-shirts. His side of the closet. It’s a blessing. It’s agony.

You drink directly from the bottle, though you should use a glass. Simon would chastise you for not using a glass. He would tell you to sniff it from the rim of a tumbler, and then laugh when your nose wrinkled.

You should use a glass, but you don’t. It’s easier to take big sips this way.

Truck tires crunch on gravel, and then the broad figure of John Price stands at the foot of the porch. “Hey.” You raise the bottle, expecting him to laugh. He doesn’t. The stairs creak beneath his feet.

“What do you have there?”

“Bourbon.”

“Kentucky?”

“The one and only.” You take another swig, baring your teeth when it burns. You shake it. “Want some?”

“Think you’ve had enough for both of us.” Ass. You bristle, anger boiling in your blood, but you’re too drunk to stay on track and unleash it.

“Why are you here?” It’s the same question you asked earlier this week, but you still don’t understand. He holds your gaze for a long time. The only thing you find there is devastation.

“I promised him.”

“You promised him what?” He rubs the back of his neck.

“This isn’t a good time for this conversation, let’s go inside-“ You don’t budge. You can’t.

“You promised him what, John.”

“I was there,” his voice is hoarse, and there’s a heaviness to it, an agony the two of you share. “And he knew. He knew we wouldn’t get him back in time, no matter how fast we landed a bird.” You can’t see, vision blotted out by your tears. You want to put your hands over your ears. You want to know everything single thing. The two sides battle, and your cheeks grow wet like your face is upturned in a downpour. “He made me promise to take care of you. To take care of the kids. Grabbed me by the front of my vest and asked me to swear. So I did. I swore. I swore and I’m not going back on my word to him. I never will.”

“You were with him.” You’re not sure you want to know, but you have to. You have to know every piece of him, even this. Even the end.

“Yes. I was with him at the end. He wasn’t alone.” You clutch the bottle against your chest, so tight you’re afraid it might break, shatter the glass into your fingers. It would hurt less than this.

“Was he scared?”

“No. He was only thinking about you. You and the kids. He wanted to make sure you were going to be okay, that was all he cared about. He dug the pocket square out of his vest and held it over his heart.” The sob breaks free and destroys the dam holding everything together. Your body shakes with it, the ugly noises coming from within you, the pain of losing the love of your life.

“You were supposed to keep him safe.” Your voice raises, the alcohol tainting your ability to be rational or stay quiet.

“I know-“

“Mama?” You jolt, turning to ice, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. John swears under his breath.

“Orion,” you croak. He’s stricken, holding his sippy cup, wide eyes focused on your face. “It’s okay, everything’s okay.” You try to reassure him, but his panic only increases, and you fail in the moment, unable to offer him comfort. John steps between the two of you and crouches.

“Hey bud.” He points at the sippy cup. “Need some milk in there?” Your son nods, trying to peek around him to see you. “How about,” John scoops him up, “we get you some more milk and get you back in bed okay?”

“I want mama.” His voice trembles. You feel sick and close your eyes, but the next thing you know there are little arms wrapping around your neck in a hug, your boy’s hair under your nose. You look up at John, his eyes red and his face tormented.

“Say goodnight and she’ll see you in a little bit, okay?”

“I love you, little man,” you kiss him once, twice, before rubbing his back. “Let Uncle John get you some milk and put you back to bed, okay? I’ll be in soon.” Their voices disappear down the hall, and you twist the cap on the bottle.

Down the hatch.

“He looks like him.” Orion is rolling around in the living room, playing with his magnatiles while Nix is on her back, feet in the air, kicking at the play arch. John hums, stroking a hand over his beard. He’s finally trimmed, looking more like himself and less like a mountain man.

It’s a strange feeling, to see him and notice it looks better. Good, even.

“He does.”

“Guess we’re lucky, in that way. Having these little pieces of him.” Orion has his eyes, his shoulders too. They have the same smile, even some of the same mannerisms, and it hurts so much to think about how it will fade over time, how Orion will no longer be able to mimic his father. John steers your mind away.

“Can I help you with dinner?” “No, I’m okay. But… if you want to stay, you can.” He should, but you don’t say it out loud. You don’t admit to him or even yourself that you’ve become reliant on him, his consistency, the steadfast force in your lives. Weeks have passed, and he hasn’t given up, no matter how hard you fight and fall apart. No matter how destructive you, the maelstrom at the center of your family’s life.

“We all lost-“

“You didn’t lose anything!” You’re screaming, finger jabbed in his chest, pushing him backward. He lets you. He doesn’t flinch. “He was mine! He was mine, not yours. He was ours. Our son’s. Our daughter’s. He belonged to us.” You’re barely breathing, suffocating underneath your grief, fingers going numb. He reaches, but you step away, swaying on your feet. You whimper. “F-fuck.”

“Come here.” It’s not a request, not the gentle coaxing you’re used to from him. It’s a command from a captain. When you don’t, he strikes, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you into his chest, hand at the back of your neck. “Breathe.” He rocks you side to side slowly, head down, rumble in his diaphragm soothing against your ear. “C’mon, you can do it. Big breaths.”

“I can’t.” It’s the same thing you’ve been saying over and over again. You can’t do it, you can’t do this, you can’t you can’t you can’t you-

“Yes, you can, you can. Try. I’m right here, I won’t let you fail. I promise.”

“John said you needed a break.”

“John doesn’t make decisions for me.” You snap, and Cami winces, triggering a tidal wave of guilt. “I’m sorry Cam. I… I’m having a hard time.” She rubs your shoulder.

“I know. It’s okay. You’re not going to offend me or push me away. I just want to help.” You sigh. “Let me take them for the night. You can catch up on some trash tv. Read a book. Take a bath.” She whittles you down, and you finally concede.

Except being alone is bad for you. It’s bad for your mind. It’s bad for your heart.

Hours later, John finds you in a pile of Simon’s clothes. You’re curled up, nose buried in cotton, skin swollen under your eyes. “Oh, sweet.”

“Go away.” You don’t even lift your head.

“No.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“That may be but I’m not leaving you here by yourself like this.” There’s an empty bottle of wine buried in this pile somewhere, and he plucks it free by the neck. “Didn’t save any for me?” It’s supposed to be a joke. It falls flat.

“I didn’t want… I didn’t want to have to think.” “I know.” He pulls you into a sitting position, palm cupping your cheek. “It’s okay.”

“I can help,” he motions to the kitchen. “I know how good you are with rice.” His smile turns mischievous, bright blue irises sparkling in the low afternoon sun, and you glower.

“I’m not that bad.”

The sink gets clogged one afternoon.

You try to diagnose it yourself, scrolling through google results on how to DIY it, try standing on your own. You’ll have to get used to it; you guess. Being a widow and all.

The attempts last about thirty minutes. Just in time for your front door to swing open, little feet hauling down the hallway, your son breathless and excited to tell you all about his trip to the park with John and Gaz. John follows right behind, trying to remind him about Phoenix’s naptime.

He pulls up short at the sight of you next to the sink, a pile of tools in the bowl.

“I uh… it’s clogged.” His lips twitch into a half smile. “I tried to fix it; I thought I should try. You know since…” You still have a wrench in your hand, but Orion is tugging at your shirt.

“Here,” he takes the wrench, touch casual as two fingers of his wrap around yours. It’s innocent. It’s nothing. But here he is, fixing your problems. Selflessly again, helping you out.

You’re not sure where you’d be right now if he wasn’t around-

At the thought, guilt so violent almost makes you double over.

Cami and Gaz host a spaghetti dinner, and you leave the house for the first time in weeks, months even. Time is a thief.

There’s laughter coming from the living room when you open the door, Orion sprinting from your side to where his uncles and aunt are hanging out. When you cross the threshold, Nix cooing in your arms and a loaf of banana bread in your free hand, the voices screech to a stop.

“Hi.” Your enthusiasm is lacking, but you’re trying. You really are, even though this is all you can give. Cami smiles excitedly as John stands and crosses the room.

“Let me help you with that.” He grabs the bread, warm hand briefly settling in the middle of your back before it disappears, taking the baby bag off your shoulder. You breathe him in, cigar smoke and pine. It’s calming, somehow. Familiar. “You okay?” He knows how hard this is. Knows how you tossed the decision back and forth, unsure, uncomfortable. You did it for Orion, in the end. You can’t deprive him of his community, so you nod silently.

Cami pulls you into her arms, putting her finger in Nix’s fist and pressing her cheek to yours. “I’m so glad you came.” You manage a weak smile.

“Me too, I… it’s good to see you. And everyone. Ry was really excited.” You look past her to where Soap has him in his arms, moaning and groaning about how they’re nearly the same size.

You take a deep breath.

You can do this.

They tiptoe around you all night. It should bother you, but it doesn’t. You’re not ready for anything else. For stories, for meaningful conversation. Everyone keeps it light. They veer away from work. They treat you with kid gloves.

It’s fine, but it’s exhausting, trying to keep yourself under control. Trying to quiet the ringing in your ears, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

You almost manage it. But then someone slips up.

“- an’ that piece o’ shite. Simon was so pissed; I thought he was going to rearrange his face before he let him go.” Gaz laughs, you freeze. “He won in the end though, didn’t he? Always did, until-“

“Soap.” John cuts, and the table goes dead silent, as if they forgot. There’s a warm hand on your knee, but it’s not enough. Cami is shaking her head, blinking at him in horror, and Gaz glares. You stare down at a pile of peas.

“’m sorry,” Johnny whispers, stricken. “’m so sorry. I miss ‘im too, it helps… to talk about ‘im, ye know? I-“

“That’s enough.” John’s command is scathing.

You throw a quick excuse me over your shoulder as you make your way to the bathroom by the kitchen.

You try to breathe deep, but the oxygen doesn’t come as fast as you need it. You’re falling down the dern, despair filled hole that plagues your every waking hour. The reality you try to shove away, the fact that you’re here and he’s not.

Knuckles rap against the door. You undo the lock to come face to face with John, who steps inside and closes it behind him. You keep your gaze fixed on the floor, chest heaving. “Shhh,” he murmurs, pulling you close, “it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.” He wipes the tears from your cheeks, tipping your face up.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Soap is oblivious sometimes.”

“It’s not up to me to tell people how to grieve.” He wraps you in a hug.

“It’s not, but he should treat you with respect.” You nod, drifting, trying to burn the words from your brain. You’re holding onto him. Clutching at his shirt, and he rubs a hand up and down your spine. It’s good. Warm, and comforting. You sink deeper, let him hold you, seeking solace. The strength you find in John.

You rest your cheek against his chest. “I’m so tired. I want to go home.” You whisper, and he smooths a hand over the back of your head.

“Okay. I’ll take you.” There’s another knock on the door, and you grimace.

It’s Cami. She has the baby on her hip, tears in her eyes. “I’m so-“

“It’s okay. Really. I’m just tired.” You’re lying, but you don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. She knows anyway. You never should have come. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

“I figured. I packed some food to go, and Gaz has Orion at the door.” Your best friend, always so kind, so thoughtful.

“Thanks, Cami. I love you.”

“I love you too. Text me when you get home, okay?” She passes Nix into your arms, following her with a hug, and you press your face to her shoulder before pulling away.

“I will.”

It’s been three days since the dinner, despondency settling back into your routine like it never left.

The kids help, John too. They keep you focused. They keep you alive.

“An’ cookie!” John smiles. It’s the lips quirked to the side one, the gleam in his eye one, combined with his standard issue work hair and beard, thick cable knit sweater stretched across the firm weight of his shoulders. It’s navy. Complements his eyes.

A flicker of heat burns in your stomach, between your legs, taking you by surprise.

You’re staring. You’re staring and he looks away from Orion, meeting your eyes, a question forming in them until you clear your throat and glance away, focusing on the baby in your arms and the last of her bottle before trying to get Orion prepared for the end of his night.

“Come on little man, finish your dessert so we can get your pajamas on.”

“U’cle John help me.” His arms cross against his chest, and you give him a reproachful look.

“What do we say when we want to ask someone to help?”

“Please.”

“Yes, please. Good job.”

“Please ‘cle John?” John glances your way, hesitant, and you shrug.

“Sure, bud. Once you’re finished.”

The kitchen gets the final wipe down when John slinks out of Orion’s room, clicking the door shut softly behind him.

“Nix go down?”

“Easily. She’s never fussy. Sleeps like a dream. Thanks for helping with him.” There is a glass on the coffee table, and a bottle of wine. You meant to have some earlier but got distracted. “I was going to have a glass of wine and watch something, want to stay and hang out for a bit?” You love your kids, but only having a baby and a toddler to talk to all the time can get old fast, no matter how much you love them.

His fingers brush yours when he takes the second glass from your hand, and you swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry, and you shiver.

The movie is two hours long, but forty-five minutes and two glasses of wine in, your head starts to feel heavy, and your eyelids grow lazy.

“- want to go to bed?”

“No,” you sigh. Your head is quiet, and you’re curled up against something warm, drifting in the sweet space between sleep and waking, low volume of the tv murmuring in the background. “Gonna stay here.” The blanket is tucked around your shoulders, and you snuggle deeper, sagging into the cushions. You’re almost there, just on the cusp when you jerk. “Baby monitor.” You mumble, and a whisper traces an arc from your temple to jawline, touch so featherlight it’s hard to know if it was ever there at all.

“Sleep, dove. I’ll be here.”

“We were going to have another baby you know. He wanted another one so badly. Kept trying to knock me up every time he was home.” The ice rattles in your glass, and you cast a long look at the half empty bottle between the two chairs you’re in on the porch.

“He told me.”

“He did?”

“Mmm. Kept talkin’ about how you turned him into a caveman all the time.” You laugh. It’s real. A real laugh, something unbidden, releasing from your chest. John raises his eyebrows, and smiles.

“That’s how it was. He was always like that.” The stars are really bright tonight. They have been, ever since you buried him. You’re not sure if there’s less light pollution lately or if you’re just paying attention more. Sometimes you want to believe it’s something else entirely. If it’s a piece of him making them glow for you. Lighting up your sky. Wrapping you in a blanket of midnights, little collections of constellations in his arms. “They’re named after the stars, you know. The babies.”

“I know.” He sips his whiskey. “Orion the giant hunter, son of Poseidon, and Phoenix, rising from ash to be reborn.”

“Yeah.” You’re crying, again, and you wipe the tears away as quickly as you can.

“They’re beautiful names.” You don’t answer. There’s nothing to say, so the two of you sit there, side by side on the porch in silence until you break it.

“I’m angry at him. I’m so mad, he broke his promises. He broke all his promises and left me here. He left me.”

“He didn’t do it on purpose. He loved you so much.” You twist the ring on your left finger. It’s looser now, your inability to stomach most things starting to show. You wouldn’t have even noticed, or cared, unless John said something. ‘I promised I’d take care of you. That includes not letting you turn into a beanstalk.’

“He didn’t keep his promise.” There is the crux of it. All the promises made, only one kept. ‘Til death. Except he’s gone, and you’re still here.

Turning into a ghost.

“Can you hang out with the kids for a little bit tonight?” His brow pulls together, pinching in the middle, lines of his forehead wrinkling just bit, just enough to remind you of his age.

“Sure, everything okay?” Your eyes find your feet.

“I want to go to the cemetery.” His mouth opens, and whatever was going to come out of it disappears with his nod.

“Alright.”

You’re sick.

That’s the only way you can explain this, laying here on top of the plot, bottle of Kentucky bourbon in your hand. You’ve dumped some on the ground at the base of his stone, a toast of some kind, a sad, hopeless connection sitting one sided.

This is a special kind of agony. It’s the kind that wears you down. It makes you ill. It has you wishing you could dig up his coffin and crawl inside it. Sick. Rotting from the inside out.

“John’s kept his promise to you,” you manage another large swig, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “He’s always around. Helps with the kids a lot. Keeps us afloat. I guess he takes his pledges pretty seriously.” Another swig. This one leaks from the side of your lips. “I hate you, you know that? If you weren’t dead, I’d kill you myself. You weren’t supposed to leave us here. You were always supposed to come home. You promised.” You dig into the earth, dirt and grass compacting under your fingernails.

The night is dark and starless.

Figures.

You’d do anything to change this. Anything. You can’t carry it. You can’t bear it. It’s too heavy. Too much. For one moment, you’d like to not feel it, to not know the crushing weight of your grief. It follows your every waking minute. It follows you in your dreams.

When people die, there are always these fantastical stories floating around about their loved ones seeing a bird, or a cloud, or a rainbow. Some overwhelmingly positive sign leading them to believe the deceased is at peace.

It’s all bullshit.

There are no signs. There is no peace.

There’s only you, and the dead man you love in the ground.

It’s late when you make it home.

You probably shouldn’t have driven. It’s a short ride to and from the little graveyard on the hill, but you’re ashamed to have done it.

You know better.

