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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years

Text

Cheating Heart

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Synopsis: Your feeling for John were wrong -- horribly wrong -- but when you see your current boyfriend in bed with another woman, what's to hold you back anymore? (18+)

Word Count: 20.8k

Warnings: Cheating, toxic relationship, angst, fluff, depictions of violence and gore in flashbacks, unhealthy coping mechanisms, smut, breeding kink, praise kink, Protective!Price, vulgar language, porn with an incredible amount of plot

A/N: Literally just supposed to be smut practice and I turned it into a novel lmfao. I should be getting back to requests after this.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You slap a hand onto Soap’s bicep as you slide past the Scot, laughing loudly. The C-17 was still whirring behind you, the engines rumbling and shaking the air over your heads like great waves. Soap had asked you to go out with everyone for drinks at a local bar here in your city, not a moment prior. He was being quite persistent about it.

“Ah, c’mon, Little Lady,” The mohawked man grumbles, jogging to catch up to your fast form. Shit, you really needed a shower – your pores were packed with blood and dirt, “It’s just a few minutes from Base! We’ll all get steamin’ in no time.”

“Hell,” Your body aches, but there’s a promise of hot water and clean clothes in your Barracks, making your feet move over the tarmac faster. Showering after a tough deployment was better than sex, “I’d love to, man, but you know that Leon makes me homemade meals when I get back home. Sorry, but I hope I make up for it by saying I’d take a bar burger and a drink over his lasagna any day. That thing could kill a horse.”

Soap chuckles, eyes sparkling, and you send him an inquiring glance, “Price’ll be out with us.”

Your lips thin, the M13 strapped over your back suddenly ten times heavier and digging into your shoulder blades. Inside your chest, your heart sparks to life.

“MacTavish…” You warn, eyes narrowing at the stocky male, “Careful where your words go – I have a boyfriend. Plus, idiot, whatever it is your implying is insanely against workplace policy.”

“Yeah, but that boyfriend of yours treats you like shite.”

“Hey!” Yelling, your eyebrows turn in with a glare, finger pointing at his chest, “That was uncalled for, Asshat.”

Frowning, you watch Soap’s hand go scratch at the back of his head as his optics dart away, grumbling, “I don’t think it was if I’m being honest. Not exactly a prime choice in a partner you’ve got there.”

The two of you make it to the front doors of the Barracks building, and you huff in annoyance. You were quickly deciding that not even a shower would make you feel better if this conversation continued. It was bordering on too much for your tired brain, sinking needles into your heart and dripping poison.

Soap wasn’t lying, of course, your boyfriend was a piece of work and everyone knew it. Not only did Leon get pissed when you had to go on deployments – which you didn’t have control over – but he had also made a habit of being a bitch when you came back lately. There was never a chance to relax anymore, and what was worse was that it hadn’t always been like that. Part of you had tried to empathize with him because it was probably hard for someone's significant other to be away most of the time.

Like that gives him an excuse, You think, face heating with resentment as you remember the last argument Leon had dragged you into.

It was the day before your current deployment began nearly four months ago. Leon had gotten angry that you weren’t able to tell him where you were being shipped off to, and, like usual, had made the last day you saw him pure hell.

“Oh, so It’s my fault that I’m concerned?!” He was screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice bouncing off the ceiling, “I get it – I’m the problem for wanting you home and safe.”

“My job is important, Leon!” Attempting to keep your cool, you take deep breaths. Teeth nash against your bottom lip and rip it to pieces as you use the pain to call away from the tears stuck in the ducts of your eyes, “You’re acting like what I do doesn’t affect the world. I need to go, otherwise, bad people are–”

“Is that what you tell yourself? Fuck me, how goddamn stupid could you be?!”

Leon growls, sending you scathing glances as he begins to pace the living room.

“Now you’re just being rude,” You whisper, whipping at your cheeks and gathering teardrops on your sleeves, “You know I can’t control when John sends me out with him and 141! They’re my team!”

Mentioning your Captain was a mistake and you knew it just as John’s name came out of your mouth. Leon pauses – his body going very still.

“John,” He whispers, eyes lit with burning fire, “Since when have you started calling him by his first name?”

“Leon–” You tried to salvage the situation but it was already too late. Your boyfriend snarls out accusation after accusation.

“I knew it! You’re cheating on me–”

“No, I’m not!” Pleading with someone to listen can only get you so far, “We’re close because we're always together – just like with the rest of the boys!” Leon shakes his head, hands clenched at his sides and vibrating with rage. Loyalty meant so much to you, trying to imagine a world where you would physically go out and cheat on your boyfriend was like seeing a unicorn out on the street. Your feet take you closer to Leon as the tensions rise, “You’re not listening! Listen to me!”

“Why the hell should I listen to a fucking whore!?”

The memory leaves you tense, remembering for a moment the sound of a tossed lamp and the shattering that followed soon after as it hit the floor. It was silly, but that lamp that Leon had thrown in anger was a family heirloom; something immeasurably precious to you. It was the last object you had left from your Grandma. Now, the remains were probably stuffed in a garbage bag somewhere, but you wouldn’t know because you had left with your duffel bag and slept at Base. At the very least you could hope your Leon cut his fingers picking up the pieces of glass.

You had thought that everyone hadn’t noticed anything wrong, but had been catching concerned glances when you went into the cafeteria with thick bags under your eyes the next day; hair tangled and matted from your fingers.

Price had brought you outside, only pausing slightly before laying a heavy hand on your arm and squeezing. The man had bent slightly to look you in the eyes, head tilting so his hat blocked the sun from your eyes.

“Love?” His eyes had been warm, creased with concern around the edges – an emotion you never received from Leon. When you just stared at your Captain, he hummed in the back of his throat, “You alright down there?”

Before you could do anything you might regret, you shook off his grip and disappeared back into the cafeteria. You didn’t eat that day and the next you were off on deployment.

“--soon?”

You blink, noticing Soap had begun walking ahead of you, his gear clinking.

“What?” You ask dumbly, “Sorry, I spaced out.”

Soap smirks, looking at you strangely, “I said I’ll see ya soon…hopefully out with the rest of us tonight?” He raises an eyebrow expectantly with a grin and you force out a half-assed huff. Trying to mask the unease in your blood.

You had been gone four months instead of the intended three with Soap out in Russia on a Black Op, fighting back in a war that no one would ever hear of. Distinctly, you wondered if John was mad at you for how you acted toward him before you left.

“No promises, Suds,” Striding down the hallway you take the turn on the right leading to the women’s barracks, your back turned as Soap continues to subtly plead to you.

If you took the time to look into it, you would have realized that the man was concerned for you; his thought process was to keep you away from Leon for as long as he could so you might come to your senses.

“I’ll see you at 0900, then! Don’t keep everyone waiting, yeah? Been too long since you’ve been out with the rest of us!”

His voice falls away as you open the door to the joint female changing room and showers. Only when the hum of the air conditioning overhead blocks out everything else do you speak.

“You’re nothing if not persistent, MacTavish,” Putting your palms into your eyes, you press until you see stars and take a deep breath.

Filling your lungs you hold the air trapped and begin to count to five, letting the tension in your shoulders leave as you breathe out. The room was empty of anyone else, white-walled, and tiled floors with rows of metal lockers you needed a key to get into. Digging into your vest pocket, you produce the one you would need to enter yours.

It was the one in the middle of the room, with access to the emergency door in the back and a clear view of the front door as well. Some traits stick with you when you join one of the best forces on the planet.

Since you lived around here, everything you would need was already in the locker, including a gray shirt, baggy sweats, fresh undergarments – thank God – and spare boots. Your duffel bag of belongings was still on the C-17 and set to go through inspection before you could get it back.

Groaning and deading the inevitable stack of reports you would have to go through, plus the thoughts of what to do tonight, you sit on the rickety wooden bench and begin to take off strap after strap of your uniform.

“This is gonna be one hell of a problem, Isn’t it?” You mutter, body slouching with more and more fatigue as the seconds draw on.

Maybe I should just stay here, You wonder to yourself, Say the hell with it to both of them and have a girl's night in. Watching a sad movie and crying over a bucket of fucking ice cream sounds better than fighting with Leon or trying to ignore John.

Chucking off your combat vest, you clench your jaw in agitation. Why couldn’t things be simple? Why couldn’t you just break it off with your boyfriend and be done? It was obvious the love that was there before was gone…but you had known Leon since high school. You bite your lip. There were so many good memories.

John, as he usually does, weasels his way into your mind from the gaps.

You unlock your locker and slam the door open so that the hinges rattle back in anguish. Shucking off your M13 your shaking hands all but toss the attached strap on the hook inside as you try to force the brown-haired Brit from your consciousness. You can’t call it love or lust, but somewhere in the spaces between missions and spent bullets you had grown fond of him in a way you couldn’t describe. John. Your Captain.

As your knives and pistol are placed in the above cubie you run over hand over your face once more, pausing to breathe deeply before regaining motion. Putting your head on the locker’s cool metal corner, your eyes close tightly.

The Black Op with Soap had been hard. You had been trying to strangle every emotion down like the ball in your throat when the Scot brought up Price or Leon during muttered conversations.

“That’s why the Captain likes you so much, then!”

“The boy of yours is a pure dafty – why the hell would he say that to you?!”

“Price’ll have my head if you take another shot for me.”

“The two of you would make a fine looken’ couple, y’know. No missin’ the way he looks at you…Hey, now! I meant it as a compliment! Stop hitten’ me woman!”

You shouldn’t be feeling like this. Why were you feeling like this? Leon was a dick sure, but you both had fond memories together – you’d known him for more than half of your life! When you thought of someone you wanted to spend the rest of your life with it was always…

Your eyes harden as reality sets in.

John.

“Fuck!” Reeling backward, you curl your left fist and send it right into the locker beside your own.

Immediately a sparking of pain ripples down your limb like lighting, firing off nerves and heating the skin as blood rushes to the affected area. Hunching your shoulder’s in, you bite your tongue and tip your head down.

Your heart is hammering so hard you hear it echo through the room, bouncing off the tall ceiling – Knock-knock.

Blinking, you look up, staring in confusion into the depths of your locker before you realize that wasn’t your heart at all.

A distinctly male voice calls your name from behind the barrier, and suddenly you know why they weren’t coming in. Closing your eyes and sighing, you back up and stare at the door silently. The man calls your name again, accent muffled as knuckles rasp.

Someone’s knocking on the door…? Why would they do that? You wondered, It’s unlocked.

“I know you’re in there – the Sergeant told me where I could find you,” You could imagine the person you had just been thinking about nodding as he always does during conversations; dark eyebrows animated, “ We need to have a word before you clean up, yeah?”

“Price?” You ask, face tightening as you recognize the speech pattern before he even finishes talking. Could you really not get a moment's peace around here? Shaking out your hand, which was bleeding by the knuckles and leaves droplets on the floor, you stutter out, “W-what are you doing in the girl’s barracks?”

Your heart was already running faster than it had a moment ago. You didn’t want to talk to him right now.

The Captain sighs behind the door, and under the crack you see a shadow shuffle from one foot to the other. His voice lowers, losing that formal tone for a second. Your body reacts even as you tell it not to, and your breath gets shallow and your pupils are blown wide. “Would you open the door so I can talk to you, please, Love? I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

Sucking down a breath your large muscle palpitates heavily behind your ribcage. Did you really have a choice?

John, separated from you but still sensing your hesitation, feels his eyes narrow. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about your last interaction before you left; the way your eyes were red-rimmed and dull. It had weighed on him more than he liked to admit for those few months, and it wasn’t like he could call to check-in.

Black Ops meant no contact, and your safety was always his priority before anything else. He waited. So when Soap had knocked on John’s office door, the two of you back at Base unannounced, and had looked at him with creased eyes he had known immediately something was wrong.

For a moment, his heart had stopped, thinking you were injured. But Johnny’s next words stopped him.

“The girl’s been acting strange, Price. I can’t find any sense behind it – been that way damn near ever since we shipped out. Little Lady’s worrying me. She’s not right and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Maybe this was a mistake, John thinks, eyes narrowing as he itches at his beard, forcing the heated image in his mind away like it burned him. He didn’t know what he felt about you, but the knowledge that you had a boyfriend didn’t sway his sense of loyalty. Even if being around you made his chest tighten and his thoughts run.

If you were in the right headspace the door would have already been open. But then again you were in the locker room. The Captain’s head jerks back, trying not to imagine you naked just behind a thin barrier as his chest sucks in a sharp breath.

It wasn’t his place to think of such things. To imagine you beautifully naked, laying under him and gasping out his name was…it was immoral. You deserve better than that. But damn it if the thought didn’t make his pants tighten.

A shadow moves under the door and Price straightens his spine, taking a step back before bringing his attention back to the present. Taking a deep breath, he lets it out slowly.

Your hand lays on the door knob stiffly, shirt already untucked and boots unlaced. You probably looked a mess, you thought to yourself, sticking your tongue out of the side of your mouth with nerves. Freezing, your heart skips a beat.

Why did you care?

Growling under your breath, you swing the door open and plaster a smile over your bitten-to-hell lips that wouldn’t convince a blind man.

“Sir,” You say, body coiled as your eyes trail your Captain’s figure.

John Price was the same man you remembered. Tall and fit, wearing an army green long-sleeved athletic shirt and cargo pants tucked into boots mirroring your own. Watching his muscles writhe, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head – where the old bucket hat sits covering his shorter brown locks.