“Didn’t hear you come in.” Your keys clang against the counter, forgotten as you turn to face him. The lie gives you pause. He knew you had come in. Simon never missed the sing of a door hinge, the latch of a window. You know they operate. How they function.

Still, you let it go. You don’t have the mental capacity to call him out.

He’s closer than you expected. Close enough you can smell him. It’s always the same, cigars and pine. Fresh needles fallen on the forest floor. He reminds you of it too in a way. The woods. Something about him, the way he fits into his sweater, the rough heels of his hands, like he’s felled a thousand trees and could go for a thousand more.

He’s got amber gold on the rocks in his hand, more whiskey. The ice has diluted it a bit, a thin watery film sitting on the bottom of the glass. You wrap your fingers around the rim and tip it to your lips. It burns. The clock ticks, the two of you breathe in and out. In and out.

“I can’t carry this.” You blurt, setting the glass down a little too hard. “I know you think I can… but I can’t. I’m drowning.”

“No one expects you to right now…” He’s talking, reassuring, supporting you, but there’s nothing except for his eyes. They’re the color of the ocean, the one you swam in the weekend Simon put the ring on your finger.

Your ears are ringing. Your blood is hot, the alcohol rewiring your brain until it conjures wild ideas about an escape. Maybe you don’t have to carry it, for a minute. Maybe you can close your eyes and share it with someone. Share it with him. Just for a minute.

“John.” You whisper, still focused on his eyes.

“What is it?” You twist your fingers in his sweater, dirt from under your fingernails getting caught in the wool, and he tenses, confused. “Hey, maybe-“ No maybes. You swing onto your toes and drag him downward, pressing your mouth to his in a rush. He grunts, but the kiss lingers until he pulls away. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes.” You can’t place the look he gives you, mind too far gone. If you were sober, you’d say it was significant. He cups your cheek.

“Let’s sit down and-“

“No. John. Please. Help me carry it. Please.” Electricity crackles in the air, his hand sliding to your neck where he holds it firm with two fingers.

“We can’t. Shouldn’t. It’s just the grief, it’s-“

“Please.” You raise yourself back onto your toes, and though he’s dead still, he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop you as you kiss the corner of his mouth, beard brushing against your chin, and he doesn’t stop you when you find his lips again, parting your own, holding onto his shoulders.

He groans, hands drifting to your hips and digging into them, gripping you so tight, a pendulum swinging, pushing you away, pulling you back, until he gives in.

You’re kissing captain Price, for fucks sake. Your husband’s boss, his friend. One of the most important men in his life.

The betrayal burns.

This is wrong. So wrong, but there’s a wild piece of you that wants it. Likes it. The pieces that have taken solace in John have now turned to something else, something stronger, more vibrant.

It’s wrong. So wrong.

But in this moment, there’s nothing else but you and him and this decision. There’s no room for the other things that plague you.

It’s rough. You’re rough. He’s rough. You pin him against the kitchen counter, fumbling with his belt and zipper, sandpapered pads of his thumbs under your shirt and rolling over your nipples. You’re clumsy, disorientated, only saved when he spins you around and folds you over the cool surface. “Alright.” He murmurs like it’s just now kicked in what you’re doing, what’s happening in this moment, this sacrilege now staining you both. He kicks your feet wide, and rips your leggings to your ankles, tracing a line back up your thigh to shove his hand inside your panties and through your folds to push his finger inside you.

“Ah, John-” You hiss, arching your back, greedy for more, desperate for something, waiting and wanting, willingly going with him as he drags you to the floor, pushes you to your knees and bends you over, too big hand between your shoulder blades.

He fills you in a single stroke and you cry out, slapping a palm over your mouth to cover your scream, stifling the moans that follow. It’s a stretch, one that burns, too much and too soon, but this isn’t meant to be slow. It’s not a treasure, a sentimental unfolding of passion. It’s grief. It’s loss. It’s nothing like love. “Christ.” He grits, pinching your ass. “You’re bloody tight, sweet.” You can’t respond, your free hand digs against the hard wood, scrambling for something to hold onto as he shoves his cock against your cervix. You’re going to come unreasonably fast, already clamping down around him, tightening with the curl of your toes. “Be nice and quiet for me now, angel.” He pulls you up by your chest, mouth hot at your ear as he reaches for your clit, pinching the swollen nub and then smacking it with an open palm, your shriek barely muffled by your hand. He’s speaking, but you’re not quite catching it, too distracted by the blinding light on the outside of your vision, sparks blooming into fireworks. “Oh dove, you’re coming,” his mouth is on your cheek, kissing, nipping, and you turn to steel, vibrating with the strength of your orgasm, pathetic whines ghosting over his neck as your head tips back. He coos, brushes a hand over your forehead. It’s comforting, sick comfort for a sick girl. “Good girl, Shh, I know, I know it’s a lot.” The peak crashes, and you twitch, pulsing around him, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He comes all over you. Puts you back on all fours and curses under his breath, holding you steady, gripping your ass cheek so hard it will be tender tomorrow. The ocean rushes in your ears and you start to drift away, post orgasm, post fuck, sweaty and sated as he paints you.

“Fuck honey-“

I’ve got a lot of cum for you, honey

Tell daddy what you’re doing, honey

Can’t get over how good you taste, honey

Feel how bad I want to be inside you, honey?

The tip of the knife jams between your ribs. It penetrates your heart. It shreds organ and bone until the injury is so catastrophic, the only fix is death.

The noise you make is more animal than human.

Honey, honey, honey-

You flinch and crawl away panicked. He’s calling your name but you’re deaf to it, drowning in Simon’s voice.

Simon, your husband, who was the last man inside you. Simon who called you honey, and sweetheart, and mama. Simon, who’s body is cold in the ground. Who’s ring is on your finger.

Honey, honey, honey-

You stumble to your feet and make it to the sink just before the whiskey and bourbon comes shooting out of your mouth.

Sick.

“Promise me-“

“Shut up Simon. That’s an order.” He’s got her embroidered pocket square in his fingers, stained in blood, crimson dotting out the constellations. The radio crackles, but it only confirms what they both know.

Simon has minutes. They need at least twenty.

He shakes his head. John presses harder on his abdomen, pointedly ignoring the river of red spilling out beneath his palms. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much human bodies bleed. It’s not like he’s usually sticking around to watch.

“John.” Simon’s free hand latches onto the strap of John’s vest and jerks it roughly, pulling him closer. “You swear to me, right now. Do it.”

“I won’t. There’s still time. Stop talking, you need the oxygen.” His lips crack into a smile, gaze already starting to fall away, and then snaps to, refocusing.

“Tell her I love her. And that I’m sorry.”

“You’ll tell her yourself, Lieutenant.” He shakes his head, fist tightening over that little square, dragging to his heart, the organ beneath the vest that’s beating too slowly.

“John. Swear it. Promise me you’ll take care of her. You’ll take care of them.” There’s blood trickling down his jaw now, flowing from his lips. “She’s strong, but it’s gonna be hard. She’ll need you. The kids will need you. Nix is only a baby, she can’t-“ he coughs, shudders, and then his brow furrows with determination. “They can’t grow up without a dad.” John’s stomach, already an open pit, now rips into a black hole.

“You’re their dad, Simon. You are.” His voice cracks.

“Swear.”

“No.”

“Swear to me!” Simon shouts in his face, blood spraying on his cheeks. Gaz is yelling at them from twenty-five yards away, but it doesn’t matter. There’s not enough time.

They stare at each for seconds that are really eternity. They’ve been together in this hell, in this job, for so long. Suffered and slogged and killed together for so long. Simon isn’t just his team member, he’s a part of his life.

A rabid fucking dog brutalized and beaten down, now a husband, a father, a leader in his own right.

John pushes away the memory of the day he met Orion. The pride on Simon’s face. The pure joy.

He would never deny him.

They hold on to each other’s forearms. It’s goodbye.

“I swear it, Simon. I will take care of them. I promise. On my life.”

“And you’ll tell her I love her.”

“I will.”

He should have stopped you.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe it happened, but it’s not hard to remember. Not hard to remember how you felt, scorching velvet plush around his cock, not hard to remember the sounds you make when you come, how your pussy twitches. Not hard to remember how beautiful you were in his arms, shaking and crying, holding tight to him as he fucked you as deep as he could.

And it’s hard to forget the horror on your face. The way you crawled away like a wounded animal. The hoarse sobbing that came after the vomit in the sink. The way your knees gave out. The way you told him to get the fuck out.

Help me carry it.

It’s survivor’s guilt. It must be. Or trauma bonding. He’s been here for you, for the kids. He’s held you and wiped your tears and scooped you off the floor.

Because it’s his duty.

Right?

He can’t deny there’s something wrong with him, though. There’s something wrong with the way he barked at Soap during dinner, something wrong with the way he let you curl up beside him with your head on his stomach the night you fell asleep on the couch. He just sat there, stroked your cheek, rested his hand on his shoulder.

The guilt builds. It’s compounding, and fueling the anger, the rage directed at himself.

How dare he? How dare he betray Simon like this? How dare he try to take something that’s never been his?

He walks it like a tightrope. It’s his duty. It’s a betrayal.

Duty. Deceit. Duty. Betrayal. An oath. A line crossed, again and again.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do except crush and pulverize this thing trying to bloom. He rips out it by the roots.

Though he knows as well as any, determined things always find a way.

You don’t even look at him, and it gets under his skin. It feels wrong. Everything is wrong.

“Orion is almost ready.” You say over your shoulder, already moving away from him and down the hall, running but you’re not being chased. He’s supposed to take the lad fishing today. Orion has been looking forward to it all week, and you, quite frankly, don’t have the energy.

He catches you by the elbow and you jerk away, lips pressed together and eyes down. “Look at me.” You shake your head, glisten of tears catching in the early morning light streaming through the windows. He says your name, as softly as he can manage, and you tremble.

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what? Talk to me?” He’s pushing, and maybe he shouldn’t.

“Yes.” You hiss, venom twisting your face into a mask he’s never seen before. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk about what we did.” Your voice cracks on the last word, and it hurts in a way he didn’t expect. He wants to agree. He wants to wipe your face and tug you into his chest. He wants to bury the guilt ripping through him and turn around. Walk out the door.

He’ll do none of it. He’s a man of his word, above all else.

“When you’re ready then.” He nods as if it’s nonnegotiable, and then saved from a rebuttal when Orion runs full speed from his room. You turn on your heel and storm away.

Fine.

He’s at your door the next night for dinner.

You stand in the frame, arms crossed, anger etched into your face. “I don’t need your help tonight.”

“You going to make me a liar then?” He snaps, patience thin. The anger dissipates, and it’s replaced by that same despondent, dead look in your eyes that’s been making him sick since the day he came to the door. “Make me go back on my word to him?”

“John.” You whisper his name with shaking hands.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” There’s acid on the tip of his tongue. It’s stringent, bitter like the soap his mum washed his mouth out with. He doesn’t know why, but it stings. You look up at him, eyes so wide, so sad, so lost, he has to hold himself back from dragging you into his arms. “It didn’t mean anything, dove. It was just us. Just between us. Just grief.”

“Just grief.” You parrot, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes and down your temples. He brushes them away, and you surprise him by leaning into it. You smile weakly. “We’re having pasta bake.”

A few days later, and there are loads of laundry on your couch when he walks in. You throw him a desperate look, piles separated into toddler clothes, baby clothes and your own. They’re mountains, nearly at your chest when standing.

“Get a little behind?”

“I’ve been a little tired, I guess.”

“Can I help?” “Sure, want to fold onesies?” You laugh a little bit, enough to crack your lips into a small smile. He likes it. Likes your smile. It reminds him of the one you used to give Simon, the way it would break across your face, sunshine in a patch of clouds. He’d nuzzle your cheek, your neck, holding Orion on his hip with one arm, and you with another.

He stills, holding a small yellow piece of clothing.

Your husband. Simon was your husband.

And he’s the interloper.

Swear to me-

I swear it-

I will take care of them.

His ears ring with the bells of remorse, the song of at the beginning of a procession.

“John? You alright?” He’s been staring at you this entire time, but not seeing you, just seeing the past, seeing Simon, seeing everything that came before these moments where he’s being torn in two. He nods, not trusting his voice, his words.

“Will you be here for dinner tonight?” He usually is. It kills two birds with one stone. He makes sure you’re functioning; he makes sure you’re eating. It’s never been a question of you caring for the kids. The worry has been about you caring for yourself.

He can’t stomach sitting down for a meal with you and Orion today, so he lies. “I have to get home and get some work done.” You’re surprised, and then disappointed. He sees it so clearly and chooses not to dwell on it.

He can’t stay. He needs to work this out of his system.

You’re sad tonight.

Some days are really bad days, and then some of them are awful, like these. The ones where you move from bed to the couch, feeding and changing and dressing the kids on autopilot. He calls them your sad days, because he doesn’t want to call it what it is. Depressed days, despair days, you’ve given up days.

Some of the days are better, but these are the worst. It gets ugly at night, when the anxiety and fear becomes too much, when the loss crashes down too quickly.

The house is quiet, and you’re curled up in the middle of the bed under a heap of blankets, staring at the wall. You don’t acknowledge him when he opens the door or slips inside, you say nothing when he sits on the side of the bed. He lays a hand on your shoulder. You don’t react.

“Did you eat today?”

“A little.” He strokes your cheek, backs of his fingers gliding over soft skin, trying to rouse you a bit more, and you sigh.

“Kids go down alright?”

“Fine. Orion is upset he can’t sleep in our,” your face twists, “my bed anymore. But I placated him with too much ice cream.” You manage a smile then, and he matches it.

“That’s good. Nothing he won’t do for some chocolate yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is small. “John?”

“What is it?”

“Do you think it will ever go away?” He smooths some baby hairs back from your forehead.

“I don’t know, angel. Eventually it will hurt less, I imagine. But the loss will always be there.” Your cheeks glisten in the dark, sliver of light shining through the crack in the door from the hallway.

“I’m glad you were with him.” He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he bleeds.

“I am too.” Your fingers curl around his.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” The ache in his heart is back, doubling the beat, blood churning all the way to his toes. “Will you stay?” He shouldn’t, but he folds himself alongside where you’re under the blankets and tucks your head into his neck.

“Yes, dove. I’ll stay.”

The next time it happens is filled with rage.

You’re a wild animal, a wolf starved, teeth bared and snapping, claws out.

But you beg him for it. You plead. You demand.

It’s just us. Just grief. Take it from me. Why should I be the only one carrying this?

It’s wrong as he takes you on the bathroom floor, cold tile under his knees, warmth of your thighs bracketed at his waist. You dig your nails into his back hard enough to break skin, and he pins them back, his forehead knocked against yours, sharing breath. Sharing grief.

He breaks you down eventually, pushing his cock so deep you wail, holding you firm with a hand on your hip. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to betray him, doesn’t want to take his place in a home that could never be his.

Still. He can’t stop. He can’t help himself. He lives for your cries, the way you tighten around him when you come, how your eyes turn into bright stars at your peak.

It angers him. He’s always been a man of control.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes, fuck, t’s not… it’s just-“ He snatches your jaw, and you look away.

“Look at me sweet. Look at me and tell this is just grief.” You can’t. You don’t. Instead, he shoves his hand between your legs and rubs your clit until you come.

When it’s over, you cry.

“Is this it?” He stares at Simon’s headstone. “Is this what you meant? Is this what I promised you?” Dead men don’t answer to anyone, ghosts don’t provide explanations. John replays those last moments in his mind, burning Simon’s face into his memory so he never forgets, so he never gets confused. He’s in another man’s place, a father and a husband’s place.

It’s been days since he’s seen you. Cami visits in his stead, which is good for you, better. You need a friend now, not him. Not whatever this is. Not whatever he’s done to you or vice versa.

He claps a hand on top of the stone, the same way he’d do it to Simon’s shoulder.

“I promised on my life, but I didn’t promise this.”

You haven’t seen or heard from John in nearly a month.

It didn’t bother you at first since they were gone for work, but when Gaz opened the front door to greet you two weeks ago, you were surprised.

They’re back and he didn’t reach out.

Why?

You miss him. It’s a shameful revelation, and a surprising one.

So much for the mourning widow.

“Mama, i’cream?” Orion is huddled between your legs, tugging on your jeans while you bounce Phoenix, trying to get her to settle before bed.

“No ice cream tonight baby.” His eyes well with tears, and the guilt hits you. Be strong. Don’t give in, you’re spoiling him too much.

“Let’s go get in bed and I’ll read to you, okay?”

“No! I’cream!” Your face crumples.

“Orion, please. I already said no. Now can you help mama and go get in your bed?” He flings his hands at your thighs, little face twisted up with rage.

Normally, you’re well equipped for the tantrums. It’s part of having a toddler, but tonight, it’s breaking your back. Wearing you down. You’re about to walk away, create some space, take a deep breath when the doorbell rings.

Literally saved by the bell.

Orion’s already running down the hall, bouncing on his toes as you open the door to see John on the other side. Weary. Weathered. “U’cle John!”

“Hey, bud.” He locks eyes with you, standing on the threshold, meeting your eyes unflinchingly. “Need some help?” You swallow.

“Come in, you’re letting all the heat out.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Your mouth is on his, or his on yours, you’re not sure how it started. All you know is his arms are warm, and strong, and a safety net at the bottom of your life now, waiting outstretched for when you lose your balance on the tightrope.

“I know.” He does that thing where he cradles your face, stares into your eyes like he’s seeing an entire universe, one he’s never been to, a planet undiscovered, stars recently born and exploded across a night sky. “I know sweet, but- I can’t-“ It’s why he stayed away, he confessed earlier. Why he disappeared. It wasn’t fair, he knew that.

The guilt is crushing him. It’s crushing you.

“What’re we doing then?” It’s not right, whatever this is.

But his body pressed against yours, his arms holding you tight, it’s impossible to run from. Hard to hide.

It’s not just grief anymore. A hydra with a head cut off, two more born again from the wound. It's a flower blooming in a forest of ash, life finding a through the gash of a wildfire. A small, tiny, flame, desperate to burn.

“Just kiss me,” you breathe, mouths now millimeters away from one another. His chest heaves beneath your fingertips. “Just kiss me, John.”

“Daddy.” Orion pats his hand on the stone, little fingers digging into the engraving.

Husband. Father.

Your thumb finds the sapphire, rubbing the stone it in practiced circles, and Phoenix coos beside you, half buried beneath the wool of John’s jacket. “Ready to go home, little man?” You’re crouched behind him, holding him, kissing his cheek. This is a weekly tradition, the visit, and even in the dead of winter when it’s too cold for the kids, you never miss it.

Your commitment never wavers, your gold band a mirror to the one buried beneath your feet, an eternal tie to your husband.

‘Til Death.

You will never not be Simon’s wife, the mother of his children, his moon. You will never marry again. You will never have another child.

But that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for a sunrise, a dawn, a new promise. An oath to John, though never formal or official in the eyes of the law, but true all the same.

The sun. The stars. The moon.

“Alright, we ready?” You press another kiss to your son’s face before scooping him up, taking one last look before nuzzling Orion’s face. “See you next week, Si.”

John lingers for a moment, a hand curled over the stone, fingers flexing into a squeeze. His eyes are distant, a world away, tangled up in the past for a long moment.

“Hey,” you call softly, extending a hand. “let’s go home.”

#peaches writes #price x reader #fix you by Coldplay #john price #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #through me (the flood)#captain price x reader

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pricegouge · 5 months ago

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the welly boot incident, a silly little meet cute inspired entirely by this post here cause i'm an absolute slut for the swamp thing look.

pricegaz x fem!reader one shot. A little bit of subspace as a treat but nothing explicit. Still mdni please

"Brassard, what the hell am I looking at?"

It's been a shit job from the start. Bad contractor, bad intel, bad campaign all around. John supposes he can only be happy that for once in his life, the quality of intel seems to be off in the 'right' direction - which is to say he'd rather be posted up in a field for hours with too much manpower than not enough. He's got Gaz on his right, deadly still and silent despite being hours past projected time of contact with no sign of the target. Price is spotting, growing more irritable by the minute. There's supposed to be a watch up on the south ridge to announce any incoming traffic - op related or otherwise - but the sudden arrival of one garishly dressed civilian meandering through the meadow toting a Hubble sized macro lens seems to suggest that while eight hours of fruitless vigilance may not test the most seasoned of soldiers, it is enough to beat the handlers hired to assist them.

The silence on the comms grows long enough to get even Gaz squirming, a subtle rotation of his boot the first move he's made in hours. In his ghillie, the movement is swallowed by the shifting of grass in the wind.

"Brassard?" Price growls, inspecting this newcomer through his scope for potential threats. She certainly looks unassuming enough, as he's never known any faction of armed services to issue woven fuschia caps, long purple cardigans, or yellow welly boots. Still, confirmation on anything useful like 'where the fuck she came from,' 'was she driving a civilian car?', or 'should we take the fucking shot?' would be ideal.

"Cap?" Garrick's voice is low, smothered, cheek sealed against his rifle even after all these hours. Still lethal and ready to trust his captain's call.

John waits another beat, hoping for some forthcoming intel. Doesn't get any. "No."

"She's gonna blow our spot."

'Against who?' John wants to ask, but the question of where their overwatch disappeared to is a toss up, and while every hard-won instinct in his body tells him this whole mission is a bust and the man likely fell asleep, the paranoid option must always outweigh the most likely if one wants to see the next sunrise, and it's entirely possible the man was eliminated.

"Well, shooting her won't make her any less hi-vis," Price sighs. Abandoning his lens, John raises his head enough to take in the whole scope of the meadow. They're posted on a small hill, sights trained down into the shallow basin where a derelict road ambles parallel a small brook, currently overflowing with springtime runoff. It's beautiful, really, dotted here and there with early blooms which nod in the gentle breeze. With the low ridge to the south simultaneously blocking most of the sun's glare and offering a great position for extra coverage, the area had presented itself first and foremost to him as a sniper's delight; but faced now with an artsy-type civilian wandering around and looking for all intents and purposes to be in her natural element, he supposes his assessment probably laid outside the norm.

"We could use her like dazzle camo," Gaz suggests instead and John's mustache twitches with a suppressed snort. It's almost tempting, except if the target does ever drive through, John doesn't trust him to simply be confused and gape at the spectacle uselessly.

John drums his fingers off the dirt irritably, returns to his scope to see if he can pick out where their backup is situated. "Shit," he hisses, taking in Brassard's limp form up on the ridge.

"Dead?" Gaz asks, voice returning to the low hum that tells Price he's slipping back into professionalism.

"Looks like," John confirms, disassembling his tripod.

"We retreating?"

"'Course not. We're containing the civilian." Beginning to crawl forward, John spots Gaz break his scope seal for the first time since establishing it out of the corner of his eye.

"How?"

"Physically."

***

You never even see them coming. One minute you're humming to yourself as you stage a close up of a bee and the next you're squawking and thrashing while being pulled to the ground by your ankle. Before you can even make sense of what's happened, a man settles his considerable weight onto you and clamps a hand over your mouth. "Easy," he murmurs into your ear as a mass of twigs and grease paint pulls up next to him. "Not gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

You only realize how hard you're shaking when the man next to you starts setting up a tripod and the kind of gun you've only ever seen in movies and your teeth rattle behind the calloused grip that covers them.

There's a hand on your head, palm flat and heavy as it pulls your hat off. The weight above you shifts, hips digging briefly into your ass as he moves to pocket your cap. It's slow, movements steady and calculated as the voice that continues in your ear. "I'm Captain John Price. This is my sergeant, Kyle Garrick, and unfortunately you've found yourself in a bit of a pickle."

Next to you, the man with the gun - Kyle - spares a small, commiserating smile. It does not calm you.

"If I take my hand off your mouth, you gonna stay quiet?"

You're nodding before you can even think it through, surprising yourself when your new found freedom only draws rapid pants from you instead of screams for help.

"There's a good girl," John rumbles, lips still pressed close to your ear. His voice is low like oncoming thunder, and despite yourself, the next shudder that racks your body isn't entirely fear based. He's got a mustache of some sort, bristles soft where they press against the shell of your ear. You were set up for failure, really.

"Can you get off me?" You mean it to sound pricklier, blame it on all the hyperventilating when your voice comes out breathy.

John huffs, breath warm as it fans down your neck. He's wearing some sort of armored vest from the feel of it, but you can still feel the abs of his lower belly jump with his laughter. "What's your name, darlin'?" You don't answer him at first, still weighing whether or not you believe him. "How 'bout 'flower', hm? Look like one out here in all these colors."

"A buttercup, in those wellies," Kyle agrees and you side eye him, for the first time noticing how upsettingly handsome he is under all that grease paint. Full, pretty lips and the kind of big soft cow eyes that always turn you to putty. If you find out the man on top of you is also handsome, you're toast.

"Right, those bloody boots." John's weight shifts off you a bit and you try to scramble forward. You make it maybe an inch before he plants a wide palm on your back and pushes you back to the ground. "Hold still, flower," he rumbles and you're helpless but to comply as he kicks at your boots with his own. You ask why he's stripping you but he ignores the question, reaching back to snatch up your discarded shoes instead. "Clear?" he asks, and Kyle takes a minute to swing his scope around.

"Far as I can tell."

And then John tosses your boots into the nearby brook with an unceremonious plop.

"Hey!" you gripe, only to be silenced by John's hand clamped over your mouth again.

His voice is sterner now when he speaks, the low murmuring from before replaced with a harsh grumble. "Hush now petal, we have to be quiet. Look at me, yeah?"

You regret it the second you do. Like Kyle, John's covered in leaves and debris and greasepaint. His eyes glint menacingly from the depths of the shadow cast by his low brim, his chops a thatch of hair only distinguishable from the mass of brush that covers him by the fact it's too well-kept. He looks like a swamp thing. He looks like the earth itself come to swallow you whole.

"I'm gonna take my hand away now, but you're going to be a good little flower and stay quiet, yeah?" You nod. His grip is so strong on your jaw that you drag his hand along with you. When he calls you a good girl this time, you can't help but melt into the grass beneath you. John seems to take your laxness for acceptance of your situation and he squeezes the nape of your neck when he pulls his hand away to set about erecting some sort of tiny telescope. He murmurs to you as he works, voice gone back to the quiet, calming rumble from before.

"I can't get off you because you're not wearing appropriately camouflaged clothes. Even if I were to strip you of this fucking cardi, you'd still stand out like a sore thumb. That's why the wellies had to go in the stream. No good place to hide 'em." You frown back toward the brook, watch as one of your shoes goes bobbing along out of sight. The other probably sank already.

"My car's too far away to walk barefoot."

"I'll carry you," John suggests casually. He's got his little scope established now and when he lowers his eye to it, his cheek sits flush against yours. "This position is shite," he grumbles.

Kyle hums in agreement. When he speaks, his voice is teasing. "We could carry petal here back up on the hill."

"Watch it," John warns. Kyle doesn't so much as smirk. Their talk turns mostly technical after that, muttering about degrees and cardinal directions, calculating inclines. You let it wash over you in favor of contemplating your predicament.

You trust they're military, at least. Kinda hard to fake the funk to this extent. That fact doesn't necessarily soothe you, but knowing this about them is at least better than knowing nothing about them. You suppose it doesn't matter either way though, as there's not a whole lot you can do to get yourself out of here if the way John bears down on you every time you try to wriggle out is any indication. Sometimes he breathes soothing words against your cheek. Most times, he just ignores you.

They slip into silence eventually, which makes the long, boring minutes drag even worse. You know enough to figure this is a sniper mission which means it's possible you'll be here a while, but that doesn't make you physically prepared for it. You check the positioning of the sun from time to time, but frown when you find it unchanged. You tell yourself it's only because you don't actually know how to gauge time like this.

You crack after what feels like an hour but is probably only fifteen minutes. "What are you guys supposed to be doing here, anyway?"

"Classified." John's eye is still glued to his scope, barely giving you the time of day.

Should've figured. "Aren't I going to see it unfold anyway?"

"Might not." You're not quite sure what that means, but something about the tone makes you nervous.

"Are we gonna be here all day?"

"Hot date?" Kyle's also still glued to his scope, but something about his tone is less dismissive so you latch on.

"Yes, actually."

Finally, a break from contact as John pulls away from his scope to look at you. There's a spot of paint missing just above the trim line of his beard and your stomach flips in guilty excitement when you realize it might have transferred to your skin. Of course he ruins it, "In a fuschia cap?"

"I'll have you know I made that cap," you squawk and John only needs to twitch his mustache at you to get you to shut up. He may also raise a brow. Hard to tell under the low angle of his brim.

It's Kyle who apologizes. "It's a lovely hat, flower."

John grumbles while you thank his friend, returns to his scope as he mutters about it still not being good date attire.

"I was going to change first." You're not sure why you care what either of them think of your date outfit, but you do what the record to show you're capable of dressing sexy when needed.

"What you're wearing now looks nice." Kyle's cadence is complementary, but it's the same tone he had used to pick on John earlier so you know he's referring to the absence of one cap and a pair of silly wellies.

Well, you can be quippy, too. "Think I'm currently wearing your boss."

Both men laugh. Kyle takes his eye off the scope to take in the spectacle on his left for the first time since setting up. "Like I said, looks good on you," he winks.

"Eyes on the prize, Gaz."

"Were, sir." Kyle - Gaz?- cackles when you have at him, but ducks back to his scope and you huff, already bored again.

John notes your frustration and decides to make it worse. "Might not make your date, flower. At this rate we'll be here all night."

"'Course," you mutter, tucking a bit of bramble more thoroughly into the netting that adorns the sleeve in front of you. "First date I land in months, and then comes you lot."

"Sure he'll understand." John sounds distracted. When you glance at him, he's staring down at the way you're weaving into his equipment.

"He'll understand I got pinned under an army sniper?"

"Could tell him you got laid up with -."

"Shouldn't you be keeping quiet, sergeant?"

"Sorry, sir."

You glance between the two of them, but they're both resolute in their professional silence now. You sigh again, folding your arms under yourself to rest your head on.

A moment passes. Another.

"Got a fox in my shot."

"Two o'clock?"

"There 'bouts, yeah."

"Saw 'im poking 'round a moment ago."

You nearly knock John's chin with how quickly you raise your head. "I wanna see."

"Hush," John instructs dismissively.

You huff, and then remember you don't need him anyway. Wriggling your hips what little you can, you feel the hard cylinder of your lens press against your right thigh and you squirm around until you can feel it under your fingers.

"What're you doin?" John's lifted slightly off you, but you think it's a move probably rooted more in curiosity than an actual desire to make your task easier. Still, you'll take it.

Grinning triumphantly, you pull your camera up until it rests next to John's tripod and then frown, dejected, when you spot the snap halfway up the barrel. "Must've fell on it," you pout.

John is unsympathetic. His hand is big enough to encase the whole unit when he grabs it, flinging camera and all into the stream with another disheartening splash.

Your cry dies in your throat this time, the fight gone out of you. When you slump back onto your arms dejectedly, John pats your elbow. "Material could've caught the light, flower. Had to be done."

You pout anyway. "Bloody expensive."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"You will, cap? Or will the service?"

"You will, if you don't shut up."

"Wouldn't mind. Get 'er a real nice one. Anything you've had your sights on recently, buttercup?"

"Don't have my sights on anything, currently," you snark and you can practically feel John roll his eyes.

"Christ, here." He fiddles with the device a bit, then leans back enough he can guide your face up to the viewfinder. You keep a squeal of delight bottled in your throat when John's hand lingers over your jaw, reminding you how you need to keep quiet.

You watch the fox happily for a moment, content to let the boy's low conversation wash over you as you let this new amusement pass the time. Except then the fox wanders out of frame and when you move the scope in order to follow, you only seem to muck it up more.

"Give me that," John grumbles, not unkindly. You slump back down anyway, like a child.

"Forearms, cap," Gaz drawls and you see John peel away from his scope long enough to look down at you. He grunts in acknowledgement, fiddles with his tripod, and then lowers himself even further onto you, wrapping one scraggy arm around your own to block you in completely.

It's so much worse. John runs hot, apparently, and without the breeze on your face at least, you're sweaty within minutes; or maybe hours, hard to tell.

You've nothing better to do so you try synching your breathing with John's, thinking maybe that's the secret to his seemingly infinite patience. It's hard work, though, his breaths somehow both shallow and slow, and you wind up counting them instead to pass the time.

Eight sets of one hundred later, Gaz breaks the silence with a low murmur which may as well be an explosion with how much it startles you out of your reverie.

"Gotta piss."

Your voice is floaty when you complain, head wobbling up to eye him. "Ew."

John's stern chastising Kyle, calm when he brushes his lips against your ear. "Quiet, sergeant. Go back under, petal." You hum in agreement, duck into his arm, count his breaths again.

You lose track after another five hundred, content yourself to feel the warmth of him contrast with the cool damp of the soil underneath you. You remember the sight he makes above you, a rolling crest of greenery pulling you under. You blame your sleepy state when you begin to fantasize about it like some old myth; Hades collecting his dues. When he does speak again it's low enough you're not sure it actually comes from above you, half convinced you're hearing the movement of tectonic plates deep below instead. He sounds pissy though, despite his low, soothing tone, and you try to blink yourself into wakefulness, peering around to find Kyle unloading his gun with distractingly deft fingers.

"What's wrong?" You ask, dumbly, and John drops his hand from his radio back to your shoulder, rubbing at you with a heavy, steady hand.

"Nothing, flower." To Gaz he adds, "Liked him better when he was dead,"

Gaz side eyes him, begins to load his gun back up. "Say the word, cap." His voice is so serious you only figure he's joking when John puffs a laugh across your cheek.