The hallway lights were doing wonders for his complexion.

“Do…you need something, Price?” Maybe if you didn’t look at him your head wouldn’t get fuzzy?

Your eyes shifted up and down the hallways as if you were doing something illegal, listening to his breath and the rattle of his throat as he made a sound.

If people saw the two of you rumors would start; you could almost hear them now.

“Did you see her talking to Captain Price outside the locker room?!”

“Lord, doesn’t she have a boyfriend here in the city? I feel bad for him...She’ll start one hell of an internal investigation.”

“No loyalty at all. I bet she likes sneaking around. Hey, do you think she’s sleeping with him?! Holy fuck I bet she is!”

“--Love? Hey, hey, Love, look at me, would you?” You blink back to reality, clearing your throat and tensing as a hand levels on your shoulder.

Staring at John’s chest, you shake your head.

“Sorry, Sir, just tired,” You attempt a chuckle but it sounds like a balloon deflating, “Long mission, you know?”

Your eyes are boring holes in John’s chest, not willing to move anywhere else as your face begins to burn. His hand was so firm, warm, how would it feel when it was digging into the flesh of your thighs? Your waist? Would he be rough like the calluses on his hands would imply? Or would he handle you delicately like his guns, flicking over the safety and caressing the cool metal?

Shut the fuck up!

A moment passes before you notice your Captain hadn’t responded to you. Frowning, you throw him a quick glance and see him intently looking at your clenched, shaking, left hand. His blue eyes are dark, lips frozen in a thin line that has your lungs shriveling and a shiver running down your spine. You try not to follow the tensing of his lower abdominal muscles or the shifting of his large hips as his feet move.

Stop it, You plead with yourself, Please just stop. This isn’t right. What’s wrong with me?

That was the moment you noticed the blood dripping down your fingers, flooding from split knuckles and dotting the floor in red. Widening your eyes, you snap the hand behind your back in panic, clothes rustling.

“Uh,” You fumble, pulse so loud you can hear it in your ear as sweat slicks the back of your neck. Stuttering, you can’t find the words to continue before John speaks.

“Tell me,” He orders, voice so baritone and raspy you feel it rattle in your stomach; at that moment it’s not John you’re speaking to – it’s your Captain. You move out of his hold but he takes a step forward anyways, “Now.”

Freezing, you gape like a fish, mouth moving but no words come out to grace the man’s ears. John’s heart is pounding, snapping from the hidden hand to your eyes that lack the spark they usually had. He hadn’t seen that bit of light in your eyes for a long time and ached to find out why. What had happened? Why were you avoiding him? You usually went straight to his office after you got back from being separated from him – even if you were full of blood and dirt with bags lining your eyes.

John’s hands clench, jaw following suit.

You sigh shakily, swallow down saliva, and try not to throw up.

“I-I…” Moving your head, your fingers shake. How could you explain your situation? Tell your Captain – who you have complicated feelings for – that you wanted to end things with Leon because of him? Fuck, do you tell him how shitty your boyfriend’s been? That wasn’t his business and certainly not his problem. It was better if you held your tongue and suffered, a part of you knew, because the infection of misplaced guilt was wrapped around your heart like thorns.

John would think less of you for staying with Leon for this long; probably put you on leave to figure it out yourself.

No, You try to tell yourself, He wouldn’t do that – this is John we’re talking about. He’s kind to me and, if anything, he’d be just as pissed as I am about it.

That you knew was true. John would go to war to make sure you were alright; he had.

The man was silently standing, patient with you even as the telltale sign of concern and muted irritation were painted on his face. John had always been a gentleman – holding doors open for you, letting you sleep in when the nightmares got to you and left you huddled in a corner for hours. He had found your favorite candy on an Op in Italy and bought you some for fucks sake!

But nothing made sense anymore and everything felt like it was at a breaking point. You liked Price – and hated Leon – and that fact nearly sent you spiraling into hysterics. You had been with your boyfriend for so long; he had been everything to you.

Leon had helped you get through deaths in your family, and before the fighting started, ordered you flowers when you came back from deployments; Leon cooked and cleaned without you having to ask. He knew your life story possibly better than you did, and you knew his.

Your entire life was spent with him. Who were you if all of it suddenly ended? Years of your life thrown away for nothing.

If there was one thing that everyone on Base knew besides that your boyfriend was a bitch, it was that you hated change more than anything. Ironic, considering the profession you were in.

You just needed silence – space to breathe without getting suffocated. But maybe what you really wanted was for John to fucking hug you. To feel his bear arms wrap around you and squeeze the stubborn tears out of your eyes as you sob. When was the last time you actually cried, anyways? John would make it better; hold you like he cared about you. Like how he had in Madagascar when a bullet got lodged in your side. You swore you saw him cry that day, beautiful blues shiny as your blood pooled out of his heavy, adrenaline-shaking, fingers. The body of the man who jumped you both lay dead and filled with more metal than a construction zone not a few feet away, gurgling.

That man was supposed to be the target – Hubert Antonin – and you were both supposed to bring him in alive; you never got execute authority.

But Price had unloaded the clip on him right as you cried out in pain.

“Stay with me, Princess, c’mon. Keep your eyes open for me…Look at me, Love. Hey, I promised I’d get ya’ back safe. Don’t make me lie, now, yeah?”

A weak, velvety, chuckle meets the humid air. It was startling, watching him lose his composure like that.

“It b-burns, John. I…I can’t–”

“I know, Sweetheart, I know. I’ll get you fixed up and good to go soon, Copy? Just like new,” His wild eyes snapped back and forth as your eyesight gets blurry, lids flickering like a candle’s flame, “Where the fucken’ hell is Evac?!... No, no, no…What did I just tell you – Keep those eyes open, Muppet!”

When you were stable in the Med Ward of the local Base, the man had brought you to his chest, letting you feel the rampaging of his heart and the uneven breaths on the top of your head. His hands tightened over you, fingers brushing up and down over your arms. Like he was worshiping you just for living. For being there.

“Attagirl. Just let me hold you for a minute, yeah?”

As you recovered, he never let you out of his sight.

If you thought about it too hard, that was perhaps the first instance when you knew something was very wrong with you for liking the feeling of his skin touching yours. His body heat melting into you in such a tight embrace it left you crying into his chest in thankfulness. You had never felt that when hugging Leon – Leon hated hugs to the point you had to beg him to hold you.

But thinking about that was just another pipedream. Nothing about John Price and yourself would ever come to light as being anything more than partners on the Task Force.

He was your Captain. You were working under him.

You had a boyfriend. John had a valuable asset.

But you really wanted him to be yours. And, never mind how Price felt about you and if it was the same twisted form of disloyalty or lust, you still hated yourself for it. For feeling so deeply.

“No,” You respond blankly to John’s request for an explanation of…everything, but can’t look into his eyes to see the shock that sparks.

John's shoulders tense, jaw going slack. He gains his senses, but it’s already too late.

Jerking back into the locker room, you slam it shut behind you and snap the lock in place, feeling the quivering of your lips as the first sob builds.

Your skin was dirty and layered with grime, hair matted, and gear in need of deep cleaning. But that feeling you carried didn’t change even as you took a shower, wiping away everything down a drain with red-tinged water as a shadow hesitated for a long moment before confidently moving away from the front door.

You still felt disgusting.

—

Nothing you did made sense to him.

John was walking away from the locker room with measured steps, head pounding. People passed by and gave him strange looks, but his eyes were dead ahead, glaring at everything and nothing at the same time. This wasn’t like you at all.

She’s been acting strange for months, why haven’t I bloody checked in sooner? Your actions reminded him of a ghost – walking around the halls at night and steadily dimming. The whole team had seen it; how there was a weight eating at you. Price and the others had tried to get you to talk to no avail.

I need to do something about this, He tells himself as a thought worms its way into his brain.

Could she be angry at me? Now that he thought about it, every time he was near you trying to engage in a conversation you froze and made some excuse to not speak. And with how you looked at him before you slammed the door in his face…John had stayed shell-shocked behind the barrier with half a mind to rush in and demand you tell him what was wrong.

But he knew that would only make it worse.

“She needs time to cool off,” He mutters under his breath, rubbing at his forehead with his fingers and holding his head for a moment, “Get her head on straight.”

But what if you never chose to seek him out after the fact? Could he handle that?

Why do I want her to come to me when she’s hurting? He wonders with a clenched jaw.

Taking a corner and leaving the Women’s Barracks, John sighs as he walks on. His feelings were getting in the way again – his feelings about you that he had tried to choke down like whisky. Ironic, that it left the same burning sensation in his neck. There was only so much he could do about them, truth be told, because everything about you made the Captain want to disregard every order he’s given.

It wasn’t right, it was the definition of wrong in both of your lines of work, but this was the one situation he didn’t know how to fix. So he kept silent.

You had a boyfriend, and that was enough to stay his tongue and keep him watching from a distance.

John made it back to his office quickly and quietly, but would soon find that trying to get reports done was impossible. When his pen would hit the paper his mind would blank, and many times he would have to re-read the contents over and over to retain anything.

“Fuck,” He breathes out, baring his teeth and leaning back in his chair.

The most he could do was sit there and wait until tonight; hoping that the bar that Soap was bringing the Task Force to had good Whisky.

Try as he might, he knows getting drunk would only make him think of you more.

—

The car ride to your house was spent in silence, a sheen of rain making the sky dark. Under you, the fake leather seats are cold, leaving you shivering even as you were wrapped in a thick sweatshirt and your spare cargo pants. Gripping the wheel tighter as the quiet road went on and on ahead of you, the street lamps shine on the old sidewalks corralling you in.

You had made the tough decision to surprise Leon when you got home.

Lips thinning, all you can hope is that the stewing anger that had been left behind had calmed and not worsened. But Leon held grudges, and, unfortunately, so did you. Your Grandma’s lamp still made your heart ache if you thought about it too much; left bitter tears and a bare esophagus behind.

He had stepped over a big line – one you weren’t sure you could forgive him for. Sighing and shaking your head, you watch the dark road as the chilled cloud of condensation is expelled from your mouth. It seems you had forgotten to turn the heat on too.

Taking a turn, you pull the vehicle to a slow stop as its brakes squeal. Months of sitting in the Base’s underground garage would do that to you, but you still grimace at the noise that makes your face tense. Maybe Ghost would fix up your car like last time so you wouldn’t have to fork over a fortune at the dealership downtown.

You can’t hide the small smile that comes at the idea. Simon pretended to be such a grump all the time, but he had his moments.

Coming to a full stop, you turn the car to park and look outside through the deluge.

“At least that hasn’t changed,” You utter, breath fogging the window as lashes of rainwater race down the glass, “It still looks as perfect as ever.”

The house was brightly lit, painted white, and had a large Oak door in the center. In the front, there was a black iron fence with a small gate and a latch. Looking, a prickly sensation enters your body and your fingers twitch over the wheel inexplicably. Your eyes run from one window to the other, all with warm light streaming out from behind the curtains, and furrow. With one hand you go to itch at your nose.

Why were all the lights on anyways? It’s like ten at night…Not the point, I’m stalling.

“Just go and speak to him,” You mutter to yourself, nodding firmly. But your lungs contracted in your ribcage in blatant retaliation.

You wished playing therapist with yourself was easier.

Turning off the car and stuffing the keys in your pants pocket, you unclipped your seatbelt and turned to grab your small carry bag. Since the Base was so close there was really no need to bring your duffel bag. You’d be back there tomorrow for de-briefings with Price anyways; writing out papers and sighing confidentiality documents until your eyes bled. Would John bring you tea this time to help you stay awake? Or would he give you that look that meant – ‘Go to sleep right now, or do I have to order you to your bed?’

John would give in occasionally, and sit with you as you worked. He would read, or, you would take a break and play trivia with him; sometimes you asked him to tell stories. You really liked his stories.

On even rarer cases, when the contents of the report brought up bad memories that left your face blank, he would tell you one of his tales unprompted. Usually, after that warm and selfless event, you would wake up back in your bed without the knowledge of ever falling asleep at all. But there would always be a note. Handwritten on your nightstand.

John Price hand wrote you notes on crappy lined paper with his chicken scratch lettering. You remembered blushing every time you got one and had your favorite memorized word for word. It had meant so much to get one, Leon never wrote letters.

“Guess my stories are more boring than I knew, Love, you passed out nearly immediately into the first one. Do me a favor, yeah, and sleep in today? Don’t worry about morning drills. I’ve already dismissed you. Sleep tight.

– John”

Clenching your jaw, you shake your head and close your eyes. Thinking about seeing him tomorrow makes you sick.

More opportunities to make a fool of myself and cause him to hate me. God, I fucking slammed a door in his face because I couldn’t get a grip. What’s wrong with me? He doesn’t deserve that.

You can’t keep living like this anymore, you try to tell yourself as you dig through your bag. Grabbing your phone, you’re about to shove it in your pocket beside the keys when it lights up, showcasing the wallpaper of you and the boys on a past Op from years ago.

Everyone had their full gear on, weapons around fronts, and armed to the teeth. Full of blood and other substances.

It was your favorite picture and you even had it printed out on your nightstand at Base.

John had his arm over your shoulder, staring at you softly with his head covered by his hat – which had burn marks on it – as you pointed a finger into Gaz’s smug, smile-split, face. Soap’s laughing and holding his stomach as Ghost at his side has a hand to his masked face in exasperation.

You blink in surprise at the text message from your Sergeant as it pops up.