You watch as John disassembles his own equipment, the weight of him almost fully pressing down on you now that both his arms are raised and busy. It's strange but you're almost sad it's over; it had been oddly relaxing, tucked away underneath him.

"You awake yet?"

"Wasn't asleep." He keeps pulling away from you, but the ground is cold so you get your hands underneath yourself and push up, following.

"Right. You ready to get up, then?"

John's movements are still slow and heavy. When you nod, he levers himself up to a kneeling position, wraps his hands around your tummy to bring you up as well. He sits there a minute while tucking various tools and things into his pockets and placing your cap back on your head. It takes you a moment to realize the way he's seated has him straddling your calves. He doesn't seem to mind how you lean back into his chest.

"What time is it?"

"Still hoping to make your date?" Gaz teases. He gets his equipment settled and holds out a hand to you to help you stand. When your feet catch on John's big boots, the captain steadies you with a hand on your back.

You'd nearly forgotten about the mousey little man who would likely be left waiting for you downtown. He doesn't hold much appeal anymore but you lie anyway and tell Gaz yes.

"More bad luck there, petal," John commiserates. His voice should be further away now that he's not laying on you, surely? When you turn you find him standing far too close, somehow seeming even larger now despite no longer crushing you into the ground. Gaz is tall too, you note, and between the two of them in their ghillies, you imagine you look like some illustration from a fairytale book: the barefoot maid and her two elements, maybe. It's silly, distracting, which is why you've already forgotten what he's talking about when John continues, "'fraid you still got debrief to sit through."

"Huh?" You ask stupidly, and then yip when John throws you over his shoulder.

"Debrief. Could take all night," Gaz winks. "Looks like you're ours for the evening, flower."

"Oh. Well, you do still owe me a camera."

Gaz laughs, neat white teeth splitting his face in a handsome smile. "That's right, and cap here owes you some boots."

"Any color you want, flower," John agrees.

next>>

#okay i lied #much as i hate the movie #this was also inspired by the ps i love you meetcute #pricegaz x you #pricegaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick x you #john price x reader #john price x you #💷🔪#gazprice x reader #gazprice x you

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ltash · 4 months ago

Text

Forever

Ep-7 "The Valkyrie" SimonGhostRileyxFemaleReader

"I am a Valkyrie. And I will take the dead to the feast."

**Kabul, Afghanistan.

5 years Later:**

Special forces had been deployed to Kabul to restore order. Special Agent Activities Andrea Shepherd sat in a helicopter, her eyes scanning the barren landscape below.

"How long until we land?" Andrea asked the helicopter pilot over the roar of the engine.

"Just about an hour, ma'am. We're reaching the hills now," the pilot replied, his voice steady.

"Hmm," Andrea mumbled, gazing down at the sparse, rugged terrain.

The hour passed slowly, but eventually, the helicopter descended, touching down on the roof of a building. Andrea was the first to step out, her boots hitting the ground with purpose. A soldier approached and guided her to a corridor where her superior awaited.

Laswell, a white, middle-aged woman with short hair, stood with an air of authority. Andrea snapped to attention and saluted. "Agent Andrea Shepherd, at your service, ma'am," she announced.

"Andrea!" Laswell's voice was warm but firm as she shook Andrea's hand. "You're our most trusted agent. That's why you're here. Al Qaeda has become a significant threat. I know you won't hesitate to take action if needed."

"Thank you, ma'am. I won't disappoint you. I promise," Andrea replied, determination gleaming in her eyes.

Laswell nodded approvingly. "Good. Let me show you your room, Shepherd. Follow me."

As they walked through the narrow corridors, Andrea glanced at her watch. It was 4 p.m. The base was a hive of activity, soldiers moving with a sense of urgency and purpose.

"How's the situation on the ground?" Andrea asked, breaking the silence.

"Tense," Laswell admitted. "The locals are on edge, and the insurgents are getting bolder. We need someone with your skills to tip the balance."

"I'll do whatever it takes," Andrea assured her.

They reached a modest room, sparsely furnished but functional. "This will be your quarters," Laswell said, opening the door. "Settle in. Briefing is at 0600 hours."

Andrea nodded. "Understood, ma'am."

Laswell placed a reassuring hand on Andrea's shoulder. "We're counting on you, Shepherd. Welcome to Kabul."

"Thank you, ma'am," Andrea said, stepping into her new room. She set her bag down, the weight of her mission settling over her. There was no time to waste. She had work to do.

"It's your room. Inform James if you need anything," Laswell said, pointing toward a young soldier standing nearby.

"Okay, ma'am. Thank you," Andrea replied. She headed into her quarters, took off her coat, and tossed it onto the couch. Moving to the window, she looked out over the city, a mix of large and small buildings sprawled before her. The reflection of the narrow, muddy roads and bustling market filled her blue eyes.

The city was small, its bazaar filled with people scattered about, creating a lively, if chaotic, scene. Andrea took a moment to absorb the view, letting the reality of her new surroundings sink in.

Later, as she entered the briefing room, she noticed a group of Special Air Service soldiers. Laswell introduced them with a firm, confident voice.

As Andrea entered the briefing room, her eyes scanned the gathering of Special Air Service soldiers before her. A mix of anticipation and uncertainty washed over her. Each soldier embodied the raw intensity and determination that defined the elite unit. These were men who had seen the worst the world could offer, and yet continued to fight on, their spirits unbreakable.

Laswell stepped forward, clearing her throat to get their attention. "Everyone, this is Andrea Shepherd, our CIA field agent. She'll be joining you for this mission."

Captain Price, a seasoned veteran with a steely gaze, stepped up and extended his hand. "Captain John Price. Welcome to the team, Andrea."

She shook his hand firmly. "Thank you, Captain. It's an honor."

Beside him, a younger soldier with a focused demeanor nodded in greeting. "Sergeant Kyle Garrick. It's good to have you with us."

Andrea nodded back. "Likewise, Sergeant."

Laswell continued, "This mission is critical. We have intelligence on a Taliban compound where women and young girls are being held captive. Our objective is to infiltrate, secure the hostages, and extract them safely. Andrea will breach the security code and enter with the women, disguised in an abaya."

Price's face hardened with determination. "Consider it done."

Andrea appreciated the confidence in his voice. "I'll make sure the security systems are down before we go in. We won't have much time once we're inside."

Laswell handed out the mission details. "You'll need to be fast and precise. We don't know how many hostiles are in the building, so be prepared for anything."

Price looked at his team, then back at Andrea. "We move out in ten. Gear up."

The soldiers quickly gathered their equipment, checking weapons and ammo. Andrea followed suit, ensuring her M14 rifle was ready and her combat knives were in place. The weight of the mission pressed on her, but she channeled it into focus.

As they boarded the helicopter, the rotors cutting through the air, Andrea felt a sense of unity with the team. These men were her brothers in arms for the duration of the mission, and they all shared a common goal.

The flight to the target was tense but silent. Each soldier was lost in their thoughts, preparing for what lay ahead. When the pilot announced they were approaching the drop zone, Andrea tightened her grip on the rope.

Descending onto the roof, the team moved with practiced precision. Andrea's heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her breathing steady. They kicked the door open and stormed into the building, Price leading the charge.

Inside, the chaos erupted. Gunfire echoed through the corridors as they engaged the militants. Andrea moved swiftly, her training kicking in as she neutralized threats with deadly accuracy.

Inside, one of the women wearing an abaya had gone to the bathroom. It was Andrea. There, she unbuttoned her long black abaya and removed her veil, revealing a black T-shirt and jeans underneath. She was armed with combat knives and an M14 rifle. Her mission was to rescue the captive women from the Taliban.

Silently opening the bathroom door, she emerged, ready for battle. As a trusted CIA agent, she was a lethal fighter who never hesitated to kill, yet she carried a deep sense of justice, especially for the women held captive and abused.

She began shooting the Taliban soldiers, aiming for their heads and chests. The women screamed and ran in panic, trying to avoid the bullets. This chaos was happening on the first floor of the building.

Captain Price and Garrick methodically cleared each floor, breaking down doors and neutralizing militants. As they reached the second floor, Price saw Andrea running down from above.

"Get them out of here," he shouted to one of his men, hearing gunshots from below.

"Who's down there?" he demanded.

"I don't know, sir," a team member replied.

"Let me see for myself," Price said, descending the stairs. He was shocked to find Andrea in the lounge on the ground floor, fighting the militants with incredible skill and agility.

"Holy shit," he muttered, awestruck. He had never seen a woman fight with such precision and ferocity. She moved like a seasoned warrior, dispatching the militants effortlessly.

Price took cover behind a marble statue, watching her in awe. Despite his admiration, he knew he needed to assist her. As he stepped out to shoot, his rifle jammed.

"Shit!" he cursed, expecting to be gunned down. In a flash, Andrea grabbed a sword from a fallen militant and hurled it toward an attacker. The sword pierced the militant's chest, killing him instantly. She used his body as a shield and shot another militant, eliminating both threats.

With the area clear, she stood with her back to Price, breathing heavily. Price emerged from his cover, stunned by her prowess.

"That was impressive," he said, his voice filled with respect.

Andrea turned to him, her expression unreadable. "We need to get those women out of here. Now."

Price nodded, signaling his team to proceed. Together, they escorted the rescued women to safety, ensuring no one was left behind. The mission was a success, but for Price, the real revelation was Andrea's extraordinary capabilities.

Back at the base, as the sun rose over Kabul, Andrea felt a sense of accomplishment. The war was far from over, but in that moment, they had made a difference. And for Andrea, that was enough to keep fighting.

Laswell stood in the small, windowless room, her attention focused on a series of screens in front of her. Each screen displayed a different camera angle, offering unique views of the mission unfolding before her eyes. The hum of electronic equipment filled the cramped space, punctuated by the occasional static crackle or murmured radio conversation.

Her eyes flicked from one screen to another, absorbing the details: the movement of soldiers, the flash of gunfire, the chaotic dance of a mission in full swing. Each screen told a part of the story, and she stitched them together in her mind, forming a comprehensive picture of the operation.

"Agent Shepherd is in position," a voice crackled over the radio.

Laswell leaned closer to the screens, her eyes narrowing as she watched Andrea move with practiced ease, dispatching enemy combatants with lethal precision.

"Good," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else in the room. "Let's get those women out of there."

On another screen, she saw Captain Price and his team advancing, methodically clearing each floor. Price's voice came through the radio next.

"Laswell, we've got heavy resistance on the second floor. Shepherd's engaging the hostiles on the ground level."

Laswell's jaw tightened. "Understood, Price. Maintain your position. Shepherd, do you copy?"

Andrea's voice came through, steady and controlled. "Copy, Laswell. Engaging hostiles and securing the captives."

Laswell watched as Andrea moved through the building, a blur of motion and efficiency. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her face remained impassive, her focus unyielding. Every second counted, and she knew the stakes were high.

"Price, Shepherd, proceed with extraction," she commanded, her voice cutting through the static. "Let's get them out safely."

The room fell silent save for the soft, constant hum of the equipment. Laswell's eyes remained glued to the screens, her mind racing with a thousand possibilities, each one more dire than the last. But she trusted her team. She trusted Andrea.

The mission was far from over, but in that small, windowless room, Laswell held on to hope, her belief in her team unwavering. They would succeed. They had to.

As the team returned to base, Andrea felt a surge of satisfaction. The mission had been dangerous, but they had succeeded. She had proven herself once again, not just to the CIA, but to her team.

Price approached her as they disembarked from the helicopter. "Andrea, I've worked with many soldiers in my time, but you... you're something else."

Andrea smiled slightly, a hint of pride in her eyes. "Thank you, Captain. Just doing my job."

Price nodded, respecting her humility. "Let's debrief and get some rest. We've earned it."

As they walked away, the sun began to rise over Kabul, casting a new light on the city and their mission. The war was far from over, but in that moment, they had won a significant victory.

The debriefing was a long and arduous process, but necessary for them to discuss the mission's successes, failures, and ways to improve their tactics for future operations. The team gathered in a small conference room, their eyes heavy with exhaustion, but their minds still focused. Captain Price stood at the front, while Laswell sat beside him, her gaze moving across the room as she listened to the different reports and observations.

Price cleared his throat, commanding the room's attention. "Alright, let's start with a rundown of the mission. Shepherd, you first."

Andrea leaned forward, her expression serious. "We breached the building as planned. Encountered heavier resistance than anticipated on the first floor. Managed to neutralize hostiles and secure the captives."

Laswell nodded, making a note. "Good work, Shepherd. What about the security breach? Any issues?"

"No issues," Andrea replied. "The code was simpler than expected. We were able to move quickly."

Price turned to his team. "Garrick, your report?"

Garrick rubbed his eyes, fighting off fatigue. "Second floor was a nightmare. More militants than intel suggested. We cleared it, but it took longer than planned."

Laswell interjected. "Do we know why there was an increase in numbers?"

Garrick shook his head. "Not yet. Could have been a recent regrouping or reinforcements we weren't aware of."

Price nodded. "We'll need better intel next time. Any injuries?"

"Minor ones," Garrick replied. "Nothing that would compromise future operations."

Laswell leaned back, absorbing the information. "We need to review our intel sources and ensure this doesn't happen again. What about the extraction? Any issues there?"

"Smooth," Price said. "Once we had the captives, we faced minimal resistance on the way out. The helicopter extraction was on point."

Andrea spoke up again. "The women were in poor condition, but they responded well to our presence. They're safe now."

Laswell made another note. "Good. We'll arrange for their care and debrief them separately."

The room fell silent for a moment as everyone processed the debrief. Price broke the silence. "Any suggestions for improvement?"

Andrea glanced around the room. "We need better intel, as Garrick mentioned. And perhaps more support on the ground for unexpected increases in enemy numbers."

"Agreed," Price said. "We'll adjust our protocols accordingly. Anything else?"

The team shook their heads, too tired to think of more at the moment.

"Alright, get some rest," Laswell concluded. "We'll reconvene tomorrow to finalize our report and prepare for the next mission. Good work, everyone."

As the team began to disperse, Andrea caught Price's eye. He gave her a nod of respect, which she returned. Despite the exhaustion and the lingering adrenaline, there was a sense of accomplishment in the room.

Andrea sat in the dimly lit conference room, the quiet hum of the ventilation system the only sound breaking the silence. The mission had been intense, the rush of adrenaline now slowly ebbing away, leaving her with a sense of weariness that seemed to sink into her bones. As she replayed the events of the night in her mind, she couldn't help but feel the weight of her responsibilities as a part of her job.

Lost in her thoughts, she was startled when Captain Price's voice broke through the stillness, clearing his throat to get her attention. Andrea looked up, her senses sharpening as she focused on him.

"Andrea! Can I have a moment?" Captain Price's voice was calm yet firm, the kind of voice that demanded attention in any situation.

"Yes, of course, sir," Andrea replied, straightening up in her chair. She was always respectful of Captain Price, admiring his leadership and experience.

"Please, have a seat," he gestured to the chair opposite him at the conference table. Andrea complied, her mind racing with thoughts about what he could possibly want to discuss.

"Why don't you join the task force with us, Andrea?" Captain Price's question hung in the air, his tone serious yet inviting. "Your father, General Shepherd, has founded Task Force 141—a team comprised of the best of the best. Judging by your skills back there, I'm amazed. You did a fantastic job. We could put your skills to good use."

Andrea's heart skipped a beat at the proposition. Task Force 141 was legendary in military circles, a covert unit known for taking on the toughest missions with unmatched precision. The idea of joining such a team was both thrilling and daunting.

"Thank you, Captain Price," Andrea responded, her voice steady despite the excitement bubbling within her. "I'll talk to my dad about this."

Captain Price nodded, a hint of approval in his expression. Andrea couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at his words. She knew that whatever decision she made, it would mark a significant turning point in her career—and possibly her life.

As she left the conference room, Andrea's mind raced with possibilities. Joining Task Force 141 would mean stepping into a world of secrecy, danger, and unparalleled skill. It was a challenge she was ready to face, knowing that her father's legacy and her own abilities would guide her through whatever lay ahead.

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rascal-xo · 2 years ago

Note

Hi hope you're doing good!!! Can I request ghost with a GN reader that suffers from hypersomnia and is sad that no one is taking their fatigue seriously and just think theyre lazy lol. Just some comforting stuff if that's OK with you!!

Surface Tension | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x GN Reader |

Chapter Summary: Ghost comforts you after a hard week in the field :)

Warnings: mentions of mental health, cursing, FLUFF, hypersomnia, angst

Word Count: 913

A/N: Thank you for sending in this request! I hope I was able to bring your idea to life :))

You watched the clock tik, and every second the hand moved was a second you felt yourself losing your focus little by little. No matter how hard you tried to get a good rest after a long mission, or nap when you had the time off, exhaustion always hit you like a bag of bricks.