“Soap’s texting me?” Your mind wonders, and you roll your eyes, “I already said I wasn’t going out.” Not looking and turning your phone off, you shove it in your pocket but can’t hide the small sense of annoyance, “I spent four months with the guy in Russia, sorry, but I need a break from him before my brain explodes.”

Opening the car door, you flinch as rain batters your head and stains your clothes, but you just swing your bag over your shoulder and slam it shut behind you. Locking it with the fob, you make your way quickly to the front door, slipping past the metal gate without mishap and jogging over the lawn to the two front steps. Scaling them, you stand under the portico and look behind you, gazing up and down the street. You watch for a moment the family who lives across the street – they were watching a movie in the living room, huddled on the couch.

Jerking your head back, you take out your house key and insert it into the lock with a grim face. Twisting, your skin shivers once more as a bout of wind shakes your baggy clothes just as you hear the familiar click of the front door unlocking.

But that damn lamp. Grandma’s lamp. And John’s blue eyes filled with concern for you. His hands.

When had this place stopped being home for you?

“Just speak to him,” You repeat a second time, gripping the doorknob, “Get it over with like an adult and forgive each other…”

You clench your jaw and wrench the door open, shaking your head to dispel the water weighing the locks down like a wet dog. Stepping inside with heavy feet, you close the door quietly behind you and lock it.

“Leon…?” You wonder out loud, slipping your gaze from the empty couch to the blaring TV as you slip off your boots. Muttering under your breath you add, “Where are you?”

“--And in more local news, the grand opening of the downtown café “Four Horseman” has wracked in a whopping profit of–”

Your fingers flicked off the news, the woman’s voice suddenly halting from the speakers. Frowning, your ears twitch.

What’s that noise?

“Oh, Leon!” Freezing, your legs tense, hands at your sides gradually tightening into fists. Blinking in surprise, your heart begins to pump adrenaline through your veins with the efficiency of a racehorse. You don’t know that voice, “Just like that!”

But you weren’t stupid.

A certain type of dread infects your brain that leaves your mouth opening in shock; eyebrows peeling back to travel up your forehead. Before you tell yourself that it was better just to leave the house now, while your mind is unbroken, you can’t stop your already moving feet.

You barrel down the hallway to get to the master bedroom, where you shove on the already partially open barrier with a heavy slam. Rage burns in your gut, spreading like a disease into the thin tissue and bleeding out; proliferating with relentless reach.

Leon was over a random girl in your bed, half-naked and pants already being dragged down his hips by feminine legs. The woman was already bare, perfect skin glowing in the low light of red candles.

Your rage freezes with a layer of thin ice, and your heart hammers. Sweat gathers in your clenched palms as the stranger’s scream enters the room. Both were already watching you in horror. Leon halts his actions of being knuckle-deep in the girl – the woman had seen you and snapped her hands to the ruined sheets of your bed to try and cover herself with a desperate scream.

“Leon?!” She yells out, face becoming bright as the scent of expensive perfume makes your nose twitch, “Who the fuck is that?!”

Blankly, you turn your head to look at your boyfriend – former boyfriend.

“Yeah, Leon,” You’re surprised by the firmness of your voice, the dead tone hurled out with no remorse. It betrays how you really feel. Tears burn the backs of your eyes, and your lungs hurt when you suck in quiet breaths to help your composure, “Do you wanna explain who I am? Or just how you’re fucking another woman on our bed.”

Leon’s eyes are comically wide, mouth agape and fluttering. Cruel satisfaction brews in your heart as your lips flicker into a dark smirk; anger was better than tears, you decided.

“Our bed?! You said you were single!” The woman gasps, snapping her head to the man still above her, “Get the hell off me!”

Shoving Leon, you watch the girl scramble to grab her clothes all over the floor as she apologizes to you.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that he had–”

“Just get out, please,” You mutter under your breath, and the lady zips past with her shirt only half on and her bra hooked between her fingers.

“Baby,” Leon looks like he’s about to cry, getting to his knees on the mattress and you catch a glimpse of his boxers with cows printed on them.

Before you had found those enduring – maybe even cute in a dorkish sort of way – but now you realized it was just pathetic. He was pathetic.

“Baby, I swear this isn’t what it looks like!” His fingers are glistening, and his pants are stained.

You blankly stare at the stranger who inhabits your ex’s body and say nothing back; watching as Leon scrambles for an explanation that changes nothing. There was an absence of anything you loved in this house.

“Hope it was worth it,” Blankly speaking, you turn around and leave, feet slamming into the floor as Leon calls to you pleadingly.

“Please! I didn’t–” His voice cuts out as a thump echoes over the home, like someone falling out of a bed before a yelp takes its place. Not slowing, you slip your boots on and unlock the front door.

Just as fast footsteps rush to the foyer you slam the door behind your back and descend the steps, no longer caring about the rain as you walk in a trance-like state. It hadn’t really hit you yet what had happened, but it was starting too.

Your breath was getting thinner, hands shaking as your shoulders hunched and waterfalls down your face and neck. The bag over your shoulder is now ten times heavier than it was before.

The door slams open just as you exit the black-iron gate and unlock your car.

“Babe, come back inside, let's talk about this!” Leon screams, and his bare feet seem to slap over the drowned lawn, “You just need to sit down and I’ll speak and explain why I’ve been sleeping with Maxine!”

Your hand freezes on the car handle, slick metal stuck under your grip.

You whirl around with fire in your eyes, lips snarling.

“Sleeping!?” With your face contouring, your loud voice carries over the storm as Leon – who had gotten quite close by now – reels back a step, “As in this has happened before, you goddamn prick?! How long have you been cheating on me while I’ve been risking my fucking life to get back home to you?!”

Leon’s face twists as you look him in the eyes, nose scrunching.

“Oh, don’t stay on your high horse,” He growls, hands animating his words as you try and keep your cool, “We both know you’ve been cheating far longer than I have.”

“Do we?!” It’s past the point of sense now, and the other lights from the once-dark houses begin flickering their outside lights on from all the noise, “I’ve never fucked anyone while I was out, Leon. You can’t say that, can you?!”

“You don’t need someone to stick their dick in you to cheat. You’re just as bad as me – John Price must be one helluva guy to ruin a relationship that started when we were teenagers.”

Your breath stutters, and after a moment of shocked silence you shake your head in disbelief, “You’re a bastard, Leon…I wish I’d never met you. Wish I’d never wasted my time with a pathetic man like you. Maybe John is one helluva guy, hm? Maybe I’ll have to tell him that myself.”

Leon’s eyes were red, and his lips, just like yours, quivered as he tried to come up with an answer. You turn around before you can sob and reach for the door once more.

A heavy weight settled on your arm, your Ex’s fingers suddenly squeezing your skin so hard your lips let loose a muted gasp. Trying to rip your arm away, you tilt your head to look back at Leon.

“Let go of me,” You say the words slowly, feeling rainwater travel down the bridge of your nose and splash to your shoulder, “Now.”

Leon’s hand only tightens, and you hiss, feeling blood vessels pop under the pressure.

“You’re coming back inside and you’re going to listen to what I tell you,” Leon leans closer, eyes dark, “I’m not taking ‘no’ for an–”

Your fist connects with his cheek, and a second later you’re nursing your sensitive knuckles, shaking out your hand and grimacing. Whining reminiscent of a wounded duck rips over the night, and, gripping at his face, Leon lays on the ground half-naked and less of a man than he’d ever been – which was an achievement, to say the least.

You should have broken up with him years ago. John would never treat you like this.

Getting into your car, you sit down and lock the doors behind you as you insert the key, twisting and feeling it jerking to life. With morbid curiosity, you turn to the opposite window and look at the house across the street.

The family was at the window, no longer enraptured by their TV, and the mother had a hand over her mouth. She was in the process of turning her children away from the scene as the other parent stood watching, slack-jawed.

Blinking, you don’t know if it’s tears or rain that you’re forcing away from your eyes, but the burning tells you which option you should put your money on. Wiping at your face and sucking down shuddering breaths, you press on the pedal and peel away from the white house with a large Oak door. Taking a peak at the mirror, you spy a man trying to get back to his feet but stumbles, falling once more and slamming into a puddle.

Driving, you only make it to the next street before you park on the side of the road, your whole body shaking and gasping for breath. With the adrenaline dying down, the pain in your arm becomes prominent, making pain spark as you shift it. The area would most likely bruise.

Your lips twist and a small whimper leaves your mouth. You smack your forehead to the wheel, hands falling like lead to your lap as a sniffle weasels its way out; tears begin to smack your thighs, gradually increasing until you were concerned your car would flood.

Crying was never your thing. With all the sights you’d seen, tears felt so small compared to every other horror – they meant nothing in the grand scheme of events taking place. All they were good at was making your nose run and your skin get hot.

John’s seen me cry before, Your thoughts are running so fast it’s a strange circumstance that they stop when your Captain’s name is filtered through.

Price had found you in the bathroom, covered in dried blood and shaking just as you were in the present. There had been an accident on the recent Op – a kid had gotten caught in the crossfire and had taken a bullet to the stomach. You had held him as he died; seen the light in his eyes leave in one fell swoop as you drowned in his blood trying to stop the bleeding.

That was what led up to you rushing off the Helo, finding the first bathroom on Base, and rushing inside to throw your guts up. John, of course, had followed close at your heels with fast feet.

“Love,” He said from outside the door slowly, “I’m coming in.”

Shell-shocked, your hands were strained as you gripped the sides of the toilet, not even picking up on the concern leaking from his tone. Wide-eyed, you stare blankly at the vile contents inside the bowl – throat burning with acid as the image of that dying kid plays on repeat.

The door opens hesitantly as if any major noise would break you, the hinges squeaking. A pair of feet carefully pad over the tile towards your hunched figure. When his hand slides over your back, his shadow comes to encompass you, shrouding you in its comforting darkness. He made it better.

John’s grip slides back and forth over the gear and other objects along your figure. You hadn’t bothered to take anything off, in fact, your gun was still strapped around your chest and weighing you down. It hit against the toilet with a ‘clink’ every time you moved.

“Sweetheart?” John mutters, body curling around yours.

“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” You say the words numbly as you glance at the blood on your hands with muted horror, “I…I…He should have been with the other civilians. He wasn’t…”

“I know,” Price whispers, grunting, watching you as your mind breaks to try and think through this, “I know, Love.”

When he knows your stomach has settled, you feel him carefully grab your shoulders and lean you back against the opposite wall. It was like a ramshackle hug, but the feeling of his body pressing into yours made you fall limp. You were safe here. Protected. His fingers go to your weapon, taking it off of you and setting it on the ground as he knees at your side. Soon after goes the combat vest, John pulling at the velcro with confidence. Your body jerks as he peels it off.

“Lift your arms for me, yeah?” Doing as he says, the article is set by your gun and pushed aside, “Attagirl, just like that.”

The man keeps a hand on your arm, rubbing his thumb back and forth. He was closer than he needed to be, but that was alright.

Looking down, your thousand-yard stare locks to the blood staining your skin, getting stuck in the grooves and the beds of your nails. Would water even wash it off? You had wondered in silent panic. What if it never came off? John’s other hand gravitates to your cheek and the increased sound of your breath is accented by a sharp inhale.

Blinking to push back the nothingness of your gaze, tears dribble from your tear ducts as your eyes lock with his.

John looked so sad.

His expression was pained, lips downturned and eyes painfully narrowed on your form; his eyebrows were pressed in on his forehead, curing in the center and creating creases over his flesh. The beard – still filled with dirt and grime – moved as his lips did.

“Focus on me, alright?” You nod, shakily, and watch his optics flick from one part of your face to another, “That wasn’t your fault.”

“John,” You whimper, the dam breaking every moment his fingers move and caress your skin. His grip travels to the back of your neck and brings your face to his shoulder, letting you sag into him on a dirty bathroom floor.

“It’s okay,” He mutters into your hair, lips moving as your hands snap to dig into his vest. His hat was pressing into your scalp – grounding you in the present just as his heartbeat was. The muscle was strong in his chest, pounding, “It’s all gonna be alright, Kid. I need you to know it wasn’t your fault,” John sighs, trying to draw you closer, “You did the best you could. I’m proud of you.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” You sob, and repeat the sentence once more, like, if you did, whatever God out there would bring the boy back to life. Your lips pull back in pain, wails exiting.

“I know,” John responded, voice so low your sounds of anguish almost covered it up. His grip tightens, and he lays a kiss on the top of your head.

You knew, then, that John would give anything to take away your pain. But what he didn’t know was that you would replay his words in your mind to stave off the nightmares – use the image of his face to bring you stability when you woke up mid panic attack.

It was the only time you didn’t hate crying, because John’s warmth had made it better. Had made it mean something.

You both spend a long time on that bathroom floor.

When you had spent at least an hour collecting your thoughts in that frigid car, you finally checked your phone.

Fifty-seven missed calls and thirty-five texts from Leon. Chuckling humorlessly and shaking your head in disbelief, you block him with a quick tap; it was over. You’re about to chuck the phone and go back to Base, but then you pause, eyes locking on a single text notification left on the screen.

Soap: If ya change your mind….’Bottom’s Up Bar’… ;)

He lists the address just below, and your eyes bore into it.

“Fuck it,” Your hoarse voice echoes out in the cool car air, “I need a drink anyways.”

—

Price sits on the bar stool in a black woolen trench coat and a dark beanie, nursing a glass of whisky in his hands that rests against the counter.