You knew something was off about your rest, but the fastest way to push it aside was to ignore the feeling and try to stay focused on your tasks at hand. Being in the 141 meant that you were the best task force there was for any job that came the teams way.

You were the youngest recruit, and for the past year you’ve pulled more than twice your weight to stay above the water. You were a damn good sniper for your age but not as seasoned of a soldier when it came to time in service.

The rest of the men had years of experience on you, which showed. Determined to show your worth you began to take on more than you could carry, and it had proved right until now, when it started to take its toll on your physical and mental wellbeing.

Captain Price cleared his throat, bringing your attention back to the briefing. “Am I boring you, Sergeant?” He cocked an eyebrow. You suddenly felt the entire rooms gaze on you. Ghost met your eyes from across the table small table , turning his head in a ‘You okay?’ type manner.

“No Sir, just a little tired this morning.” You admitted, playing with the strap on your tactical pants.

“Let’s stay awake now. Can’t have you lost during the mission.” He answered back sternly, turning back to the pictures on the board and continuing his meeting.

Ghost’s foot brushed yours from under the table, nonchalantly. He had noticed you were more fatigued than usual lately, zoning out on the comms, failing to remember to do certain tasks on base. Every soldier met obstacles once a while, but he realized it was getting serious.

As the mission commenced, you took your position on a secluded hill a few hundred feet from the targeted site, as the sniper, scanning the area for hostiles. The rest of the guys were broken up into 2 separate ground teams in order to infiltrate the site.

Alpha team successfully took down the main set of guards, moving onto the next wave of security forces. This would be sending hostiles your way.

Then, suddenly you saw movement in the corner of your eye, and your heart skipped a beat. You adjusted your scope and aimed, but your hands were shaking, and your vision was blurry. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, but it was too late.

Captain Price's voice boomed in your earpiece. "Bloody hell Sergeant! You’re supposed to be our cover!”

You flinched at the harshness of his tone. You knew he was right, and it only added to your frustration. You tried to shake it off and refocus, but the fatigue was overwhelming.

The mission continued, more smoothly this time as you regained some strength to finish somewhat strong. Taking the win, you couldn’t help but feel like you were letting them down. Even if they didn’t say it to your face, you could read between the silence.

You found yourself away from the post mission celebration happening on base. You stood outside near the outlook facing the distant terrain, with a cigarette between your fingers.

It was impossible to win this never ending exhaustion that had decided to become a weight on your shoulders. You inhaled into your lungs, as the night time air blew past you taking the exhaled smoke with it moments after.

“Smoking the sleep away isn’t going to help, sergeant.” You suddenly heard from behind you. Ghost had a way of sneaking up on you undetected, certainly living up to his name.

“Maybe it will.” You say, as he comes up to stand next to you, leaning his elbows against the railing. He had changed into a more casual look, now only sporting a thin black skull balaclava as opposed to the full ghost mask.

Ghost looked at you, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. “I know it’s tough, but you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. You’re not a machine, and even machines need maintenance.”

“They think i’m lazy, Lt.” You said, not meeting his gaze. “You saw the way Price talked to me. I’m letting you all down.” You sighed, taking another drag of your cigarette before flicking it off the railing.

“Sometimes, he keeps his muppets on a short string, that captain.” Ghost replied, “Don’t let it get to you.” He placed an arm over your shoulder, leaving it there as you fell into his touch. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially not to us. We know you’re a damn good soldier, Y/N.”

You nodded, taking in his words. He was right, of course. You couldn’t keep sacrificing your own wellbeing for the sake of trying to impress others. “I’ll be better, I have to be.” You said, almost a whisper.

Ghost continued, “Talk to Price, let him know what’s been going on. He’ll understand, and he’ll help you. We all will.” You nodded again, realizing that Ghost was right.

It was time to swallow your pride and admit that you needed to put yourself first. You turned to him, giving him a small smile, as you continued to watch the horizon ahead, together.

A/N: Requests are still open, send in your ideas!

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x gn reader #141 x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x gn reader #ghost #simon riley imagine #ghost imagine #mw2 141 #ghost mw2 #modern warfare ii

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colebrookstone-irl · 15 days ago

Text

I maybe be a day late (Got caught up in quite a few things...) BUT I, have a story to tell 😌

*Insert the ENTIRE DotD transcript below cut*(I wasn't gonna type all of it so have the transcript.)

(The Yin-Yang Eclipse appears onscreen before transitioning to the Sea of Sand.)

Kai: (Lands his bike off the hill) Move, move, move. We're running out of time. Pick up the pace.

Cole: Yes, ninja. It's up to us to save the day... (lands his roadster off the hill) again.

Nya: Roger that, Kai. Zane, do you have a read?

Zane: ETA too late, unless we break all speed limits. Increase velocity.

P.I.X.A.L.: Already on it.

Wu: (comes on Lloyd's screen intercom) Ninja, I have reached the rendezvous point. Where are you?

Lloyd: The museum is still 5 clicks away. We're on our way.

Jay: (flies by in his Jet) Look out, kids. Jay to save the day. Hey, race you there, Lloyd.

Lloyd: I still don't understand how you got the Supersonic Raider Jet.

Jay: Uh, because I called dibs. Guy who calls dibs first gets it, right, Cole? (Cole drifts off in his vehicle) Right, Cole? Cole?! Let me go get him! He's drifting off again! (turns around his jet)

Cole: (Fidgeting with controls, terrified, his hands ghosting through them) No. No. Come back. Come... No. (vehicle drifts up a mountain and nearly hits Jay)

Jay: Cole! Look out!

Cole: Oh. Uh. Oh. (lands) S-sorry, Jay.

Jay: Whew. I know you're a ghost, but I'm still in the living world, and I'd kinda like to keep it that way.

Wu: Ninja, time is of the essence.

Cole: He's right. Engage.

Lloyd: We have one last shot if we wanna make it. Combine for maximum impact.

(Team combines their vehicles except Cole and Zane's.)

Kai: (attaches his bike to the left side of Lloyd's) Locked.

Nya: (attaches her bike to the right side of Lloyd's) Loaded.

Jay: (attaches jet to the top) And jet speed, reporting for duty sir.

(The different Ninja vehicles all transform into Ultra Stealth Raider.)

Lloyd: Fire all engines.

(The ninja race off in their vehicles towards Ninjago City. They arrive at the museum.)

Jay: (Panting) Master Wu, are we too late?

Wu: There may yet be time. (points towards eclipse)

Ninja: Ninja, go.

(The ninja all Spinjitzu into the museum.)

(The ninja head out the gift shop)

Jay: (laughing) Mission accomplished.

Lloyd: Yeah, good thing we got to the gift shop before it closed.

Zane: Yes, a Day of the Departed celebration is incomplete without a Day of the Departed lantern.

Nya: Oh, this is my favorite holiday. I love all the lights.

Kai: And the costumes. (gestures toward kids who just finished trick-or-treating)

Jay: And the candy. Hit me, kid.

(One with a pilot costume tosses Jay a piece of white candy into his mouth)

Jay: Mmm. Best day of the year.

Wu: Yes, enjoy the fun and festivities, but never lose sight of the true meaning of the Day of the Departed. Today is about remembrance. We light lanterns to remember our ancestors, and to settle our debts.

Jay: Yeah, got it, got it. Lanterns, ancestors, debts, but candy too, right?

(a man in a red suit with a rather long mustache comes to greet the ninja)

Dr. Saunders: The ninja. The Master Wu.

Wu: Dr. Saunders.

Saunders: Oh, please. We are all friends. You must call me by my first name, yes? Sander, yes?

Kai: (whispers to Nya) Dr. Sander Saunders?

Saunders: At your service. (chuckles) I am so pleased to be seeing you at this now. We are opening our new exhibit. Come. You see, come. (Walks to the entrance to the hall) Might I be presenting the Hall of Villainy.

All: Wow.

Saunders: Cryptor.

Zane: A plastic mannequin.

Saunders: Kozu.

Lloyd: Uncanny.

Saunders: Chen.

Nya: Memories.

Saunders: Samukai.

Jay: Is he looking at me?

Wu: Maybe from the past.

Saunders: And Morro. Checking this out! We don't just open on Day of Departed. It's Day of Departed lunar eclipse. A special eclipse.

Wu: The rarest Yin-Yang eclipse.

Saunders: Oh, poetic, is it not? Scary holiday, scary exhibit, scary moon, (Voice changes) There is magic in the air. (Normal voice) Boogily-boogily!

Kai: (looks around) It's... every villain we've ever faced.

Cole: (walks over to Master Yang's portrait) Not every villain.

Saunders: No, there are many more to unpack. Overlord, Golden Master. All the ones who tried to destroy you. Exciting.

Jay: Uh... yeah, exciting.

Saunders: As we proceed further on the tour you can...

Cole: (looking at Yang's picture) "Although known to some as the master without a student, Kodokuna Yang will be remembered by most as the creator of Airjitzu, the most powerful martial art in history." Huh. Actually, I remember Yang as the guy who turned me into a ghost. (Looks at the relic encased in clear material) Hey, uh, Dr. Saunders? What's the story on this thing? (his hand ghosts through the clear material) Hello? Dr. Saunders? Anyone?

(Team notices the relic encased in the clear box)

Nya: Look at that. Cool.

Saunders: Ah, you have a good eye, Nya.

Cole: Her? I'm the one who spotted...(Saunders and the ninja walk through as if he wasn't there) Uh, hey, watch it. You guys are walking right through me!

Saunders: (Describes to the ninja what the relic is) The Yin Blade belonged to Master Yang. It is said to possess much dark magic.

Cole: They don't hear me, o-or see me. It's like I don't exist anymore. And it's all your fault! (Points angrily towards Yang)

Yang: Cole. Come. Come.

Cole: (To the ninja) Uh....tell me you heard that.

Yang: Come, Cole…

Saunders: ...which is why it is sealed in this case made of Clearstone, the hardest substance known to human. Impenetrable by any living being.

Yang: Cole.

Cole: Yang.

Yang: Close the circle.

Cole: Close the circle?

Yang: Close the circle...

Cole: Close the circle.

Cole: (Gasps, waking up from the trance) Huh. (looks out window to see the ninja outside)

Wu: Thank you so much for such an informative tour, Dr. Saunders. (they both shake hands) ninja, at the eclipse's peak we will return here, for the concert. But first, we must go forth and honor those we have lost. Those who have departed.

Cole: They don't realize I'm gone. Maybe...I'm departed. (echoes)

Kai: See you guys soon.

Nya: Happy Day of the Departed, everyone.

(The ninja each go in separate directions.)

Wu: (Voice-over; Lloyd and Misako release a lantern in the Corridor of Elders) We honor our ancestors. Because if we never look to the past, we cannot envision the future. (Inside Four Weapons, Nya holds a lantern for Kai to light with his Fire before they turn to gaze at a picture of their parents. Meanwhile, in the Birchwood Forest; Zane places his lantern in one of the hands of his father's statue before covering it in a layer of ice, making it shine) On the Day of the Departed, we pause to remember those we've lost. (Jay, Ed, and Edna look through a photo album outside their trailer) And enjoy our time with those we are still fortunate to have. (Onscreen; in the remains of the Monastery of Spinjitzu) I raise this cup of remembrance tea to you, Father. We never forget.

(Cole is shown driving towards the Temple of Airjitzu.)

(The Royal Blacksmiths wait in the city's stage.)

Lou: Cole. Cole, where are you? My son was gonna meet me before the show to light a lantern. (They start to sing.)

Royal Blacksmiths: Gave you your voice. Gave you your song. Put music in your heart. Now my heart is gone. To pieces. Pieces, pieces. Pieces, pieces. (Dareth walks in.)

Dareth: Hey, guys? Hey, listen. (They keep singing.) Guys? Guys. Guys! Stop it! (They stop.) Ah, kids. Always letting you down. That's why I don't have 'em. Not cause Gayle keeps turning down my marriage proposals, even though I'd make an excellent provider. Ahem, anyway. It's a good thing your manager is here to help you focus on the important things.

Lou: What's more important than family?

Dareth: A paying gig for a festival audience. (He grabs a microphone.) Have a good show, boys. (He goes on stage.) Hello, Ninjago. Hey, look at you. Look at that once-in-a-lifetime lunar eclipse. It's really happening. How about a warm Day of the Departed greeting for the Royal Blacksmiths! (The crowd cheers. The band arrives on stage.)

Royal Blacksmiths: Be my Day of the Departed baby. Cold and spooky-hearted love. Still, my love for her is off the chart-ed.

Ronin: (He watched the quartet.) Everyone's here, so no one's home. Time for a little scrap-hunting. (He leaves.)

(Cole arrives at the Temple of Airjitzu.)

Cole: All right, Yang. Show yourself. You hear me? Show yourself.

Yang: You received my message.

Cole: I got it, all right. And I've got one for you. It's direct from the business end of your own weapon. (He pulls out the relic.)

Yang: (Gasps.) The Yin Blade. But how? It's encased in solid Clearstone. That case is impenetrable.

Cole: Not to a ghost. Which, thanks to you, I still am.

Yang: What are you going to do?

Cole: There's magic in the air. You know, eclipse and all?

Yang: Please, where is your holiday spirit? It's the Day of the Departed.

Cole: Uh-huh. And I'm settling my debt. (He charges at him, but he dodges. Cole breaks a vase instead, and Yang laughs.) What? What's so funny?

Yang: This. That. All of it.

Cole: What's happening?

Yang: My plan. (The spirits from the vase leaves the temple and possesses mannequins in the Hall of Villainy. Kozu starts to talk in his own language.) You never should have played with dark magic, boy. This Day of the Departed will be remembered as my Night of the Return. The Yin Blade, if you please.

Cole: Yeah, I don't think so.

Yang: I do.

Cole: (He turns around and sees that he is surrounded by Yang's students.) What? (They handcuff him and bring Yang the Blade.)

(The villains take control of the mannequins.)

Morro: Huh?

Samukai: Huh, Who-Who are you?

Morro: I should ask you the same thing.

Samukai: I am Samukai, Skulkin general, fearsome master of the ax.

Kozu: Ha! Fearsome? You call that fearsome? (He slices a pillar with an Elemental Blade.) This is fearsome! I am Kozu, destroyer of all foolish enough to challenge me.

Cryptor: Yeah, so how did you do against a guy who destroyed you?

Chen: But what has brought us back? Oh! Buttons, buttons, buttons! (He presses one, causing his chair to inflate. He then pressed another one, bringing it down. He then pressed another one, sending fortune cookies flying out of it. He then pressed another one, causing two mechanical legs to come out from underneath his chair.) Oh. Brake? No. Brake? No! (He crashes.) I'm all right! (He crashes again.) Still all right.

Samukai: What is going on here?

Cryptor: Well, the skinny man in the silky girl robes can't control his chair. And—

Samukai: No, I mean with us.

Morro: (He points to Yang's portrait.) Perhaps he can explain.

Chen: Still all right.

Yang: (He takes control of his portrait.) My magic has brought you back from the Departed Realm to Ninjago, but you can only remain for the duration of the eclipse. Unless...

Chen: Unless?

Yang: Unless you destroy the ninja who destroyed you. Use your Departed Blades, and you will take their place among the living.

Pythor: (He comes in reading a map.) Hall of Villainy? More like, Hall of Empty-ny. (He sees his mannequin.) Oh. Nice. (He takes his Anacondrai Staff.)

Yang: The ninja are dispersed around Ninjago, and you will have revenge. (The villains cheer.)

Pythor: Did someone say revenge? I want in. Ah, Cryptor, my loyal friend. (Chuckles.) Chen.

Chen: Pythor.

Kozu: Oh, frosty.

Yang: You must each choose a ninja and—

Samukai: I call Zane.

Cryptor: No! He's my clone.

Pythor: Technically, you're his clone.

Chen: The Blacksmiths’ brats are mine.

Pythor: How come you get two?

(Everyone starts to argue.)

Yang: Silence! Time is wasting, and I've got my own thing going on. So work it out! (He leaves.)

Chen: I have a score to settle with Nya, so she's mine. Her brother too.

Pythor: Lloyd, I destroyed the father. Well, more or less. It's finally time to destroy the son.

Cryptor: I'll take Zane.

Morro: Master Wu. We left things...unfinished. I will settle our debt, once and for all.

Samukai: (He groans and turns to Kozu.) That only leaves Jay. One ninja, but two of us. Okay, rock, paper, scissors. One, two, three. One, two, three. (Kozu walks away.) It doesn't seem to work.

Kozu: (He sees Dareth.) I want him.

Samukai: Yes.

Pythor: Then it's settled. Although, the ninja won't go easily. Perhaps we could use some help?

Cryptor: (He reads the map.) The Hall of Sidekicks.

Pythor: (Laughs.) Convenient, is it not?

(Yang's students surround Cole.)

Cole: So guys, what say you help me out? You know, student-to-ninja? Hello? Look, I know Yang's your master, but how can you be on his side?

Yang: Your pleas are useless. My students, well, they're loyal to no one but me.

Cole: Come on, guys. Yang is like the definition of evil.

Yang: Actually, "Yang" means "good". But I always did aspire for great. I dedicated my life to the study of the martial arts. I mastered them all, and even created my own. Airjitzu was my first achievement, but it was nothing compared to what I would discover next. My research revealed the location of the Yin Blade, a weapon whose magic was so powerful, it was said to hold the key to eternal life. Control that magic and I'd be forever remembered as Ninjago's greatest master. Immortality was so near. It was time for the ultimate test... myself. But something went...wrong. So while I will live forever, it is only as a ghost. Cursed to haunt this once-proud temple as Master of the House. Never able to return. Until tonight, thanks to you.

Cole: Thanks to me? How?

Yang: You said it yourself. There's magic in the air. On the Day of the Departed, when there's a Yin-Yang lunar eclipse, the Yin Blade can cut the Rift of Return. So thank you for this.

Cole: You're not welcome. And you won't get away with it. I'm supposed to meet my friends soon. When they see I'm missing, they'll come for me.

Yang: See you're missing? Ha! Look at you. You can barely see yourself. (Cole groans.) Besides, you've caused quite a few problems for your friends.

(Kai and Nya celebrate the holiday in Four Weapons Blacksmith.)

Nya: It feels strange being back in our parents' shop after all this time.

Kai: Nya? Do you think we'll ever find out what actually happened to them?

Chen: I could tell you. But you have bigger things to worry about.

Nya: Chen?

Kai: (He grabs two swords and hands one to Nya.) I don't know how you're back, but it's two against one.

Chen: Is it? (He reveals the Anacondrai Cultists have also been resurrected.) Goodbye, ninja. (He presses a button. His chair starts to punch him. He presses another button, causing carnival music to play. He presses another button that plays disco music.) Nope. Hmm. Uh, almost. Ah. Found it. Yes. (He activates the weapons.) Doodle pep, ninja.

(Zane celebrates the holiday in Birchwood Forest. A statue he made of his father crumbles.)

Cryptor: Oops. Did I hurt your dear old dad? Or should I say our dad?

(Jay is with his parents at the junkyard.)

Ed: Uh, Edna, dear, is that crumb cake ready? Jay's starving.

Jay: I'm fine, Dad.

Ed: I know, son, but I love your mother's crumb cake.

Samukai: (He walks out the trailer while Edna is being held hostage.) Guess who's back?

(Lloyd and Misako visits the Corridor of Elders.)

Lloyd: I know Dad's gone, but sometimes it's like he's still with me. (They see someone behind a boulder.) Pythor?

Pythor: When we last met, I decided to help you and your father, Garmadon, defeat Chen. Do you remember why?

Lloyd: You said something about how if anyone was going to take over the world, you'd rather it be you.

Pythor: Precisely. Time to finish the job.

(Wu is back at the Monastery of Spinjitzu.)

Wu: An eclipse is always an omen, but is this one a sign of good...or bad?

Morro: (He goes up behind him.) Bad. Very bad.

(Cole watches as Yang shows him the events.)

Cole: My friends. What have you done?

Yang: No, Cole, what have you done?

Cole: How? How could I steal the Yin Blade and release all those ghosts?

Yang: You were scared you were departing and that your friends had forgotten you. So I took advantage of your fragile mental state to trick you. Oh, oh, you weren't literally asking, were you? Give up, Cole. You're by yourself. There's no one to help you. Now, excuse me, I have a rift to open. Watch him, just in case. (He leaves while his students watches him.)

Cole: All by myself. Hm.

(Pythor slithers closer to the two.)

Misako: Pythor, what are you doing?

Pythor: Giving the kid a one-way ticket to join his daddy.

Lloyd: Sorry, I don't really feel like going on a vacation.

Pythor: But it's a holiday. Respect your elders. (He throws his staff at a statue. The head starts to fall.)

Misako: Lloyd! (Lloyd carries the head.)

(Chen presses more buttons.)

Chen: Who designed this thing?

Kai: Raider bikes. (They get on their bikes. Kai falls off his and lands in front of Chen.)

Chen: (He laughs and presses more buttons.) Oh, good. Better. Best. (Nya saves him before he can fire.)

(Cryptor brought more Nindroid Warriors with him.)

Cryptor: Escape is futile, Zane. You and I share programming. I know your every move before you even make it.

Zane: Even this one? (He Airjitzus into a tree.)

Cryptor: If you know it, I know it. Enjoy the Departed Realm. And say hi to dear old Dad.

(Wu realizes it's Morro that's behind him.)

Wu: Well, my former student. How have you returned, Morro?

Morro: The question is not how, but why.

(Cole tries to talk to one of the students.)

Cole: So I didn't get your name. (He doesn't talk.) Okay, I'll just call you "Chuck." Look, Chuck, I know you think you're Yang's student, and maybe you were once, but now you're his prisoner. Don't you see? He's not your friend. He's your captor. You gotta shake off his spell. Then, we can stop him. Together. You and me. (He doesn't talk.) Okay, no pressure, but you have three seconds to decide. One, two, three. (He jumps and kicks Chuck.) Guess I'm working solo, Chuck.

(Jay prevents his father from going after Samukai.)

Ed: Don't you worry, Edna. I'll take care of those piles of bones.

Edna: Oh, now, Ed, be careful. Dr. Berkman says not to strain.

Jay: I got this, Dad. Lightning! (He shocks Samukai's sidekicks.) I have no idea what you want with my parents.

Samukai: It's not your parents I want, Jay. It's you! (He throws Edna to Ed. He and Jay start fighting.)

Ed: Feisty. He's his mother's son. (Krazi and Frakjaw stand by the two and watch the fight.)

Samukai: Fools. Don't just stand there. Grab them. Then he won't fight me.

Jay: No!

Samukai: Oh, yes! (He trips Jay.)

(The Royal Blacksmiths continue singing.)

Royal Blacksmiths: Be mine. Day of the Departed baby. Cold and spooky-hearted love.

Dareth: Royal Blacksmiths, everybody. Aren't they fantastic? Hey, speaking of fantastic, it's my duty as manager to remind you that there's fantastic merch available in the gift shop. Hats, CDs, mugs. Show you're a real fan. Now, before my boys continue, I just want to say thank you for coming and getting into the spirit of the night. Look at those costumes. Funny clowns and aliens and astronauts. Wow, those Stone Warriors. (Kozu speaks in his language.) So realistic.

Kozu: Revenge will be mine!

Dareth: Well, normally my guys don't take requests, but it is a special occasion. Boys?

Royal Blacksmiths: Revenge Will Be Mine. And you know I'm feeling fine. 'Cause my girl's coming. (The warriors jump on stage.)

Dareth: Hey, that's no costume. (He runs.) Can we at least talk about it?

Kozu: Revenge!

Dareth: Okay, we're talking. (He runs toward the museum.)

Kozu: Destruction!

Dareth: Talking is good!

Kozu: Crazy!

(Dareth screams)

(Cole tries to find his way around the temple.)

Cole: Yes! No. (He comes across more students.) Hey. So any chance you wanna tell me where Yang is opening that rift? (They grab weapons.) So...that's a no? Whoa, let's not be hasty. This isn't a fair fight. I'm handcuffed. (One of them broke the cuffs.) Ah! Oh. So you might want a few more guys. (He disarms and defeats them.) Okay, sports fans, the score is Cole: 3, evil possessed students: 0.

Yang: Hurry up. I haven't got 3000 years. (Cole goes the opposite direction before he notices. He comes across some of his students.)

Cole: Okay, Cole, it's showtime.

Yang: Deal with him.

Cole: (He defeats the students.) Maybe I can do this myself. Whew! I'm coming for you, Yang. It's over. You don't have any more students. You're all alone.

Yang: Oh, I am not alone. Not at all. (More students appear.)

Cole: What's the matter, Yang? Too afraid to take me on by yourself?

Yang: Too busy. The eclipse is beginning to fade, Cole. Just like you. Take him. (They start to fight.)

(Wu wields his staff.)

Wu: We have fought twice before. And although it pains me, I will do so again if I must.

Morro: No, you misunderstand. I'm not here to fight you. I'm here to warn you. Master Yang has put your team in terrible danger.

Wu: What has Yang done?

Morro: He's made you forget one of your own, one who was already slipping away.

Wu: Tell me more.

Morro: I will, but aboard the Bounty. We have to warn the others.

(Kai now rides with Nya on her bike. They try to escape Chen and his Cultists.)

Nya: Duck! (Kai ducks, and Zugu hits a tree and is forced out of his mannequin.)

Kai: This is my stop. Ninja, go! (He uses Spinjitzu.)

(Misako confronts Pythor while Lloyd tries to hold the statue.)

Lloyd: Can't...hold...on.

Misako: Yes, you can.

Pythor: Fool! You continually underestimate me. You're so like your father.

Misako: He's right, Lloyd. You're brave and noble and—

Lloyd: And a master of Spinjitzu. You are still with me, Dad. Ninja, go! (He uses Spinjitzu to free himself.)

(Yang gets on the temple's roof.)

Yang: Good to see you, rare eclipse. Now help me to finally open up the rift.

Cole: All right, guys, time to take a break. Or not. (They fight again.)

Yang: Open the rift. Set me free.

Cole: Okay, okay, how about that break? (The students get back up and fight again.) You guys are more tiresome than Jay!

Yang: Yes. It is working.

(Samukai towers over Jay.)

Samukai: For what it's worth, this isn't personal, Jay.

Jay: It kind of feels like it is, Samukai.

Samukai: It's only so I can return. I promise that as soon as this is over, I'll release your parents.

Ronin: I'm on that one. (He appears with his Salvage M.E.C. and frees Jay's parents. He kicks Samukai.)

Jay: Ronin. Thanks for coming.

Ronin: Yeah, I came to help. I definitely didn't think your folks would be at the concert so I could, um...borrow...some free scrap metal for my mech.

Jay: What?

Ronin: Um, nothing. You're all clear, kid. Finish them.

(Zane tries to escape the Nindroids.)

P.I.X.A.L.: Zane, they have flight capability. It appears you have miscalculated.

Zane: No, I didn't. (He destroys their jetpacks.)

(Lloyd and Misako jump on the statues. Pythor attempts to push her off, but Lloyd stopped him, giving her enough time to pull herself off. Meanwhile, Dareth roams the museum.)

Dareth: Helmet of Shadows, where are you? You control the Stone Warriors, so I can control the Stone Warriors. (The warriors find him and begin chasing him.)

(Yang watches as the rift opens.)

Yang: Ah, here it comes.

Cole: Ugh, they just keep coming. I can't do this much longer. One last time. Ninja, go! (He uses Spinjitzu.)

(Nya gets off her bike and confronts Chen with Kai.)

Chen: Fair fight. I win. (He fires a missile, but Nya repels it with Water.) Unfair. (He gets hit with the missile and is forced out of his mannequin.)

(Ronin chases the Skulkin. Jay releases a giant magnet and crushes Krazi and Frakjaw.)

Jay: Old foe, new trick. Watch me, Samukai. (He shocks him.)

(Cryptor starts to attack Zane.)

Cryptor: I know your every move. I know how you hit. I know how you will kick. And I know you never give up.

Zane: Then I give up. (Cryptor attacks him, but falls and is forced out of his mannequin-)

(Lloyd and Misako outnumber Pythor.)

Misako: Time for you to call it quits.

Pythor: No, just time for a spectacular exit. (He jumps off of the statue.)

Lloyd: Think he's gone for good?

Misako: I hope so, but Pythor is as much cat as he is snake. He has nine lives.

Pythor: (Groans.) Next time I'll take my own advice and bring some sidekicks.

(Jay eats one of his mother's crumb cakes.)

Jay: Mm. Mm. Great crumb cake, Mom.

Ronin: Happy Day of the Departed, guys. Oh, and thank you for the bag of scrap.

Ed: All you had to do was ask.

(Dareth crawls toward the Helmet.)

Dareth: Helmet of Shadows. I found it. Security, eighty-six this guy.

Kozu: (The army grabs Kozu and rams him against a wall.) No, no. Release me.

Saunders: My museum! What have you done?

Dareth: (Nervously laughs.) Sorry.

(Cole defeats all but one student.)

Cole: Don't make me hurt you too. (The student runs away. Cole replaces his broken staff with his sword and goes out the window.) Stop it, Yang.

Yang: Freedom. Return. It's all mine.

Cole: No! You...are not going...anywhere! (He Airjitzus after him. He grabs him and they both fall back on the temple's roof.)

(Jay makes it to the museum, where the other ninja are waiting for him.)

Jay: Guys, I have the ghost story to end all ghost stories. You will never guess what just happened.

Kai: You battled the possessed mannequin of a mortal enemy?

Nya: Him and his goons tried to send you to the Departed Realm with magic blades?

Zane: But you defeated them first.

Lloyd: And saw their ghosts disappear into the night.

Jay: Oh, okay, fine. You guessed. Well, since you know so much, why were all those ghosts out here?

Wu: (He approaches them.) Because distracting you was part of Master Yang's plan.

Morro: And he had help.

Lloyd: (The ninja arm themselves.) Morro.

Jay: Any other villains want to show up tonight?

Kai: We've stopped five, what's one more?

Wu: No. Put away your weapons. He's here to help. Morro, tell them.

Morro: Yang tricked Cole into helping him open a rift to return to Ninjago.

Jay: Cole? How'd he trick you?

Zane: Jay, Cole isn't here.

Jay: Are you sure? He's been fading a lot lately. He's kind of easy to miss.

All ninja: (Gasp.) We forgot Cole!

Wu: To the Bounty. They must be at the Temple of the Airjitzu Master. Thank you, Morro.

Morro: Happy Day of the Departed, Master.

(Morro returns to his pedestal and he poses. His spirit leaves the statue and goes back to the Departed Realm.)

(Cole walks toward Yang.)

Yang: Just give up already.

Cole: No. I'm keeping you here until the eclipse ends and the rift closes. Your evil will never return to Ninjago. (They clash their weapons.)

Yang: What are you even fighting for? Your friends have abandoned you. (Laughs.) Your master has abandoned you. You are all alone.

Cole: No! (Yang destroys his sword.) Can't...go on...alone.

Yang: Yes. Yield. Soon I will be gone, but you will remain forever Departed, destined to haunt this temple forever as the new Master of the House. (Laughs.)

Cole: I'm...fading away.

Yang: Just one more lonely ghost. Not a friend in the world.

Nya: Cole!

Cole: Huh?

Yang: What? Who's that?

Cole: My friends. (He stops fading and kicks Yang.) Ghost or not, I'm gonna do what I came here to do, Yang.

Kai: We have to help him.

Nya: I can't bring it any closer. The wind's still too strong.

Cole: And you're wrong. I'm not the one who's alone. You are.

Yang: No. I have my family. (He points to his students.)

Cole: No, you have prisoners. That's not family. That's captivity. (He punches Yang.) Whoa, I feel...different. Like, like, I can punch through...anything. (He destroys the Yin Blade. The students return to normal, but are still ghosts.)

Yang: No. No! You broke my spell!

Cole: The rift! If you hurry, you can be free of this place forever! (The students uses Airjitzu and enter the rift. They cheer as they become mortal again.)

Wu: The rift is almost closed.

Yang: My...my students. Leaving me. I...I failed.

Cole: Yeah, you did.

Yang: I always fail.

Cole: Yeah, you—Wait, what?

Yang: I dedicated my life to studying the martial arts. Alone. I got arrogant, I wanted to live forever.

Cole: Why? No one lives forever.

Yang: Because I knew the day I was gone, no one would remember me.

Cole: All of this was so you wouldn't be forgotten?

Jay: What is he doing? Is-is he talking to Yang?

Wu: The rift cannot be opened again until the next Yin-Yang eclipse.

Zane: Which, according to my calculations, won't happen for 3,721 years.

Kai: Cole, the rift! You gotta pass through the rift!

Yang: You must think I'm a fool for having such a petty desire.

Cole: No, I get it. Believe me, I get it. I know what it's like to feel forgotten. Alone. It-it hurts. But Master Yang, you are already gonna be remembered forever.

Yang: Me? How?

Cole: You created Airjitzu.

Jay: Cole! It's now or never!

Cole: Now come on, there's still time to go through. Both of us.

Yang: No, I'm afraid that's impossible. The curse of the Temple requires that at least one ghost remained behind as Master of the House.

Cole: One of us has to stay here?

Yang: It must be this way.

Cole: Hey! What are you doing?

Yang: Settling my debt. (He launches the screaming Cole through the closing rift. The rift closes and the wind becomes stronger.)

Wu: Brace yourselves. It's going to be a hard landing. (The ninja land and get off the ship.)

Misako: Is everyone all right?

Zane: Nothing that tightening a few screws can't fix.

Lloyd: I'm okay, but where's Cole?