“What’s with the long face, Captain,” Gaz sits at his side, the stools under them uncomfortable and threatening to give out from under them if one happens to take too deep a breath. Soap and Ghost are over playing pool, and the TV behind the counter was showing reruns of some hockey game that was absent of watchers. No one else was there beside them, “Whisky not up to par?”

“It tastes like piss water,” John mutters but still brings the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, “But I’ve had worse, Sergeant. You?”

Gaz smirks, “I’ve had worse…Just tell Soap that I’m never letting him pick the bar ever again. Man’s bloody taste buds must be burned off if he calls this quality.”

John grunts, tilting his head to the side in an affirmative nod.

The area lapses into silence, the sound of billiard balls connecting to a cue stick loud as the smell of tobacco and cheap beer perforated the air. There weren’t any civvies left in the old-style building, and outside the rainstorm pounded against the front windows deterring anyone from venturing outside. The group probably should have stayed on Base, but Johnny had been insistent to the point everyone just gave in to the Scot’s demands.

After all, what harm could one drink do? They were all tired.

“Do you think she’ll show?” Gaz asks as the TV erupts with cheers; someone had scored, apparently. The Captain was never one for hockey – Liverpool was his go-to for football teams, and that was about it. In fact, he had a game to catch up on later if he could get the hell out of here in a timely fashion.

Gaz’s question makes the man lightly startle, sliding his gaze to his Sergeant with a sharply raised brow. He brings the glass to his lips once more and takes a swig, missing out on the burn that was found in his own Whisky stash back at his flat in London. It’s not hard to tell who Gaz is talking about.

“Unlikely,” John speaks through a sigh, going back to mindlessly watching the television as the bartender filters past to clean a table in the far corner. Soap cheers from the pool table, “Her…boyfriend’s making her dinner. Always does when she gets back.”

“Hm,” Gaz chuffs, “Lucky sod,” The Sergeant pauses, and John takes a deep breath at the mischievous tone the man beside him earns. It was too late at night for this bullshit, “I bet you wouldn’t mind having the girl in your home while you make her supper, eh, Cap?”

“Garrick,” Price says the last name slowly, fingers tightening over the cup on the table, “You want to be on sanitation duty for a month – two?”

“...Sir?” Letting out a nervous chuckle, Gaz sends a quick glance to Soap whose ears had quirked at the conversation a few feet away.

“Then I suggest you stop acting like a Muppet and mind your damn business. The girl is her own woman and deserves her privacy,” John sends a narrowed glance with a quirked eyebrow and a warning in his suddenly darker eyes, “Copy?”

“Copy, Sir…Apologies.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” John levels, twirling his glass in his large fingers before tossing back the last remnants inside. Swallowing, he stands and fixes the position of his beanie, feeling his bones creak with fatigue.

To everyone at the bar, Price looked annoyed that you had been brought up, but those who knew him best could tell that much more was going on. The man had kept the side of his eye on the front door the entire time 141 had been at the bar, shoe tapping against the dark wood floors as hours passed. Even more telling, Gaz had noticed that John had only had one glass of Whisky tonight – even if it tasted horrible the Captain was bound to drink at least three when they all went out.

It was tradition; everyone knew it. Captain Price of the 141 always had three glasses. Always. You would attest to that, considering that when you tagged along you made fun of him for it.

“You always have three glasses – I’ve never, for the life of me, figured out why it's always three! Do you never think ‘Oh, gee golly, maybe I’ll bloody have another lad, be a merry good Muppet and pour me another, yeah?’’

Your horrendously exaggerated British accent led to a few snickers that night, and Gaz had seen his Captain’s full body laugh for the first time; watching John sputtering as he coughed down the drink he had been sipping from.

“Love,” The man had stared at you with a deep smile, eyes crinkling, “Whatever just came out of your mouth, yeah? Never do that in my presence again. Accent’s shaken’ more than your hands when you have to stitch me up.”

“My stitches aren’t that bad, Asshat! You just move too fucken’ much!”

John scratches his forehead in the present and brushes off his jacket.

“Alright, Muppets…I think that’s it for the–”

The bell at the front door jingles.

Snapping his head over, Price freezes just as he sticks his hands in his jeans pockets, the grumbled words dying on his parted lips.

A figure was standing at the entrance, soaked to the bone and shivering like a sphinx cat in a snowstorm; water dripped from her nose to the rug. John’s jaw slightly slackens, eyes wide and snapping back and forth.

You were standing there, eyes gravitating from Soap and Ghost’s pool game – which had halted immediately at your sudden presence – until you blink a raindrop from your eyelashes and lock eyes with John.

“Sorry I’m late,” Your voice sounds like gravel, Price notes, head slowly tilting to try and understand why His legs had to tense to stop him from rushing over, his training alerting him to the redness of your eyes. You had been crying, why? “Storm’s coming down pretty hard, huh?” Attempting a chuckle, it seems to fall flat.

“Holy shit, Love,” Gaz mutters, snatching a rag from behind the counter of the bar and ignoring the complaints from the worker. He rushes past John, who continues to stare at you and fight his own subconscious, “Did you walk here?”

The Sergeant blinks at you in concern, eyes filtering up and down your body as he stands close and holds aloft the fabric.

“Nah,” Price watched you snatch the towel, going to pat it on your face and neck – running it over your hair and gripping, “Was outside for a little bit, but I came in the car…Oh, speaking of that, Simon,” You turn to the large man who bores his eyes into your face, “The brakes are acting up again – you think you could fix it up back on Base in your free time?”

Ghost taps the cue stick against the ground, lips behind his balaclava shifting as he speaks, “You goin’ to make me fix it up every time you get back? What do I look like, Bird? A mechanic?”

A weak smirk flickers over your lips, but John notices a particular bleakness in your eyes. Soap, who thus far had been strangely quiet, looks at him with flat lips and a small shake of his mohawked head.

Enough is enough, Price decides with a stubble tilt of his forehead, I’ve given her the space she needs – she’s telling me everything. Tonight.

His jaw clenches, and he pulls his hands out of his pockets just to cross them over his chest when you respond to Simon.

“I’ll clean your clothes for a month.”

“...Two.”

“Deal,” Nodding, you smile at Gaz in thanks and splay the towel over the banister beside you to help it dry, “Thanks, Gaz.”

“What happened to dinner with the Stoter?” Soap finally speaks as you make your way farther into the building. You send him a quick glance as you walk closer to John at the booth. The Scot levels you with a heavy stare, feet shoulder-length apart and jaw clicking, “He do something?”

A tense silence falls, and all the men send each other looks as you slink to the bar, jumping up on a stool and clearing your throat. You itch at the side of your bicep as you lick your lips in hesitation.

Why were you not saying anything?

John buries his fingernails into the meat of his arms, taking your lack of answer like a knife to the chest. It was like a switch had flipped as he saw your expression drop for a millisecond, layers cracking like you were barely held together. The veins in the Captain’s arms were flooded with blood, and his hands showed white knuckles.

There was a terrible reality settling behind his eyelids, and the man wasn’t in his job position because he was anything less than an observer. He was angry, that much was obvious by his tight jaw and dangerous eyes on the side of your face.

But there was something more important than revenge, and she was sitting right in front of him.

Your clothes are still dripping with water, and without hesitating when he spies you shiver, John shakes off his jacket and spreads it softly over your shoulders. When you jerk back in surprise he feels a part of him break, but steadies you with a thin quirk of his lips and pulls the front of the woolen material farther over your form.

What’s that fucken’ prat done to her? He growls internally, Mark my words…

The Captain’s eyes carefully narrow, orbs sliding over your face. His thumb goes to swipe a tear of water from your hairline and breathes out a sigh when your eyelids flutter.

Looking at your Captain with vulnerable eyes, you answer Soap’s question with a muttered, defeated, tone. It was like you were talking to your superior and not the man at the pool table.

“We...uh, I, broke up with him,” A moment of silence. Two.

John feels like he’s frozen in time, his body stiff, and his lungs shell-shocked. But in the farthest, most forced-down bits of his consciousness, he thinks there’s a part of him that’s…Christ, is he happy?

He nearly has to turn and leave to take a breather – gain his composure at his own disgusting thoughts – but your eyes hold him captive, unblinking despite the revelation.

You had…broken up with Leon. Your boyfriend.

John’s eyes slowly widen.

Oh.

—

“Well, It’s about damn time,” Soap interjects into the moment, gleeful, and you feel your eyes slip away from the cerulean blues of John’s widened sockets, in favor of the table-top, “Erm, no offense, of course, but that’s great news!”

“Shut up!” Gaz hisses, going over to slap at MacTavish’s arm, “Can’t you see she’s bloody gutted about it – idiot!”

“Hey, now. That excuse for a man was in no way worthy of being with a beauty like her–”

“Johnny,” Ghost utters lowly, the only one able to see your quickly deteriorating state besides the Captain who tries to comfort you, “Shut your trap.”

“C’mon L.t, you had to have seen how he…” Soap stops, finally looking at you, and the chuckle that had been building in his throat dissolved.

A hand settles on your shoulder, and you blink out of your trance, slowly turning your head to look out of the corner of your eye. John squeezes, and you find that his grip over his gifted jacket is warmer than anything you remember. But you don’t look at his face, instead, you tilt your head down and fold your arms on the counter, slotting your skull in the middle of them.

John’s hand gravitates to your back and rubs small circles, and above you, he mutters, “Talk to me, Love.”

“He…” You interrupt, hands tightening into fists. Your eyes burned something fierce, but you can just blame the shaking of your body on the wet clothes, “I was going to surprise him. He didn’t know that I was back in town yet, anyways. But, uh, he’s been cheating on me, I guess…Found ‘em in bed.”

Price’s hand stutters over its coarse, but he clears his throat and continues as your stomach tightens,

“Son of a fucken’ bastard,” Simon’s the first one to speak – which would have surprised you if you’d been paying attention, “That prick did what?”

Gaz murmurs, “Shit..,” off to the side, but your hidden gaze doesn’t bother to move as Soap lets off a string of curses and insults on Leon’s name.

The hand over your back is intoxicating, and you feel drunk as you focus on it. John’s fingers dig into his jacket, but just enough for you to feel his nails create a light stimulation through the layers. There was a sense to his actions, you know. He was trying to ground you; he wanted you to focus on his caress.

You didn’t want to admit how well it was working.

But it was a good thing he did because you have a feeling if he wasn’t there you’d be replaying the events of tonight in your mind one after the other like a fucked up movie.

Leon really did that, You suck in a shaky breath that leaves John moving closer, and you hear muttered conversations from above you, All of those years…Did I really miss something as obvious as him cheating on me?

It couldn’t be helped.

When you came back from deployments your mind let go of the hyper-focus that was ingrained into you – that Price had ingrained into you – and settled into a haze of sanctity. Home meant food, sleep, and a place of comfort. But when the fighting started you suppose a part of that focus came back to you, blocking out everything that didn’t matter.

Missing pictures, clothes stuffed where they shouldn’t be, your hair products hidden. They were pointless in the grand scheme of things because you were at battle in your own house. It was small compared to your breaking relationship.

Maybe that’s when I stopped loving him, You reason, and it’s the first time you admit you didn’t care about Leon in that way anymore, When the fighting started. Did I unconsciously know what he’d done?

You had been more irritable when you were back at the house, some fights even instigated by you.

“But how did I miss it…?” You can’t help but whisper, strained, into the woodgrain of the counter in your cocoon.

“None of that,” John suddenly says, voice low, and his hand over you halts, “That’s a good way to mess your head up, that is, Love. Just stay here.”

Shivering, you sniffle, lungs stuttering and with a hot face stained with embarrassment, you whimper out, “I’m such an idiot.”

The stool beside you screeches as it’s pulled out.

“You say that again I’m leaving you on desk rotation for a week,” John grunts, and from your hiding place your head shifts, one eye peeking out from over your arm. You find the man glaring at you so heatedly you pause as tears start to leak down your cheeks once more, “I mean it. None of that bullshit – you are not at fault – that,” He pauses, and you see his chest sputter as he tries to collect himself. Price’s eyes flash with rage before it’s gone in an instant, “That’s the bloody bastard’s cross to carry, Love. Understand me?”

You stare at him; at his boiling blue eyes as the sound of a hockey game plays in the background of this shitty bar. The warm lights overhead gather in them to flicker like stars when he blinks, creating constellations for you to memorize when his eyelids once more pull back.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” He levels, head with that black beanie tilting closer, “Copy?”

“Copy,” You croak out, blinking to clear the fuzziness of your eyes. Reaching one of your hands, you pull the jacket closer around your neck. It smells like John, and whether you notice it or not, the tension in your muscles leaks when you inhale smoke, pine trees, and gunpowder.

Patting you on the back, the man stares into you, optics stuck on the image of your tear-stained cheeks and dripping hair. His trench coat was most likely going to be soaked, but he found he didn’t care. If it brought you comfort, the outrageous price he paid for it would be made back tenfold. Maybe he’d even let you keep it; didn’t matter if it was his favorite, he would give you the shirt off his back if you asked for it.

Not able to stop the words coming out of his mouth when you meet his gaze with fluttering eyelashes, John speaks once more as he feels the gazes of his teammates around him. But the words came easily.