Jay: Oh, no!

Nya: Did he make it?

Jay: He was too late. He's gone forever. I'd give anything to have him back.

Cole: (off-screen) Anything?

Jay: Anything.

Cole: (He jumps from behind a boulder, a human again.) Even the Sonic Raider Jet?

All ninja: Cole! (They embrace him.)

Jay: You're back!

Lloyd: You're not a ghost anymore.

Nya: You look good as new.

Cole: Ah. Pretty much. Thank you, Nya.

Kai: Speaking of good as new...(He points to the temple.)

Wu: (Sighs.) The Temple of the Airjitzu Master has been returned to its original condition.

Zane: It's beautiful.

Cole: You know, that would be a pretty cool place for a ninja to train.

(The team gathers around a campfire with their friends and families.)

Cole: Whoa. And was I right or was I right?

Jay: (Sighs.) Yes, you were right. Are you going to retell this story every Day of the Departed from now on?

Cole: Only until you admit that you didn't want to move in because you were scared it's still haunted. (Everyone laughs.)

Jay: I wasn't scared. I was cautious. Okay fine, I was scared. And wrong. There's no more ghosts here.

Cole: Nope. No ghosts. (He and Yang secretly wink at each other.)

Wu: (They release the lanterns.) Happy Day of the Departed.

#irl cole #ramblerumbles #Happy Day of the Departed guys ☺️#ooc: ABDBABDHAHSHAHAH #THIS LAGGED MY PHONE SO BADLY LMFAO YOU HAVE NO IDEA

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atonalginger · 4 months ago

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Through Plasma and Flames, update #11

Chapter 11: Percolating Thoughts, is now live on ao3!

Dawn takes her first real rest in memory, reflecting on that fact and more. As she realizes she hasn't heard from Preston in a week and resolves to radio the Hills she and Vadim get a visitor.

You can find it on ao3 by clicking here!

To start from the very beginning you can click here.

Note: as of 7/8/2024 my fics have been set to registered users only. I apologize for the inconvenience.

and, as always, a short preview below the cut:

What was supposed to be one night before they all sat down to discuss plans turned into a weekend. Then a full week of rest. Once Dawn’s head hit her pillow in the former back office of the Red Rocket she was out like a light, her body demanding sleep, sleep, and more sleep. Vadim appeared more than happy to oblige that demand, bringing her food in bed and playing interference with the others as they came to check up on her.

At one point she woke up long enough to catch the tail end of a conversation between Vadim and Yefim over the ham radio. It was clear the rest of their talk had been a terse exchange, with their tones both clipped short as they spoke. In spite of that they were still showing concern for one another.

“I know you can find someone to manage the bar but it won’t be the same,” Yefim had said, “people are complaining and when they find out you plan to stay out there longer they may decide to go elsewhere.”

“Where would they go?” Vadim had asked with a chuckle, “we’re the only well stocked bar in Diamond City that will serve anyone who walks up. The noodle stand has beer but it’s stale and the robot cuts off customers after two. Wellington won’t serve anyone he deems undesirable. They’ll bitch and moan and then come crawling back when they realize the Dugout Inn is the only place to get a proper stiff drink.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Yefim was quiet for several beats, “Just don’t go getting yourself killed out there, alright? I can’t do this without you.”

“You hold all the brains between the two of us you’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Yefim had sighed, “both of you be careful.”

Vadim’s voice was soft, all irritation gone, “We will. You take care of yourself, Fima. I’ll send a bartender soon.”

“Find time to come home, Vadik,” Yefim had grumbled.

Dawn had begun to doze again before Vadim could see she’d been awake, barely alert enough to catch him adjusting her blankets and feel the loving kiss on her scarred cheek. She felt a pang of guilt as she drifted back to sleep over the pain she was causing Yefim. It was her fault his twin was out in the Commonwealth instead of safe behind the walls of old Fenway Park.

The week had been the longest she’d just rested since she could remember. Even before the bombs dropped Dawn had never really taken time to just rest and reset. There was always something that needed done, something to take care of, someplace to go. She always told herself later, after the next mission, after her contract was up, after she signed a lease. Then it was once she got her bearings, once she asked after Shaun and got a lead, once she got the Quincy refugees settled in the old cul-de-sac, once she got to Diamond City. Even when she stayed with the Bobrov’s in the Dugout Inn she found busy work to keep moving. Later was always just out of reach.

Her recovery at Bravo didn’t count in her mind. Nothing about the nagging pain, regular cleanings and check-ins felt like rest. Those two weeks were an internal fight to stay sane and recover. Long days left to plot and plan. Things she thought she’d be doing at the Red Rocket instead of resting in the dimly lit room in the back of the service station.

#Through Plasma and Flames #atonalginger writes #fo4 #sole survivor #fanfic #oc Dawn Faulkner #fallout 4 fanfic #Preston Garvey #Vadim Bobrov

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riley-phoenix · 2 years ago

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Pairing: Malia X Reader(Male)

Canon: Teen Wolf

Content: Smut, friends to lovers

Author's Note: -

Summary: While on a mission out of Beacon Hills, you and Malia find you need to book into a motel. Everything seems fine until you realise one thing: There's Only One Bed.

The wind blew relentlessly, rustling the trees and forcing leaves off their branches while a constant, sharp noise, perhaps the swooshing of the ice-cold midnight breeze, filled the air.

There had been a surge in supernatural emergencies lately, leading Scott to order the pack to split up in twos and deal with them. To your absolute surprise and delight, he had paired you with Malia. You could work well together with anyone, but given the choice, you'd pick her. You'd always thought fondly of her. You admired her curt responses and found her honest --sometimes brutally honest-- personality irresistible. Not to mention; you found her attractive, gorgeous infact, but you weren't going to make a move tonight, not so soon after her breakup with Stiles. Besides, you were out on business.

This little crush had always made you nervous around her, leading you to be unnecessarily nice to her. Wether it was always paying attention to her over the chaotic exchanges of dialogue during a pack meeting or leaping out of your seat at her mere mentioning of needing a favour, you couldn't control yourself around her, but you were aiming to keep yourself in check tonight.

You were lost in the middle of North Louisiana with no service and the rain had just started coming down. You and Malia jogged through the muddy terrain until, finally, you stumbled upon a motel.

"This should do for the night", Malia says, to which you nod.

The door creaked open slowly as you stepped inside. You approached the front desk while Malia squeezed the water out of her hair and scraped some mud off her boots.

There was an old, wrinkly woman with grey hair and pale skin behind the desk. She held a curmudgeonous expression and never broke eye contact with you. You approached her and lifted a finger so as to speak, and, just as your mouth had opened, you were subsequently interrupted, "Only one room left", she said in a shrill voice.

"We'll take it", you said without further inquiry about the accomodations as you gazed out a small window and took in the inclement weather outside. You threw a few dollars onto the desk and she handed you a pair of bronze keys in return. You turned around and jingled them at Malia, signalling her to follow you to the room. Before you left the lobby you picked up your bags, and, being the gentleman that you were, carried both your luggages, of which there were only two medium sized suitcases filled with clothes and essential supplies.

The hollow floorboards echoed the sounds of your footsteps as you ascended the staricase. You placed the suitcases on the floor and the key in the lock, moving it slowly in a clockwise motion before opening the door.

Grabbing the suitcases by their handles once more, you lifted them off the ground and swung the door open as you stepped inside. The room was small. It had an antique, wooden style of interior designing that, despite not being of the greatest quality, constituted a warm, cozy feeling. It seemed fine until you noticed one problematic detail: There's only one bed.

"Crap!", You exclaimed.

Malia, who was standing behind you, surged forward in a small panic. "What?", She asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

"There's only one bed".

"Oh... Well, we'll make do", she said as she shrugged her shoulders.

You were shocked. It baffled you how nonchalant her response was and how she dismissed the situation as if it was nothing. You pulled out your blanket and started setting it on the floor when Malia questioned you.

"What are you doing?".

"You can have the bed", you said chivalrously

"*your name*, that looks extremely uncomfortable. Plus, I'm pretty sure there's termites on that floor".

"I'll be fine".

"We can share the bed".

"Oh, no I- I couldn't".

Malia rolled her eyes, grabbed your blanket and threw it onto the bed, "Really, it's fine".

"Don't you... Uhh", you started nervously.

"Yeah?", She asked.

"Don't you think sharing a bed is kinda... Intimate?".

She chuckled. "That's cute", she said jokingly, to which you didn't laugh, but rather looked on nervously. She sighed. "Look, we had a long day, we're both really tired. We're probably gonna fall asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows. Nothing's gonna happen, I promise".

"...Okay", you said hesitantly, before removing your shoes, climbing onto the bed and turning the lamp light off.

Later that night...

Neither of you were asleep. You twisted and turned, trying to do anything to force yourself asleep but nothing worked, you just laid there, staring at the ceiling.

As you adjusted your pillow, Malia pulled the blanket you were sharing closer to her, leaving a part of your body exposed. "Rude", you joked. Then you heard her shiver, and you knew something was wrong. It was the weather, it was getting to her.

"Hey, are you sick?", You asked.

"Shapeshifters can't get sick", she replied.

"Then what's wrong?".

"Incase you forgot I used to have a fur coat", she said curtly as she shivered again.

"Oh, right... Is there anything I can do?".

She paused, "...Yeah, actually... There is". She turned around to face you and brought your body closer to her's. You were chest to chest. She placed one hand on your abdomen and the other around your neck as she brought her head closer to your's.

"This making you feel better?", You asked as you furrowed your brow.

"Yeah. Your body temperature is hotter than mine, it's helping me stay warm so the cold doesn't affect me as much".

"Anything I can do to help", you said hesitantly. It made you nervous when you noticed just how close your bodies were.

She paused again. "Are you ok?", She asked.

"Yeah, of course. Why?".

"'Cause your heart is beating like, really fast".

You noticed she had her hand on your chest. "Yeah... I'm fine".

"That was a lie".

"What?".

"Your heart rate increased again... Something's bothering you". She pulled your face closer to her's so that you were looking at each other eye to eye. "Tell me what's wrong".

"I guess... I was kinda nervous about sharing a bed with you".

"Why?", She asked, to which she recieved no response. "*Your name*, do... Do you like me?", Again she recieved no response.

You simply turned your face away from her, almost in embarrassment. Your response, or lack thereof, said everything.

"Why didn't you say something before?", She asked.

You struggled to respond, "I don't know... I guess I just thought it was so soon after you broke up with Stiles; I didn't say anything because... I didn't know if you'd feel the same way".

"That was stupid...", she said bluntly as she ran her hand through your hair and placed one finger on your face, "...Because I do". She brought her lips to your's as she cupped your cheek.

You pulled her closer by her waist and reciprocated the kiss, gently moving against her tongue and softly squeezing her lips. Then, you pulled apart. A look of uncertainty on both your faces. Malia pulled her hands away from her body and reached down, to the edges of her shirt before pulling it over her head. "I thought you said you were cold", you said playfully.

"I was thinking we could heat things up".

You chuckled and did the same. Pulling off your shirt before helping Malia onto your waist as you slid under her. She ran her hands over your abs and as you reached for her, she grabbed your hands by the wrists and pushed them down against the bed. You struggled against her grip as she held you down, "I have super strength", she said. Eventually you stopped, and allowed Malia to take control. Still pinning you down, she kissed you on the cheek and made her way down. She left a trail of kisses across your neck and even on your chest, each one earning a small moan from you.

Then, she released her grip on your wrists. Letting you free. Waisting no time you flipped both of you over, now you were on top. You followed suit as you kissed her, then moved down, to her neck, and to her torso, enjoying each small moan she let out.

"Unhook my bra", she commanded as she lifted her body off the bed, allowing you to reach behind her and undo it before tossing it aside.

She pulled playfully at the elastic fabric on your boxer shorts, awaiting your consent. "Do it", you said breathlessly as she slipped them off.

"Now me", she said, to which you obliged and removed her pants. You were both fully exposed now. Vulnerable to each other in the highest form of intimacy.

You brought your head down, closer to her's, and once again kissed her on the side of the neck. This time you spread your legs apart, prompting her to do the same as you grabbed her by her lower waist. You moved into her slowly, earning one long, audible moan as she threw her head back in delight. She placed one hand on your buttocks and squeezed it hard as she guided you into a motion. You moved in unison, by the waist, front and back, creating a pleasurable sensation for the both of you.

"F-f-faster", she said as your hips started to press against each other even harder. As the springs in the bed started to break under pressure, it coincided with the noise of your moans, growing louder and louder until it burnt you out.

After some time, you slowed down. Tiredly, you laid your head against Malia's chest as she fell back into the pillow until finally; you achieved a mutual climax. Both your hands fell to your sides and you pulled away from her, falling to her side once again, and eventually, somewhere in the night, you fell asleep.

Masterlist

Fandom List

Taglist

Tags: @cactuwus @melthedwarf

#teen wolf #teen wolf fandom #teen wolf Fanfiction #fanfiction #Malia #Malia hale #Malia x reader #Malia Tate

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aimhighmoversllc · 3 months ago

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justwriteryan · 1 year ago

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Sunrise on a Manhattan Wednesday morning. All across the city, alarm clocks go off, people stir in their sleep. In the liveliest city in the world, every home, every workplace is bracing itself for day. And Avengers Tower is no exception.

Within the enormous skyscraper, Edwin Jarvis, the elderly butler quietly walks down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for his employers. He stops. There’s a figure at the windows in the upper lobby. His six foot frame is silhouetted in the rising sunlight.

JARVIS: Good morning, Master Steven.

Steve Rogers, the former Captain America, turns to face his loyal butler.

ROGERS: God morning, Jarvis.

JARVIS: Up early again, sir?

ROGERS: I make a point of watching the sunrise as often as I can. I’ve been in hundreds of fights over the years, Jarvis. Odds are, I’ll die in one some day. I like to take a second to enjoy the beginning of a new day before we launch head-first into all the madness.

JARVIS: Very good, sir. I’ll prepare your morning espresso, shall I?

ROGERS: Thank you, Jarvis. That’d be great. And wake up Maria please.

MARIA: No need, commander.

Maria Hill, Steve’s second-in-command, enters the room. She’s already dressed in her uniform with an electronic tablet in her hand and a pistol strapped to her waist.

ROGERS: Good morning, agent. Run me through the morning’s reports.

MARIA: Yes, sir. Sharon got in touch during the night to say she’s proceeding with the final phase on that mission in Egypt, and that the team will be out of touch for twenty four hours..

ROGERS: Okay…

MARIA: Intel picked up a cell of H.A.M.M.E.R loyalists in Montana. They’ve stockpiled some of Osborn’s nastier tech, and I don’t think they’re planning on building a fort with them.

ROGERS: Put a call into Victoria Hand over at the mansion, have Luke’s team investigate.

MARIA: You got it. Oh, and Sue, Reed, Johnny and the kids are on vacation in another dimension, but Ben’s decided to stay. Guess he enjoys being an Avenger better, huh?

Steve turns and smiles.

ROGERS: Whats not to love?

Maria returns the smile. For a few seconds, neither of them speak.

ROGERS: So, who do we…

BOOM!

ROGERS: What the…?

The building shakes. Across town, a column of smoke is rising.

ROGERS: Maria! Intel, now!

At that moment, several fireballs appear in the morning sky. One by one, they crash, hitting various points of the city. Explosions are heard. The city shakes again.

ROGERS: Missiles?

MARIA: No sir. They seem to coming from space. Meteors I think!

ROGERS: A meteor shower? Of this magnitude, hitting this city, with no advance word from NASA or the Baxter Building’s satellites? I’m not buying it!

The building trembles again, with more ferocity than before.

ROGERS: Another meteor?

MARIA: No, sir. That one shook the whole city! More like an earthquake! Although the seismic readings I’m seeing here…

A new sound. Gunfire. Lots of it. Mingled with explosions and for the first time, screams.

ROGERS: Computer: on!

The dining room table in the middle of the room separates in the middle. Out of the space large flat computer screen rises.

ROGERS: Show me what the situation is in Midtown!

The screen flashes on. We see various security feeds a bustling city street, thrown into panic. Marching through the streets are these horrible, grey-skinned, humanoid creatures with yellow eyes. Each one is six foot in height with a strange kind of machine gun and are mowing down anything that moves.

Steve Rogers watched the screen intently, his temper rising. Maria Hill is too shocked and scared to speak. In spite of the maelstrom on the streets and on the screen, the room is deathly quiet.

ROGERS: Computer: initiate Stark Emergency Frequency Sigma Seventy-Two.

COMPUTER: Emergency Frequency Sigma Seventy-Two activated, Commander.

ROGERS: Maria, get me S.H.I.E.L.D, S.W.O.R.D, the military, the navy, the fire department, the ambulance services and the police on the line the second I finish here. And the President too, if he isn’t trying to reach me already.

MARIA: Yes, sir.

ROGERS: People of New York, this is Commander Steven Rogers.

All at once, the former Captain America’s face appears on every television, computer screen and phone across the city. It appears at Grand Central Station and Time Square and in the homes of families huddling together for support.

ROGERS: In the last few minutes, the city has come under attack by an as-yet unknown alien invasion party. Before we tackle this threat, our first task is to prevent any more casualties. I ask you to stay indoors and only leave your home or place of work if your life depends on it. Rescue teams are coming.

Throughout the city commuters in the subway, men and women in office buildings, customers in grocery stores and families of all races, colours and nationalities watch with fear in their hearts as Steve delivers his message.

ROGERS: If you are already outside, find somewhere safe and stay there. If you’re on our way into the city at this time, use whatever means you have and evacuate the vicinity. Once again, this is Commander Steve Rogers asking you to stay put and stay safe. God bless.

The computer screen goes blank, then lights up again as the President’s face appears on it.

PRESIDENT: Good speech, Commander. I hope you have a plan to back it up.

ROGERS: Of course, Mr. President. I want as many available armed and emergency services committed to the immediate evacuation and rescue of civilians, sir.

PRESIDENT: You got it. But what are you planning on fighting these bastards with?

ROGERS: With your leave, sir, I’d like to deploy the super heroes. If this is in fact an alien invasion, then they would be the natural front line.

PRESIDENT: Very good, Steve. And this is definitely an invasion. I’m hearing that whatever these things are, wherever they came from, they’re attacking every major city in the country, maybe even the world.

ROGERS: Yes sir. Rogers out.

Steve turns back to Maria as the screen goes black.

ROGERS: Maria, patch me through to the All-Call Frequency.

MARIA: Yes, sir.

She types something onto the tablet in her hands.

MARIA: Good to go sir.

ROGERS: Attention! This is Commander Steve Rogers issuing a code red All-Call! This is a priority alert! All metahumans respond immediately! In other words…AVENGERS ASSEMBLE!

An old idea I had for a crossover where the Marvel 616 universe gets invaded by the Locust horde from Gears of War. Stay tuned!

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arthurmorganstb · 1 year ago

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Isn't This Price's Job? (Ghost x Reader)

I can't say I know Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley 'well'. I think that goes for everyone at the base, and even everyone in Taskforce 141. Except for Soap. After what happened in Las Almas, they've become close. A lot closer than Ghost is to anyone. He also calls Soap Johnny. I could never think of Soap MacTavish as anything other than...well Soap. I've been a part of the Taskforce for six months now, and still feel as if I know Ghost as well as a deer comprehends quantum physics.

"Sergeant First-Class Myra Park," the private greeted me. He was young, nineteen at most. He fidgeted with his vest. This would be his first mission apart of the Taskforce, and like many members would be for that mission only. Still, as a new enlistee, any mission was scary. "Usually, on missions it's customary to just call your fellow mission members by their last names, Park works fine. And in any other context, you can drop the 'First-Class'." He nodded appreciatively. "FNG! How are you? Did you piss yourself yet? Pack extra diapers?" Childish. "Sargent Odson," I said in service of a greeting. He had been a pain in my ass since we first met, an overly cocky Londoner who had no place in the military. "Myra! Are you excited to kill some bad guys?" "First of all, you're a Staff Sargent so no matter what I should be Sargent Park to you." This wasn't necessarily true, as I had just told the private something very different, still I enjoyed lording it over Odson that I had been promoted faster than him. "Second of all, Price put me in charge of this mission so I recommend you shut up before I report you for insubordination. Third of all, our mission isn't to 'kill some bad guys' it's to gain intel from a stakeout. Shooting is a worst-case scenario." He nodded emphatically, a cocky smile playing on his thin lips. "Of course...Sergeant."

We arrived at the nondescript old factory in the dead of night, nothing but the moon for lighting. A large hill overlooked the building, large willowy golden-yellow plants swaying in the breeze which would, most importantly, make us virtually invisible. All three of us pulled out our field binoculars, surveying the factory. No movement except for the wind. Hours passed by before anything happened. At four in the morning, a large dairy truck rolled up to the factory. The painted-on Shamrock Farms peeled back to advertise itself as Samck Frs. The large semi door rolled up, and two men jumped out from the truck. The driver joined them, seemingly yelling, throwing his arms up in the air at the end. Once the diver stalked off and opened the factory door, the two other men got to work. Our view of what was inside the truck was obscured, but as soon at the men started unloading, it was clearly many bricks of cocaine. "Just as we thought," I softly muttered to my subordinates. "Cartel activity. Laswell isn't going to like this." "Well, what does Laswell like?" Odson snarked. I ignored him. "Mexican Cartel?" The private interjected. "No, Laswell's been tracking these guys for months. Colombian." "Muy buena." I whipped my head around to come face to face with two Colombian Cartel members. "We can either do this the peaceful way and come with us, or we can dump your body in that river over there. Your choice." The taller of the two men said, AK-47 casually pointed towards the star-speckled sky. Within half a second, I had signaled to my men and aimed my gun, safety off. The shorter of the two cartel members fired into the private's arm, knocking him back. Odson and I both fired into the taller man, dropping him dead. With the momentary distraction, we stood, conscious of how close we were to the edge of the hill. The private dropped the other member, but I could see more coming up the hill. "We've got to move," I said. Turning to the Private, who was bleeding profusely, I asked "You good to walk?" He gave a single nod. As we made our way down the hill, we dropped member after member of the cartel, our military training superior to their street-acquired gun fighting. But they were too numerous. More and more streamed up the hill, the long grasses stained crimson. "Jesus," Odson said. "They've got to have the whole cartel on our ass." Another bullet entered the Private, hitting him squarely in his other shoulder. When he dropped, he didn't get back up. I had been shot before. It didn't hurt at first. The pain would come after, maybe once the bullet was dug out. Maybe a minute after you get shot. Then it would be searing. Blinding. I had been shot many, many times. It didn't do anything to negate the shock I felt once the bullet tore through my thigh. "Shit!" I heard Odson exclaim. I continued firing, most likely not hitting a single target. When the second bullet hit, I went down. It's a funny feeling, your life force being drained away. The scarlet substance left my body in mass amounts. My eyes slowly glossed over, barely aware of the one-man versus cartel army battle raging on around me. As sensibility left with my blood, I dipped my hand in the pooling blood, cheek pressed against the ground. And like the cards in Alice in Wonderland painting the white roses red, I covered the long yellow grasses. My last conscious thought I need to paint them all... Read the rest here

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lucifra-writes · 1 year ago

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Oak Leaves in Autumn

Rose Wellwater did not, as a rule, move quickly.

Granted, at least part of that was a result of spending long enough to lose track of time in the service of a fae noble- even if the magic that had been built up around her life-bone and soul over so many years protected her from the normal aging process, she was still ultimately human, and being the de facto gofer for any fae, let alone Sevren the Oakroot, entailed more than a little disregard for mere human limitations and weaknesses.

As such, she had more than her fair share of scars and aches, just as she had her share of prides and joys. For one, despite how her hair was so raggedly kept as a result of his almost unending stream of tasks and errands for her to go on, it was still as sakura-pink as it had always been, no matter how much blood (either hers or others’) ever stained it.

This didn’t take away from the cane she’d been forced to use so that she could walk, or the untold horrors she’d been subjected and, indeed, forced to fight off, but it was the pride she took in her hair, and the opportunities that awaited her upon her final return to the mortal world, that drove her forward with the unyielding determination through everything Sevren could squeeze out of her. All the while she cursed her younger self for accepting a client while clearly struck by a glamour, and the Keepers of the Laws for ignoring her petitions for redress, and the Oakroot for casting the damn thing to begin with, but onward she continued, with all the implacable drive that any knight would be in envy of.

Still, when she finished her final mission for the Oakroot, one last coating of blood for her aching hands that were already too red for her tastes, she didn’t exactly move slowly on her way to report back to the man-shaped being.

His personal guards almost stopped her when she came to the room she could only think of as his throne room, but a five foot girl with pink hair, leaning heavily on a cane, didn’t exactly scream dangerous (purposefully so, at that), and while it was a façade, Rose didn’t rely on the glamours or shapeshifting that most of the fae did to achieve that. As such, between her not looking threatening and her having legitimate business with him (well, that and the fact that she didn’t have any intent to harm him), she was shown into his throne room in short order.

“Ah, little flower!” the man said, the oak tree he’d grown into a throne in all but name providing dappled shadow over his whole frame, which was more on display than normal since he’d forgone his standard bark-pattern jerkin to have all the oak-leaf-green flesh of his torso on display. “What have you for me today?”

“As ordered,” Rose replied, flourishing her hand to present the vial she’d been bade to claim for him. “One vial of Northerlandic steelblood.”

Sevren nodded, then rose from his throne, too-long limbs gangling as he strode down from the top of the grassy hill he’d crammed into the room. After he reached down and plucked it from her hand, he beheld her, eyes looking almost like the sun glinting through pearls of sap as he seemed to look at something deeper than mere flesh (and, given his fae nature, it was very possible that he was).

“This was to be your last task for me, was it not?”

Immediately, Rose found herself on edge. Something about the ancient entity’s tone set her instincts on edge, and his word choice tickled something in the back of her head as well. “It is, as per the contract that we both signed before I began my term of service for you.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, waving the hand that wasn’t tucking the vial she’d stolen for him into an extradimensional space. “The contract that you signed. The penalty clauses, as signed, declare that if you remain within my realm after the sunset after you complete my tasks, you forfeit a year and a day’s worth of time in service to me once more.”

“You bastard,” snarled Rose- she’d not be able to get to the nearest exit from his realm within the hour and a half until sunset, not unless she twisted time far enough to draw attention from the Pendulum.

“Not so, in fact,” he replied glibly. “My parents were quite happily married when I was born. Now, for that insult, I do believe… ah, yes, I believe I shall be extracting my price in the sharing of a memory. Please, don’t move too much…”

His hand reached out, and before Rose could gather the wherewithal to react somehow, his fingers were already pressed to her forehead, smooth in a way that no human could ever match, and time fell away as he reached into her mind for a memory to suit his tastes.

-----

It never got easier to watch yourself die.

Dying, that was easy- just an instant of “oh, damn” and then blinking five minutes or ten or however long in the past that it would take to sidestep whatever it was that would leave your innards outards, or however it was that the universe was conspiring to leave your body nothing more than just a chunk of cooling meat.

But seeing the light go out of your own eyes in third person, that was something that in all her deaths-that-weren’t, Rose Wellwater never got over.

Then again, she didn’t need to get over them, at least not now.

No, as long as she could ride out the rest of her term of service (inasmuch as one could call a quest that one had been enchanted into performing for a fae noble that they no longer were quite so moony-eyed over a term of service), she’d be able to retire to somewhere she could actually afford the time and space to process her own death countless times over, as long as she managed to escape the worst urges of the fae upon returning to them.

As it stood, though, she had a battle to fight, and the Carnellan combat squad, all well-worn armor, pale flesh, and hair to match that had just had their heavy knight hew her head from her shoulders wasn’t going to just line up for her to kill.

Drawing as much mystical energy into herself as she dared, Rose compressed it down into a spell matrix, broadening the targeting with the extra power, and then clenched her fist to seal the matrix and finish casting the spell, more than used to the brief spike of pain that came with using the magic that deflected the Old Potter’s grasp on her life-bone in such an unusual way.

The spell flashed out, all creeping mycelia and stench of rot, and in a visual effect that resembled nothing so much as a time-lapse of moss growing over a rock, the Carnellan combatants (who were, as a rule, in the prime of their physicality or at least close to it due to stringent fitness requirements for each combat role in the elite combat force) aged into wizened, almost stick-thin forms.

Naturally, their older forms were not capable of carrying the heavy combat kits that Carnel liked to issue to their combatants, dragging them to the ground (and snapping multiple suddenly-brittle bones), and the two who wobbled without falling under the weight of their practically plain armor were more likely than not magic users of some stripe who could use the supernatural forces at their fingertips to lighten the load in a very literal sense (either that or augmented in a way that didn’t degenerate as a result of age, as rare as that was outside of some of the Northerlandic countries). Either way, they were still working on a human physiological plan, and one (less complicated) spell matrix later, and both of them had been overbalanced by intensely localized gales. Another spell matrix had roots growing out of the path that they were standing in, and once these roots had bound the whole squad to the ground, she clambered up the rocky area next to the path to stand over the squad.

“What the fuck! I killed you,” snarled the heavy knight, held down at least as much by his armor and almost impractically large sword that was holding down his right arm.

“Evidently not,” replied Rose, a hint of a smirk making its way onto her face as she made the fact that she wasn’t looking at her body look natural (watching it rot into nothing in fast forward was, if anything, more unnerving than watching her own death). Interestingly, his piercing blue eyes, still bright despite the wrinkles and wrongly-bent limbs, flickered through sorrow and back into fury at the sight of her smirk. “Now then, people who could have been friends if you hadn’t done… that… I have questions that I would like answered before I undo what has been done to you.”

As Rose took in the various reactions to this (ranging from resignation to rage), she held back a sigh. One day, this would be over and she’d be free to live her life. Until then, she’d have to keep working towards the Oakroot’s goals, and doing his dirty work.

-----

“Ah,” he said, teeth glinting in the orange-yellow light of the setting sun. He inhaled strongly through his nose, as if smelling a flower garden, then turned to regard Rose with a gaze she couldn’t see as anything other than predatory. “I think I’ll keep you around as a memory bank for until I tire of the flavor of your emotions.”

“That’s not something you’re legally allowed to do, under the Compact of the Starsworn, even if it was something that I signed a contract for- hells, your little trick there was illegal too. Memory manipulation is-” she began.

“No one needs to know, my little flower, not even the Keepers of the Laws,” he said, and with how he loomed over Rose, the nickname took on a new, chilling subtext that set her teeth to grinding against one another. “No one will know, either- all of my guards and servants are sworn to secrecy, and as for after I’m done with you… well, we can handle that when it comes time. Who knows, I might even wipe your memory and set you free, just to see the despair on your face as you realize how much time you’ve truly lost before I tear your protection away and let the Potter claim your life-bone.” He reached out, his fingertips glowing with what would ordinarily be a soothing golden color but some magical sense told Rose should be setting every hair on her body on end as well as some not on her body.

“Don’t worry, your body is made for this. It won’t hurt one bit.”

Rose blinked, closing her eyes with his hand closing around her head and opening them from just in front of his tree-throne, watching her body collapse almost bonelessly into him, with slowly rising fury bubbling within her chest.

“I would not do that if I was you,” said Rose, feeding her fury into a spell matrix as the Oakroot turned, triumph leaching away in favor of confusion in his glowing eyes.

“What in the Eldest Tree- you were supposed to be alive, just dead to the world!”

“Dumbass,” she said, swinging her right arm (and, with it, the spell matrix) back to point at the tree-throne that had, subtly, been glowing in time with every time he used any form of magic. “You cannot kill me in a way that matters.”

The spell matrix detonated in a flash, the pain that twisting time into decay once carried with it long gone, and splotches of rot started appearing on the oaken throne’s bark.

“What have you done, foolish girl?” snarled the Oakroot, the deep green of his flesh starting to yellow around the edges for the first time she’d seen.

“Seized my freedom in both hands. Don’t worry,” she said, all sickly sweet mock sympathy, “I’ll be sure to preserve your realm after you die, at least for long enough to claim redress from the Keepers of the Laws.”

“You bitch!” He lunged for her, but it was too late- as the rot expanded, it drew more and more strength from the enchantments no doubt woven into every cell of the tree’s being, and expanded faster.

Before Sevren got even halfway to Rose, his legs crumbled away like so many leaves, dust blowing away in a breeze that failed to so much rustle the grass on the hill.

“I would say I hope you enjoy the Potter’s attentions,” she said, years of rage leaking into her voice, “but I would be lying more egregiously than anything you’ve ever done to me.”

He opened his mouth, glaring from between rotting eyelids, but before he could say anything, the tree finished crumbling, and the lights behind his eyes winked out, leaving two teardrops of amber to drop to the floor in a pile of leaf mulch.

Rose sighed, pushing her hair back, then limped down the hill and scooped up the amber and slipped it into a pouch. “Wherever what’s left of you is,” she said, “I hope you get exactly what you deserve.”

She said nothing else as the starry-armored knights of the Keepers of the Laws arrived and took her away through their swirling, star-dotted portal.

-----

And that's that!

Not a whole lot to say here.

If you want to support me as a writer, I got me a Ko-fi (https://ko-fi.com/lucifra) and a Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Lucifra), and if you become a patron, you can see my chapters a week early.

Speaking of which, my thanks to NotableRonin and Ember for being patrons!

I have a discord sir ver for author stuff - if you have questions or comments that you’d like a more direct answer to, that’s another option: https://discord.gg/NHRUKz8jyy

That’s about it, so read, review, enjoy, and have a nice day!

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