“You didn’t deserve to come home to that. That boy doesn’t know what he’s just lost, alright?” When he sees your cheeks move in a small, barely-there smile, and the way your eyes lit with embers at his teasing tone, the Captain let a smirk of his own fall. But he still refused to speak Leon’s name aloud – his own anger was held on a thin string that was fraying by the moment. You? Getting cheated on? Who in their right mind would do that?! The Muppet didn’t deserve to have your perfect ears twitch at his name ever again, “At least tell me you ripped him a new pair, Love? If not, I’ll have to review your training exercises. Maybe add in a bracket for hand-to-hand.”

“...I might have sucker-punched him.”

John’s chuckle is velvet as it slips through your eardrums.

“Attagirl, I’d have paid to see that, I wager. Everyone knows you throw a heavy hand,” Your giggle makes his heart soar; beat violently in his breast.

He’d give everything to hear you make that noise again.

“Did it down him?” Your head slowly peaks up farther, perfect chin now visible. Your short-lived tears had stopped.

“Twirled like a dancer on a string.”

“Bloody brilliant, my girl. Bloody fucken’ brilliant.” Nodding, John smiles, beard pulling back to show pearl-white teeth, and claps your shoulder.

You love the way he makes you feel, like everything you do is well-thought-out and not just spur of the moment. Creasing your eyelids, you rub at your cheeks to try and wipe away the heat of them, knowing that wouldn’t work but still trying. John made your brain pump with dopamine, giddiness striking you in the chest like a bullet with a simple smile and his hand on your back.

…Why was his hand still on your back?

“This place got any good drinks?” You ask, trying not to look so entranced by the man in front of you.

John’s grip slips away and you hate that you want to snatch at it; feel the calluses burn your skin and dig into sensitive flesh. Breaking up with Leon had given you an adrenaline spike, one that lasted so long you were still riding it – only just now was the raging of your heart beginning to still.

It was a bad thought, you told yourself, a horrible thought to have right now…but damn it if John didn’t look like the solution to all of your problems, that yearning urge to feel good.

Leon was gone.

“Hm,” Your Captain murmurs, and your trailing eyes snap from his tight athletic shirt to his face. John turns himself to the front, grunting and setting his elbows on the counter, he lifts one finger up into the air to the frowning bartender and sends you a glace, “Unfortunately, MacTavish picked a place before I could verify,” The bartender thumps over and the Captain confidently says, “One Old Fashioned for the lady, and a refill for me, yeah?”

The bartender's eyebrows furrow, “Old Fashioned? What the hell is that?”

John’s body stills, and his face blanks as if he’s been personally offended. Laughing, you move back from the counter, hopping off the stool and going to stand near your Captain. Resting a hand on his shoulder, you tilt your head when his full attention whips to you.

His eyes glance at your hand before they settle; softening around the cold edges as the pupils widen. You nearly lose your breath at the sight…It made you want to snatch that hat off his head and make him chase you down for it; hold you to his chest and squeeze.

Stop it.

“I think I’m gonna head back to Base,” You say aloud, “Hang out in the Rec room and go to bed early. Maybe get a headstart on reports for tomorrow,” Looking back at the boys, you begin taking off Price’s trench coat, small hesitations in your nerves showing how much you wanted to keep it around you. But you needed to leave – clear your head without John’s scent making you hazy, “Don’t stay out too long, boys, I’m not coming to drag you back.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Simon utters, knocking a billiard ball and watching the ricochets. He sends you a guarded look, numb eyes running over you, “Drive safe. Weathers looken’ like it's letting up, but don’t trust it.”

“Right,” You nod. You know what he really means.

Gaz is watching you and sending quick glances to Soap with his dark eyes, and you see the Scot clenching his stick with a white-knuckled grip – blue eyes glaring at the table with a clenched jaw and tensing biceps. Like he was itching to lay someone on the ground and wale on them.

Your lips twitch. Soap had been by your side for four months; watching your back just as you had his. That creates a bond of brotherhood that can’t be overlooked. The stocky man was perhaps more upset about this ordeal than you were, now that you thought about it. The Task Force didn’t even know the extent of your fights with Leon – they’d kill him if they did.

If you even mentioned your Grandma’s lamp, the boys would rip your Ex apart.

“Suds,” Calling out, you fold John’s jacket over your arm. Soap whips his head to you, blinking back to focus.

“Yeah, Little Lady. You need something?”

“I need you to stop strangling the Cue Stick. You’re gonna break it before Simon can beat you, and that would just be embarrassing,” Soap stares at you, mouth slightly open, before he snaps to his iron grip and unclenches his hand.

“R-right,” The Scot’s eyes crease, and he itches at his mohawk with his free hand. A pause, “Are you…alright?”

You hesitate, looking to the floor as your feet shuffle before your right yourself, “I will be.”

Turning to John, you hold out your arm and feel heat on the tips of your ears when he’s already meeting your line of sight.

“Sorry about the water,” Trying not to let out a weak chuckle, you fail, “It looked pretty expensive just to be ruined by me. I’ll pay you for the dry cleaning bill.”

Price grunts, already shaking his head and lightly gripping you by the arm to push the jacket back to you. He stands up and you suck in a quick breath, nose nearly brushing his peck from how close you both were.

“You’ll need it,” Your eyebrows crease, not understanding, as he smirks at you, “What kind of Captain would I be if I let you drive back alone after all this?” John grumbles, shaking his head and pulling out his wallet, “I’m driven’ that’s an order.”

He tosses a fifty on the table for the bill and nods to the boys over your head, an authoritative tone leaking out. You don’t move away from him, letting his body heat leave you shivering and taking in shallow breaths. Try as you might, your mouth denies to refuse him.

“Be back on Base by 0100 and up for drills at 0500. It’s your fault if you Muppets only get five hours of sleep,” John lays a hand behind your shoulder blades and you let him guide you to the door, “Soap – you’re due for debriefs at 0800 in my office. I expect you to be punctual.”

A quiet grunt carries over the space.

You slip on the jacket, clearly seeing that John wouldn’t let up on this. Maybe…maybe you wouldn’t mind the company of the large-bodied Captain. Already the pain of being cheated on was dull when he was around. But would you be able to focus if he was right by you like this? You doubted it.

Slapping Gaz on the shoulder as you pass him, he sends you a soft look and utters, “Get some sleep, Love, alright? It’ll all be better in the morning. I’ll make sure the boys are back at Base soon so you don’t have to worry about ‘em.”

“Thanks, Garrick. Means a lot. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You bet.”

“Behave, Sergeant,” John makes it to the door, opening it for you and feeling the draft enter, “Ghost,” The manchester man tilts his covered head from where he stands bent over the pool table, “watch these two, yeah?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hey–!”

“What in the–!”

Price lets the door slam shut and whispers past your smile-split face, watching through the window as Soap and Gaz level offended gazes out at the Captain through the racing raindrops on the glass. Simon stands a bit straighter and once again scores on Johnny.

“They’re going to hold a grudge for weeks, John. Putting Ghost in charge of them when they’re on leave? Really? He’s never going to let the two live it down,” You say above the rain as you lead him to where your car is parked on the street, cheekiness littering your words.

“Let ‘em,” Price scoffs, and you feel his hands go to the jacket, puffing the collar up for you. Blinking away the rain, you smile shyly at the action, “not goin’ to change that they still have to get up tomorrow. After a twenty-mile run, I’m sure they’ll be too knackered to care, eh?”

“Hm,” You affirm, envisioning the future in your head with sadistic pleasure, and reach into your pocket. Tossing your keys into the air, John catches them effortlessly with a fast fist, only a small clink of the metal connecting heard.

You feel his eyes on you as you walk down the street, steadying you with a hand on your back even if he knew you were capable of walking by yourself. Above all, John was a gentleman – whenever you were with him, he always walked near the road, kept a hand in the small of your back, and watched the street with roaming eyes.

This was the first time you’d felt his gaze completely set on you. Had he always done that? No, you knew, but recalled something from the back of your mind as you side-stepped a puddle, moving closer to John unconsciously. His hand’s weight becomes more prominent, angling you into his hold.

After Madagascar was when he had started looking at you more often...you had thought it was because of the injury, but was it?

Shaking away the thought, you quickly make it to your car and leave Price’s steady side, hand resting on the handle. The familiar sound of the lock clicking open has you rushing inside to escape the pitter-patter of rain on your skull. Snapping the door shut, John in the driver’s seat does the same.

You both look at each other, and can’t help the chuckles at the disheveled looks you both share.

“Wind-swept hair would look dashing on you, Captain,” You tease, nose crinkling as you shake your head. The beanie on the man’s head was weighed down and John grimaces at the feeling, glaring up at it before peeling it off his head.

His free hand goes to his hair, ruffling it to dispel some of the water.

“Bloody rain,” He mutters, sparing you a look only to find you’re watching intently with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

A tension grows, and for the first time, you don’t push the feeling away. Your smirk slowly slips, going slack as you watch water drip from John’s nose. The world outside the car seems to blur, and nothing but the pair of you exist in this state of perpetual stillness. John’s eyes are such a shade of blue you have to wonder if you could ever look at the ocean again and not think of him, or even smell smoke on the street and not search him out.

You shouldn’t be feeling like this about him, but how could you not?

“You’re staring, Love,” John mutters, and you blink, shocked, but the man makes no move to stop looking right back at you in turn. His beard shifts as his jaw moves, bristles accented by the light of the street lamps.

“Well, so are you,” Teasing, you send a nervous smile before shifting away to clip your seatbelt in place.

His hand stops you halfway, covering your own with a large grip as his fingers glide over your skin leaving white-hot sparks. Freezing you watch as Price’s hand squeezes yours and helps you lock the seatbelt into the clip. The man’s hand stays there a moment longer as you, wide-eyed, feel your fingers twitch under his; memorizing the feel of them.

“Thank you, John,” You breathe, and your grip moves, turning to capture his own and curl his fingers into yours. He flinches, before loosening and he studies your face, cerulean blue jumping from one spot on your visage to another, “For everything.”

The man’s body stills and he blinks down at you. His breath is shallow, rattling in his chest. Something was in his eyes you couldn’t name.

“...Anytime, Dear.”

Price’s hand falls from your hold and leaves to gravitate toward the keys in the ignition. He twists them, and immediately the shaking of the car tells you it’ll survive one more day. Settling farther into John’s jacket you nuzzle your head into the fabric, curling your arms around your middle and resting your eyes. You try to calm your raging heart as the car peels out into the road, breathing through the stuffy air that smells so much like the two of you.

The ride to Base is quiet, but not at all like the kind of silence that had suffocated you on the journey back to Leon’s home – this was a comforting silence. Once you might not have understood what that meant. After all, how could a lack of sound leave your eyelids heavy and a floating feeling in your head?

When the parking garage gate opened, you had blinked awake.

Did I fall asleep? Rubbing at your eyes, the crick in the back of your neck told you all you needed to know. Groaning, a small chuckle to your side leaves you turning to face John, who carefully drives down the ramp as you swallow down the dryness of your throat.

“Sleep well?” He raises an eyebrow, observing out ahead of him.

You scoff in retaliation and don’t answer as John picks a free spot and parks.

“Let’s get you to bed, then,” Your ears twitch at his low tone and the rumble like a lullaby in his chest. Was he trying to put you back to sleep?

He gets out of the car and goes to your side as you continue to wake up, opening the door and unclipping your seatbelt.

“Steady,” John whispers, taking your hand and helping you out as your yawn, “I’ll give your keys back tomorrow afternoon, eh? You’ll lose ‘em like last time if I hand ‘em over to ya’ now.”

“Will not,” You retaliate, stumbling over nothing and causing your face to heat when John smiles, eyes crinkling in a tease.

“Will…You’ll get them back tomorrow. That’s that,” Grumbling, you huff but stay by his side as you both go to the main entrance, sliding past the door and nodding to the guard posted for watch duty.

“Captain, Ma’am,” The guard greets and a second later you’re both striding down the dimmed hallways with John sending you glances every so often.

“What is it, Captain?” Asking after it becomes too prominent to ignore, you send him a small smile, “I know I look like shit but I can’t be that bad to the point you have to ogle me.”

John’s face snaps forward and he clears his throat, hands going to slide into his pockets. You pull his jacket closer, eyes turning to silk.

He’s cute when he’s flustered.

“...Just makin’ sure you’re not going to pass out before you get back to your Barracks,” He blinks, and a blush hidden under his beard makes his ears turn red. You notice with a start that he had left his soggy hat in your car and that his messy hair made him look like he had gotten into a catfight. It was…an attractive look on him, to say the least, “...and you don’t look like shite, Sweetheart. You’re a beauty no matter what happens. Don’t say that about yourself.”

Your breath catches, and in that moment of struggling to breathe, you can only let out a tiny, “Oh, o-okay,” and try to walk straight as butterflies litter your stomach.

Did…did he call me beautiful? John called me beautiful.

A true, giddy, smile flickers over your lips even as you try to force it down; and just as simple as that, any hurt that Leon had left behind disappears. Everything is replaced by John’s large frame, blue eyes, and grunted words.

You get to your room and open the door, standing in the opening with dizzy thoughts. Turning around with a content expression, you’re forced to take a deep breath when your nose almost connects with a firm chest. Standing straighter, you snap your head up to find John towering above you, body heat melting into you and causing a reactionary shiver.

“John…?” You ask, head straining to stare at his down-turned face. Something lies hidden behind his eyes, flashing every so often as his gaze narrows. It was the same look as the one in the car, “What are you…?” His lips are thin, and something swirls in your gut when you see how his muscles tense. He’s holding something back.

If you moved any closer your breasts would brush against him, and under your water-heavy sweatshirt, your nipples harden at the idea.

Stop it, You warn yourself, but when he’s looking at you like that – bathed in the hallway light with wrecked hair and widened pupils – you can’t help the way your body reacts to his. Not anymore.

Leon was gone.

“You mind if I come in, Darling?” Your Captain’s raspy voice sings to your heart, pulse skipping a beat, “Wouldn’t want you to be alone right now, understand me?”

Taking a shallow breath, your hands at your sides start shaking, subtle actions making it all the more apparent of the growing fire.

You should say no. Tell him it wasn’t appropriate. But…there was no hiding the attraction you had for Price, not when your boyfriend was out of the picture. You should be mourning the lost relationship of your high school sweetheart, not just hopping into another confusing situation with your fucking superior!

Frowning, your shoulders hunch. If you said yes – which you really wanted to – that was the final signature on your self-respect and dignity. It would mean a whole stack of paperwork and many late nights. You could lose your job, get John kicked off the Task Force and demoted, the list was endless.

“Your thoughts are too loud,” Price comments, and he smiles down at you as your eyes widen, tension leaking away as you focus on his words like law, “It’ll be alright. You can say no if you want. You know that. It won’t hurt me.”

But it would, wouldn’t it, because it would hurt you too.

It was more than what was on the surface – the tension in the car that had festered ever since Madagascar told you already what would happen if you let him in. This had been the result of a number of years of pinning building one day after another into a mountain of need and lust. But there had always been a barrier in the way. Leon.

But Leon was gone now; where did that leave you with this stone in your stomach and a want to be with a man you now knew wanted you back?

And John was still giving you an out if you wanted it. A layered warning that this wasn’t the smartest decision for either of you.

“John,” You breathe, “I shouldn’t.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Neither should I.”

So that was ultimately why you grabbed his shirt, dragged him into your room, and finally smashed your lips to his.

John’s arms immediately wrap around your body and peel back his jacket from your form, kicking the door behind him closed so hard the wall rattles. You help, letting him grab the cuff and rip it off as your lips dance in needy kisses that leave your teeth clacking together and air falling from fast breaths.

His tongue runs over your lip and you open your mouth readily, not caring about how the floor’s going to form a puddle from the soaked jacket or the other water-clogged clothes when they inevitably hit the floor as well. John’s kiss was so intoxicating that when you first felt his hands steady you around your waist you pulled back in surprise, a trail of saliva leaving the two of you connected before it broke.

“John, we shouldn’t,” You say, breathless as air is sucked back into your red, shiny, lips. It was useless trying to convince yourself that this wasn’t what you wanted since you met him. Maybe Leon was right. Maybe you had been cheating this entire time. A traitorous, cheating, heart.

“No, we shouldn’t,” John growls out, accent far more prominent at that moment than ever before as his eyes darken; boring into your tissue to peel back the layers of your mind until all that remains is him. His lips were so red and shiny you wanted to bite them, “But I couldn’t bloody give a damn.”

His face once more slammed into yours, and one hand travels to the back of your head, firm. But, if you wished for it, it would leave in a millisecond and you could pull away without a word. All of this could end in a second and John or yourself would never bring it up again; forgetting the unprofessionalism and the way your body reacted to the swipe of his tongue over yours. The sounds you two were making were enough to make you cum right there – the panting, wet kissing. It was improper, dirty, but, beyond all of that…utterly addicting. How high he made you feel needed to be studied, you reasoned, no one could be like this.

Your hands snapped to his chest and you dig your nails into his shirt, dragging down and feeling his body jolt and squirm. John’s hand on your head tightened as you devoured each other, weaving into your hair as your fingers fall to latch onto his side, feeling the muscle tense and the man groan into your gasping mouth. His pelvis thrusts involuntarily, hitting your thigh.

The way he shutters against you leaves your legs rubbing firmly together as a pounding echoes in your navel. John drags you closer to him.

It seemed you made your decision, but you had a funny feeling you won’t regret it.

Heaving like a wounded animal, John peels back to twist you around, back connecting with the wall as his lips immediately hook onto your neck, saliva dripping down your pulse point in a long, slick, path. A wanton whimper leaves when you feel his beard scrape over your sensitive skin, leaving sparks in its wake that travel directly to your lower body. Using his right foot, the man shoves your legs apart, where you had them previously clenched together and pooling in hot, contained, desire.

“Don’t worry, Love,” He whispers, biting at your ear as your eyes flutter when he slides his thigh in between your splayed legs. You can’t help the loud moan you make when he snaps the thick portion of him up into your core and even through your pants you feel the instinctual, animalistic, urge to roll your pelvis. Fuck, you wanted to ride his thigh, come undone while he watched with those unwavering blues of his, “I’ll take care of you. Make you forget all about that poor bastard. Bloody prick doesn’t even know what he’s lost, but I nearly should thank him for it, yeah?”

“John,” You don’t know what you want, mind a hazy mess as one of your hands snaps to his head just like how he held yours and pulled at the strands tightly. Are you drunk? You feel drunk?

His hand on your thigh forces you to press down into his knee as he grunts in approval of your deteriorating state when you writhe with pleasure at the sensation.

“That idiot just gave me the best damn woman he ever could. Fucken’ fool, he is,” He’s muttering into your ear, head pressed into the wall, as your self-respect flies out the window at his next words, “I’ll fuck you better than he did, Love. C’mon, use me like I’ve wanted you to,” Your hips rut over the substitute for his dick with desperation to stimulate your needy clit, head rocking to the side in a heavy trace of puffing breaths.

Already the room was heating up, beginning to lose the scent of cinnamon from your old candle and reeking of sweat and carnal urgency.

“Just like that,” John whispers, words slow as the sensation of his tongue licking a stripe over your skin makes you pant and keen. Small jolts of pleasure run from the hard bud hidden behind wet layers, “Steady…Keep your head still.”

He goes back to leaving hickeys on your neck, and through your haze, you know he’s not thinking about how you’ll have to try and hide them tomorrow. John wants people to see the love bites, how they bruise purple and blue all over your throat and under your ear. He lays one on the junction of your shoulder and neck, and your eyes roll at the caress of a hot tongue and immediate sharp teeth digging into flesh a moment later; shuttering.

You hope he leaves some beard burn behind.

That's when you rip his head away by gripping his hair like a vise and then slam it into yours, shoving your tongue so far down his throat you listen to his chest rattle with shock at the action.

His knee jerks up, and you gasp with nerves that sizzle with lighting and a pool of slick in your core that leaks like a river before a strained plea is said into John’s maw, “Do that again.”

Your Captain doesn’t say anything, but his body shakes with need before doing what you ask. You could feel how hard he was through his pants as the weight digs into your stomach. The knowledge that you would get to feel him inside of you, stretching you open, served to confirm the fact that you would have to throw these panties away tomorrow.

God, he felt huge, thick, and firm.

John begins to jump his knee up and down, jolting your body as he pulls back to watch with awe at your body’s reaction; setting his forehead against yours. Whining, your back arches, and your shoes brush against the ground every other motion. Every movement sends your nerves alight. It was almost too much – oversensitivity threatening to pull you under with every perfectly angled jumping of your Captain’s knee.

You slick was staining his pants, completely soaking all layers.

“Fuck, look at you work, Love,” John was entranced as you got off on him, “Can’t believe that Bastard was getting this when you came back. See how soaked you’ve made me? Shit. Bloody temptress, you are.”

“Need you,” Your lips gasp out, legs shaking violently, “F-fingers. Inside. A-anything! Been wanting you for so long, John.” It was difficult to speak and focus on the pleasure at the same time, but you think he got the point.

Your pants were too tight, clothes grating to feel on your flesh. You want John’s hands on you. Now.

“Hm, what’s that?” Price grunts, still watching you move your clothed cunt against him with added fever.

Annoyance swirls.

“John,” Your mouth snarls, and his face shifts to look back up at you, noses squished together as you breathly sigh at another well-angled jump. Price’s chest rumbles with satisfaction, “Fuck me like how you stroke your cock to the thought of me.”

A moment of shocked silence at your vulgar language.

“Copy.” At once his knee is gone, and you’re squeaking as he grabs you by the waist and the world spins and dances around you.

John tosses you over his shoulder and the tension in your lower abdomen that had been building turns from a boil to a simmer. You’re about to complain before fingers begin working your shoe laces, tossing the boots off as the man strides to the bed in the corner.

He lays a heavy slap to your ass that makes you yelp out and hit his back in return. The sparks left behind make your legs clench and your stomach tighten; your hands tear into his back. John chuckles, smoothing over the spot before his grip travels, grabbing onto the waistband of your cargo’s. Ripping them down to your ankles, you moan at the sudden cool air on your cunt and shutter. Anticipation pools to produce a second pulse inside of you, getting louder and more ruthless by the second.

You were so horny it physically hurt to have his grip on you and not inside of you.

John tosses you to the bed and watches your tits as you bounce on the mattress, looking up at him with black-consumed eyes and a euphoric expression. He wastes no time – the man shucks off his boots and grips his belt with a veiny hand, ripping it from his pants and tossing it to the side. You had the best view of the large tent in his pants, violently straining the fabric in a way your hand can’t stop itself from clenching into the bed sheets.

“Touch yourself for me, Love, let me see you work that cunt of yours before I eat you out, yeah?”

Licking your lips, you moan, “Yes, Sir.”

“Ah, look at my good girl, listens so well to her Captain,” Your fingers aren’t as long or as thick as his are, so they can't do much as you slip them under your underwear and play with your weeping slit as you clench at the comment.

Your fourth and fifth fingers enter you, and your thumb presses into your stiff clit, moving in a tight circle as you stare into John’s eyes. Involuntarily, your lower body rocks in a steady motion as your eyes drink in the man and his heaving lungs...

You want him naked.

“Bloody Fucken’ hell,” Price throws off his shirt, and palms at his erection through his pants as his dog tags hit against his scarred and formed chest.

The sharp ‘V’ of his lower abdomen immediately draws your eyes downwards over the impressive physique, a trail of small dark hairs going lower and lower just to be shielded by the rough material of his pants. John’s skin glistens with sweat, and you want to lick it off of him. If possible, you get even wetter.

You smirk, hips jerking as you send a heavier motion on your nerve bundle; head rolling to the side and mouth opening as you feel yourself tighten around your fingers. That knot was returning, forming as you curl your digits in your slick heat, making your eyelids flutter.

When you open them again and force them to stay still, you find a heavenly sight beside you. Your eyes widen, and your slit tightens so violently your movements stutter and struggle like a noose had been tightened around your neck. The lungs inside of you gasp.

John’s pants and boxers were gone, leaving nothing on him besides his tags that clink and clatter as he jerks himself off at the sight of you. His sizable dick was red at the tip, lit with fire as precum dribbled out and splatted to the mattress right by your free hand – which clenches the sheets so hard you faintly hear a tear as your ears twitch. But your eyes don’t leave the magnificent sight in front of you watching like a hawk as John’s abdominal muscles tighten with every twisted motion of his hand.

He was so violent with himself, the exact opposite of how you were playing with your own body. That wasn’t to say the image was anything but fuel to the fire, though.

You whimper and writhe, wrist burning and palm completely soaked with natural lube.

“Ruining the show, Dear,” The tendon in Price’s neck flares, and a bead of sweat falls down his peck. Inside your sweatshirt, your breasts ache to be squeezed and abused.

Not processing his words for a moment, you pause your fast breaths to let out a high-pitched sound of confusion.

John doesn’t answer, because he moves his free hand and grips your panties, which stretch over your ministrations. He tears them down your thighs, and his touch is like a drug.

“There we go, Princess. Now I can see that pretty cunt of yours.” Keening at the praise, your back lightly arches from the bed, watching John continue to work himself and matching his pace, imagining him inside of you instead of your fingers, “You like that, yeah? You like when I speak to you like that, dirty girl?”

You bite into your lip, knot so tight you want to grab a pair of scissors and cut it before it tears you up. Fuck, you were so close, the erotic sounds of the both of you fucking yourselves are so wet it increases the pleasure spiking your veins.

A wet hand snaps to your wrist stopping you just seconds away from a release.

Gasping out in shocked desperation, your mouth releases a strangled plea of, “No, John, please.”

“Answer me when I speak to you,” You stare at your Captain’s bearded face as his hand keeps a heavy weight on your skin. He tears your fingers out of you and keeps them away from your core as you try and ferally move them back. John’s jaw is clenched – he holds you with the hand he was touching himself with not a second before, and you tense at the thought, “I asked you a question, Princess. I expect an answer if you want to cum.”

Tears of desperation form in your ducts. You were so close, but now the sensation was leaving again.

“Yes!” You yell, voice high, “Yes, John I like it when you tell me how good I am! It gets me wet for you… m-my cunt fucking needs you in it, please! I need you to fucking ruin me, Captain! I want your dick stretching me open like–”

His lips silence your rant, shoving the back of your head into the pillow and moving his body to shadow above yours. The action leaves you moaning so loud at the sensation of his athletic body you forgot the walls were thin and that you were sounding like you were in a pornographic film.

John smirks above you and replaces your fingers with his own, making your legs shake and twitch at the sensation of his callouses against your walls and his large digits burning as they enter you. He thrusts quickly, sopping wetness quickly making it easy, and the pleasure increases.

“Just had to say yes, Love,” His cock jumps and you feel it brush your lower abdomen, so painfully close but not quite. The man’s dog tags connect right above your face, swinging back and forth as he moves.

You gasp when his fingers curl, squelching echoes over the breathy chants of his name that you release.

“Look at how fucken’ wet you are,” John praises you, and your walls flutter, as he watches his fingers move in and out of you, “Gotta’ get a taste of that, Love…Take off your top for me so I can see those pretty tits bounce.”

Fuck you were on fire.

Your shaking limbs don't hesitate, hands snapping to throw the sweatshirt and your bra from you without a coherent thought in your brain. Completely bare before him, John’s expression darkens and swirls with lust. His fingers leave you and he moves down the mattress, leaving back on his knees and grabbing your thighs. Your chest heaves with adrenaline and bare need. This was better than any gunbattle – more thrilling than a training session, and far better than anything Leon had done to you.

John was focused on you. Entirely. The man was forsaking his own painfully erect cock just to go down on you; to taste your wetness like it was nectar.

Price hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, and your ankle digs into his back to bring him closer to your cunt.

“Easy there, Princess. I’ll give you what you need,” His breath spreads over your slit, and your hips jerk before his hand splays over your navel, thumb just brushing your throbbing clit. You try to buck again, whining, “Steady.”

He stares at your face as his tongue goes down to kitten licks your pussy, beard bristles poking your skin and leaving the flesh lit like a glowing ember.

“John!” You moan, and one of your hands snaps to your breast, squeezing as John explores your body, groaning deeply as he collects your slick on his tongue.

The man’s thumb goes to run circles around your nerve bundle, stimulating you as your body tries to move under his tight grip. But he has you under a tight rope, and the pleasure of it was nearly like being electrocuted over and over again. Your leg over his shoulder traps him there – eating you out like a man starved as his own hips begin to careen into the mattress. The pleasure of seeing you reduced to a blubbering mess that can only chant his name did primitive things to John’s mind.

And the way you were playing with your breasts…? Fuck, he was addicted to you; the way your body was perfect enough to devour.

John moans into your cunt, the vibrations biting every corner as the tension begins to shatter inside of you when his fingers go to assist his tongue. Your back arches as the muscle and digits work in tandem, pace increasing as the Captain curls over that perfect, spongy, spot that leaves tears falling down the side of your face.

“Fuck, just like that!” You wail, fingers flickering over your hardened nipple, “J-John just like that!”

The words were slurred, coming off as drunk as his beard leaves skin red and scraped on the inside of your thighs. Your cunt tightens, walls closing in around John’s tireless lapping and fingering. His thumb on your clit moves faster, and he lets your hips careen into his face over and over again as his large nose bumps against that same spot.

Tension builds and builds like an infection, and your free hand snaps to grip your Captain's hair, jerking his face farther into you and ruthlessly twisting the locks.

John whimpers into your slit, cock stuttering in its harsh rutting into the mattress, and your eyes erupt into stars, white light blowing up as your release makes time stand still.

Gutturally moaning into the hot air, you pant as you come down just to feel a tongue cleaning up your thighs, slurping up cum, and playing around with your sensitive flesh. Fingers still pump inside of you, helping you ride out anything that’s left.

You can’t speak beyond small whimpers and gasps at the movement, but when you look down you’re met with John’s ruined face.

His entire beard was stained, dripping cum down onto your navel as he licks at your clit once. Your hips jerk and you cry in protest at the oversensitivity of the abused area, eyes fluttering.

“Just as I thought,” John’s voice is velvet, dripping just like his beard and nose do as he licks his lips with a demented sucking noise “Boody perfect, doll. Could eat that cunt for hours, just to see you squirm when I’m fucken’ you with my tongue. Better than Whisky.”

You swallow as his hands caress your thighs, the grip traveling as his body slides up yours. His cock is heavy and leaking as it slides over your drenched slit. Thrusting up into it, the both of you gasp out. John lays drenched kisses all over your sweat-drowned body, leaving a trail of saliva and cum behind him as his own slots over you perfectly.

“Speak to me,” He groans, and your fingers still in his locks lightly pull as he pushes your still hand over your breast away with his nose. His hot mouth latches onto your nipple and sucks before laying a deep bite around it.

Writhing, he continues his expiration as a bead of sweat falls down your neck to pool at your bitten collarbone. John licks it up and continues like it’s nothing.

“F-feels good,” Is all you can say, not used to this type of treatment, “R-really good, Captain.”

“Yeah?” He sounds cheeky as his head pulls up to be above yours, hands pressing into the pillow beside your head, “Hm, think my Bird can take a cock? Want me opening that lovely cunt of yours up?”

Your heart pounds, hairs standing on end. The words were so vulgar, but you feel your arousal increase.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Y-yes, Captain.”

John lays a gentle kiss on your bruised lips, and you taste your own release as he sighs into your mouth; connecting your foreheads together when he pulls away.

“I want your eyes on me the whole time, yeah?” He grunts, one hand going to grab at himself as he shivers above you. Chest bursting with anticipation, your free hand goes to intertwine its fingers with John’s beside your head – the other still gripping his hair, “I wanna see the way you lose yourself on me.”

You can’t answer before he’s filling you up.

Your eyes widen at the stretch, embers of pain bordering on the ledge of pleasure as the man pauses at your expression, going to play with your clit. On your face, your nose scrunches, hesitance floating in your orbs as you let out tight breaths even as his finger does wonders.

“S’alright,” John whispers to you, squeezing your hand and feeling the mewls your lips let out at the sensation of deep callouses, “I’ll be careful, Love. You can take me. Breathe.” Muttering paise as his cerulean blues bore into you, he resumes moving.

How could you even fit him all inside of you? The tip already burned to take so far into your womb.

But you were plenty wet, the squelching sound resumed, and John tilted his head down to see the way he disappeared inside your cunt like magic. Your thighs have to move farther up his own to help, one locking around his waist as a ring of milky liquid forms over the joining.

The man’s eyes widen when he spies the bulge forming in your lower body, the indent popping out like a hole that’s been repacked with too much dirt. For the final last push, the man forces himself to look away and back up at you – he wants to see how you react. But at the last seconds, John’s eyes roll back into his head when he finally hits the base, a throaty groan mixing with your high-pitched moan as he bottoms out. Your chest flutters against his, and both of your hearts are going so fast they can be seen through your flesh.

You were so full, stretching around him so wide it was a miracle you hadn’t torn something. Both of your stay there for a moment, feeling your walls spasm around him and panting. Sweat falls from Price’s chin, splashing to your skin as your eyelids threaten to close at the stranger inhabiting your most sensitive area. It felt so good.

Your mind completely blanks, eyes glazing over with rapture at the feeling of John’s cock curving so far into you that you know he’ll push into your cervix when he moves. Every minute movement – even the deep breath John takes to steady himself – leaves you needing stimulation as the veins of his dick press into your soft walls.

“M-move, please,” Your numb lips flutter, and John’s eyes open from above you, jaw clenched and one orb more squinted than the other.

“Yes, Ma’am,” He whispers, expression soft as your hand in his hair tightens to ground yourself.

John begins slowly, letting you get used to him and the burning that he brings to your insides when he retracts and re-enters. His thrusts are measured, at first.

“Such a good girl,” He says above you, and your eyes refocus, body loosening as your form gradually adapts. But you were right, he’s hitting every corner of you as easily as he breathes. So thick it's like nothing you've ever felt. Your hips are canting up to meet his shallowly, but John does most of the work. He wants to. He wants to please you like Leon never could, to treat you right, “Taken’ me so well. See you grippin’ me, Dear…t-that’s it,'' Your pussy throbs, and you feel him move a little faster, “You’re gettn’ it down, eh? There’s that pretty little face of yours – all screwed up ‘cause of me. Hm, don’t go cock-drunk on me yet, Lovely.”

“John,” Is what you chant as he begins to fuck you in earnest, pelvis slamming into you as you feel him brush your cervix, “Oh, John.”

“That’s it,” He pants and angles his thrusts up. The action makes you yowl, head tossing back as Price goes to bite into your neck again, dog tags cold against your skin, “There’s that sweet spot, yeah?”

He hits it every single time, marksmanship training telling him to keep attacking the most important part; tears blur your wide sight, back arching as his hand at your clit goes to hike your leg farther up his waist, the limb uselessly flying out behind his back. The deep press of his blunt nails into the flesh adds to the overstimulation, and you can’t keep up if you tried. Too pleasure drunk, you let him do what he wants, as long as you can feel his veiny cock hitting that spongy spot again. His dick thrusts into you with such devotion, ringing out pleasure like how one does to a rag.

“Fuck…” He muttered into your neck, “Won’t last long with you squeezing me like that. You’re so bloody tight.”

The snake was coiling in your gut, tail rattling as John throbs inside of your heat, moving over your skin like he was water over a rock. Loosening your hand from his hair, your nails go to dig into the fletch of his back, raking down his spine as he growls under you; sending a sharp thrust up that has you seeing sparks in your vision. It was building so quickly you couldn’t properly speak, only moan and wail and wine.

You were sure your nails were biting into his skin, leaving long red scratches behind as some sick form of proof. Maybe they were even drawing blood. A sadistic part of you wanted them too.

“C-close,” Your gasp enters the thick air as your legs shake. John bites your earlobe, lifting his head from your skin to look at you from the side of his blown eyes.

“W-where do you want it, Love?” He gasps, his beard scraping your skin until it’s raw. You hoped you had lotion in the bathroom for tomorrow, “C’mon gotta tell me before I lose myself.”

“Inside!” You yell, not even knowing what you’re saying anymore. If you did a part of you would have died from embarrassment. The man’s eyes snap fully to yours, widening; you feel his body shaking above you, hands clenching too tightly around your thigh and embrace as the flesh turns a different shade, “Please, Captain, fill me up. I wanna feel you dripping out of me for days! Please, I need your cum! Please, please…”

Price only sputters for a second before he begins to move like a man possessed. He pistons into you with heated movements and you gasp out in response, not sure how much more you could take but please don’t stop it feels so good. So, so, good when you move like that. Fill me with your seed.

“Made for me, you were,” John growls, ferally kissing you as you try to do the same back as he relentlessly pounds away, “I said it before, bloody fucken’ perfect. Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need. Make you so full of me you’ll be leaking all over the damned sheets.”

The coil snaps and you clench around Price’s cock so hard he moans into your mouth as you do the same.

“Fuck..!” His hips jerk one more time before he spills into you, hot spurts of his seed coating your walls and leaking out of the ring you two had made.

Shaking, John lets you ride it out as he continues to shakily thrust into you, but it isn’t long before he has to stop and his dick softens inside of you. After a moment of violent deep breaths, he has to shift, exiting from your reddened and leaking hole. Shuttering at the feeling of his ridges once more leaving, the foreign emptiness finally settles into your bones, you feel his cum pooling from you to collect on the mattress; your lower skin feels wet to the touch as the liquid follows the lines of your body and sticks to every part available.

Lungs desperate for air, your body heaves and shivers; your eyes stay locked onto the ceiling above you, where you wished the metal was the same shade of blue as John’s eyes. You didn’t even notice the man himself had gone into your bathroom to receive a damp rag to clean you up until the rough material was leaving you flinching away from it.

“Careful now,” John speaks lowly, and you hear his dog tags below you as he swipes at your folds. Your eyelashes flutter, legs tensing, “Need to clean you up.”

He lays a kiss on your knee and continues for a few minutes, muttering compliments and kind words that you miss as your ears ring; he cleans your combined fluids from your spent cunt delicately, completely different from how he was abusing it a short while ago.

John leaves, and when he returns a second time, he slips into the bed in front of you, taking the wrecked covers and arranging you carefully so you were covered by them.

A moment of hot pressing bodies passes, and your head is pressed into the man’s raging chest, drawn back to consciousness by his heart when he shifts, “...Didn’t hurt you, did I, Love?”

“Hm,” You groan, and moving your legs results in needles digging into the fine tissue, “No. But you’re going to be carrying me tomorrow.”

Your Captain has the audacity to laugh, his hand going to rest on your ass, rubbing the skin as he draws you closer.

“Wanted to do that for a long time, Y’know,” He whispers, laying kisses to your hair, “Long time.”

“Me too,” You admit, sighing as your eyes flutter shut, “Since Madagascar, I think.”

John lightly flinches, “Madagascar?” It’s a question, but he already knows the answer, “What about…”

He trails.

“Leon?” You ask and Price grunts, knocking his nose down into your scalp as he draws circles into your skin. He didn’t like you saying that man’s name, “I think I wanted to break up with him…finding him with someone else just gave me an easy out, I guess,” You think over the event. Had you been relieved slightly? Perhaps, but it was easier to tell now than earlier, “It was just…”

Stopping you hum, and turn your head to lay a kiss on a scar on John’s chest in your vicinity.

“Easier.”

It’s not a question your Captain poses, it's a statement.

“Less complicated, yeah.” He breathes a sigh into your hair and fatigue leaves your lids falling quickly.

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” John mutters, “Copy?”

You don’t answer, because you’ve already fallen to sleep, body bruised and yet feeling far better than you had in years. John wanted to be with you, Leon was out of the picture – it was all turning up. But there was still that part of you that ached with betrayal, that bled when you poked at it with a finger; a wounded heart would do that. It bleeds for a bit.

Though, you knew John would be there with a bandage, to put pressure on the wound and catch the spills. Maybe that was selfish, but maybe you had a right to be for a little while. Your Captain certainly didn’t seem to mind.

John fell asleep quickly after, content for possibly the first time in years. He gets to hold you in his arms and wake up with you right by his side, even if the paperwork was going to be atrocious.

There was no doubt people had heard them, but it wasn’t like the Captain cared.

—

“Little Lady?” The knock wasn’t what woke you, John did. Looking up at him, he holds a finger to his lips and has a pleading look on his face. You raise a brow, about to go back to sleep before Soap’s voice makes you freeze, “I know you’re in there – you wouldn’t happn’ to have a clue where Price is, would you? Man missed the debriefing.”

Your wide eyes stay locked with Johns, Maybe If I don’t answer he’ll go a–

“That’s it, I'm coming in!”

“Wait!”

But the door was already opening – John hadn’t locked it, too caught up in the stupor of finally getting you into his arms and wetting his dick.

“...Steamn’ bloody Jesus!” Screaming and a quick rustling can be heard echoing out into the hallway, “...Well, well, well, Cap finally got the girl, did he? Bout’ time, I’d say! Tell me, now, how good was he in bed for an old man?”

“Stop lookn’ at her, you Muppet! I’ll hang you by the fucke–”

“How can’t I – her fucken’ tits are out and you’re about a bawhair away from her! Where else am I supposed to look, man?”

“Out!”

Soap rushes out, smiling wider than anything with gleaming eyes before stumbling and nearly careening into the wall as John Price rushes after, face red and snarling. The Captain had nothing more than a wrinkled, thin, standard white bed sheet around his tapered waist with dog tags fastened around his neck.

John’s clenched hand connects with the door frame and the rageful man leans out down the hall and yells, “When I find you, MacTavish, It’s your fucken’ neck under a goddamned rope! You hear me, Sergeant?! Your fucken’ neck!”

Vibrating laughter can be heard from the figure already disappearing down the corner of the woman’s Barracks.

“Wait till the boys hear about this!”

The door closes so loudly behind John that the wide-eyed bystanders in the hallway miss the lock being clicked into place with savage fingers. But the loud, chest-tightening, feminine laughter that forms moments later is none the clearer.

Well, secret’s out.

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softness-and-shattering · 6 months

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Ok the latest episode of dungeon meshi is gory as fuck.

Major episode 11 SPOILERS

Given that the episode is dragon part one, I assumed they would fight the dragon, mostly fail, cliffhanger, and the next episode would be defeating it.

I did NOT expect them to kill it, root around its insides, and find Falins fucking bones!!

The foot comes down on Senshi and he immediately vomits blood? Chilchuk knocked out by bricks to the head, Laios loses his leg?! (Nitpick but. If the leg was disconnected what was keeping him from falling out the dragons mouth? Anime rule of cool physics?)

And then. Chilchuk and Senshi is heaps of pain and Laios' leg is just itchy? Its a good joke, but I think there's more. Those heals were too easy after that amount of unprecedented violent gore.

Laios had a btw-line about of the dragon and is mating and then dismissed the thought with no given reason. So I think next episode theres gonna be a second Red dragon. ( Its possible part 2 will be next season, but following more common episode title namings, red dragon 1 and 2 will be the season finale. )

And theres the unanswered question of the whole season, why is the dragon more active, why is the ecosystem of the dungeon off-balance. I think next episode will be our big clue.

Re Falin, its no coinicidence we were introduced to the racist rich guy who assures us that souls dont leave bodies in the dungeon. That was confusing up till the last episode because the characters sure act like death is possible, and we've seen dead people and heard about body-retrieval. Then Namari goes to revivals to ask about Falin and there are bodies stored behind the desk guy. Which puts the pieces together, bodies that can be retrieved are retrieved, and the people can be revived. If someone cares to, and presumably pays for it. Someones gotta pay for retrievals.

Its also no accident that our warm-fuzzy sibling scene before finding Falins skull is about a ghost who is trapped with his body, and Falins intuition/ability with ghost magic. Can she be revived, will she stick around as a ghost, remains to be seen. (Remains.)

As someone who hasnt yet read the manga, Im also curious about long term story. Ive gotten the impression that theres significant story to go, possibly probably they reach the end of the dungeon? But Ive not seen Falin present in any of the art, and for the story to continue they need motivation to keep going.

So Im guessing that Falin ends up as a ghost, or unreviveable, and they have to get to the bottom to find the mad mage, work out what stops people from crossing over post-death (does that include monsters, orcs, humanoid mermaids or fish-oid[???]mermen), and only then can they bring Falin back to life.

That or they revive her and theres some other plot hook, but my guess is what I just described.

(Another silly nitpick, the fire is blocked by the adamantium but the heat isnt a problem until after the fire is done? "WE HAVE TO MAKE SURE TO EXHAUST ALL ITS FUEL" THAT WOULDVE LEFT FALIN BEYOND ALL HOPE!!!!!!)

And its funny re Senshi's knife, ooh its mithril it can cut through anything, well of course! he's used it to cut every single monster theyve eaten! And we never wondered how! Foreshadowing by cookware, its ridiculous and I love it.

Last point is it just me or are...is it Kaka and Kiki? Theyre discount Vex and Vax, right?

#for ppl who dont know me my nitpicks aren't hating on the show #i just have a brain that points out these things and they need expression #its not a negative #theres always gonna be a level of movie magic #its fun to find where that line is of what just needs accepting and whats secret foreshadowing to extrapolate from #also no major spoilers please!#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #mine #review #sort of

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a-killer-obsession · 3 months

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🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 31 - A Practical Guide to Anger Management For Pirates

The unholy spirit really had me by the throat writing this one. Come get yo’ KidxKiller smut.

A/N: Hi, new updated look for this fic, hope you like it. I'll work on updating the old chapters at some point but all future ones will look like this~

Word Count: ~4.5k

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @iggy5055

Five days had passed since the Quincy-dent, and you found yourself sitting out on the skull at the front of the ship, enjoying a cool breeze. You couldn't do much else anyway, Mohawk was being strict about not exerting too much energy, and Killer and Heat were watching you like birds of prey making sure you followed doctor’s orders. You'd barely made it out of the ‘danger zone’ as he was calling it, and he was still very much worried that your heart would suddenly fall into an irregular rhythm, even if you were feeling fine other than the visible wounds. It turned out you'd been unconscious for the better part of the day and night, about fourteen hours all together, which given the extent you’d used your devil fruit was not super crazy, even without the injuries. The bullet had grazed an artery in your leg, and you were lucky it hadn't hit it more directly, but you had lost a significant amount of blood before Mohawk had it under control. Not enough to kill you or hurt your baby, but certainly enough to make you pass out. Your heart stopping and the side effects of trying to heal the large burn on your chest had you exhausted, even without Mohawk's bedrest orders you probably would have slept most of the last five days anyway. This was the first time since the fight that you’d had any real fresh air, with the exception of Killer carrying you from the infirmary to your shared room when Mohawk was confident you'd be okay with oral painkillers and nausea meds.

Not that it felt like they were helping though, it felt like your injuries and pregnancy were fighting for the crown of what could make you the most nauseous, and with the lowered mobility from your leg you'd accidentally thrown up in the bed the first morning back in Killer's bed. Which of course resulted in an absolutely inconsolable, pregnancy hormone fueled breakdown while Killer tried his best to clean up and assure you that it was okay, and that he'd cleaned up worse messes from Kid. Pregnancy was a real bitch, but at least now you had a convenient bucket sitting next to the bed until such time as your leg didn't have you hobbling. You also started keeping a sleeve of crackers on your side table, after accidentally discovering when you woke up hungry that shoving a cracker in your pie hole first thing in the morning actually considerably helped the nausea.

While you’d been on bedrest you’d passed the ten week mark of your pregnancy, and Mohawk assured you that the morning sickness would likely stop soon, as you were coming to the end of your first trimester. Which was hard to believe, given you'd only known about it for a few weeks. Some of your tighter skirts were no longer fitting, given they had to account for not only pregnancy but also in general the weight you’d put on since buying them when you first joined the crew, so you were looking forward to the next island to buy more dresses. You’d mostly just been living in Killer's shirts for the last week, since you hadn't gotten around to moving your things to his room and the looser fabric was more comfortable over your burns. You weren't bothering with pants, Killer's shirts were like dresses on you anyway and this was the first time you’d even left the bedroom since he'd carried you in. You'd been taking every chance you could to check in on your baby, who was now the size of an apricot, but Mohawk urged against it. Apparently more well off women who could afford their own personal ultrasound machines were known to cause themselves unnecessary stress by making themselves feel like they had to constantly check on the baby. You couldn't help yourself though, especially now that the jelly bean was starting to wiggle, though you couldn't feel it yet.

As for Kid, he had tried to speak to you, but Killer had banned him from the room, worried that he'd spike your heart rate again. As far as you knew, or rather as far as Heat had told you, the two of them hadn't talked outside of planning for the marine base raid, which for obvious reasons you would not be taking part in. The original journey to the next island the log pose was set to was due to take a week, but the maps you'd pinched from the marine ship indicated the base was about three days from the island, and about another day's sailing from your current location. The overall additional two days added to the plans wasn't a lot in the grand scheme of things, so the other commanders had agreed it was worth the slight detour to raid the base, especially since it was supposed to be a quite manageable size.

The breeze was so nice on your face, your unfastened hair fluttering slightly, the wind catching under your borrowed shirt and cooling your skin. You crinkled your nose as you heard the distinct heavy footsteps of your captain approaching from behind you, but you chose to ignore it for as long as possible.

“Still mad at me?” He leaned against the skull and looked at you with his best impression of a innocent expression.

“Well, let's see,” you laid back against the skull, watching the clouds pass overhead and lifting a hand to count off items on your fingers, “you completely disregarded my unborn child, and then you brought a idiot on board who nearly killed said child, and at the same time injured me enough that Mohawk has banned me from participating in any physical activities, so my fantasies of finishing what I started the other day and being in bed with two men has been entirely ruined. But hey, at least you're getting laid, right?” You huffed to punctuate your point, still mourning your interrupted romp with Killer and Heat.

“Who said you can't still be in bed with two men?” Kid asked, his chin resting on his flesh arm as it rested on the skull.

“Respectfully, captain, are you stupid?” You half laughed, “did you miss the part where I'm not allowed to do anything physically exerting?”

“Who said you have to do shit, make the men do all the work,” Kid added, like it was completely obvious, “let em get each other off, then make em eat you out or something, no need to lift a finger”

“Oh sureee, let me just go ask my straight boyfriend and my other definitely existent bisexual friend that I definitely have whether they want to fuck in front of me and eat me out after,” you frowned at him before turning your attention back to the clouds, “I'll get right fucking on that.” Kid let out a laugh, and you turned to shoot daggers at him. “The fuck you laughing at?”

“Killer hasn't told you shit about us has he?” Kid laughed.

“I mean I've guessed by now that the two of you like to share women, but what the fuck does that have to do with this?” You scowled at him.

“Yeah we shared women,” he affirmed, “men too”

You blinked at the clouds before turning to slowly face him. He was watching you with a playful glint in his eye. You huffed and looked back at the clouds, “Doesn't mean shit, I'm still pissed off at you. And so is he”

“You know what Kil usually does when he's pissed off at me?” Kid slid a little closer, his face close to where yours was resting, “he takes it out on me in bed. You think this is the first time we've fought? We've known each other for years, usually he just takes it out on my ass and gets over it. The only reason he hasn't done already this time is cos of you”

You were quiet while you thought about it, already having dirty thoughts about watching the captain get his ass handed to him by Killer. You sat up slowly, looking out to sea as you considered the proposition. Pros: Kid gets knocked down a peg, he and Killer make up, the rest of the crew stops having to pussyfoot around them, you get to watch two big beefy men go at it sloppy style, and finally, you can take care of the incessant need to get off that you'd had since your failed threesome. Killer was being so delicate with you, and you didn't want to get frisky with him when you knew you weren't capable of getting him off right now, it felt selfish. But god fucking damn you were horny.

Cons: none, fuck it let's do this shit.

“Okay, let's do it then,” you finally agreed. Kid was already excitedly shuffling, sailing at half mast at just the idea. He was hoping that Killer would be kind enough to let him be the one to eat you out, but either way he was going to be able to take care of the tension between him and his best friend, as well as getting railed by him for the first time in months. He hated to admit that he missed Killer's dick in his ass, the first mate hadn't touched him since coming back from the island after you both went overboard.

Kid looked back over the deck to see if he could spot Killer. It was already evening, chores were done, dinner had come and gone, and the planning for the base raid had already been completed, it was the perfect time to fuck around. The first mate was down on the main deck, training the newbies in agility. Every now and then his eyes flicked up to where you were, and he paused his movements anxiously, tensing up as he saw Kid was with you, but you gave him a reassuring thumbs up to let him know Kid wasn't causing any trouble. On the contrary, Kid had more than brightened your sour mood.

“He seems busy for now,” Kid noted, before turning back to you, “I gotta grab some shit from my room, me in your's in five. I'll go first so he doesn't get suspicious”

“See you in five then, captain,” you smirked, laying back down on the skull to look as casual as possible while you waited.

As promised, you headed for the bedroom five minutes later, and a few minutes after arriving, Kid let himself in with an armful of curious goods.

“Chuck this on the side table, then help me with this rope,” he threw you a small bottle. You could read enough now to know it was lube, you'd honestly forgotten men didn't make silk the way you did. The rope though, now that was curious. “He likes me bound when he's pissed,” Kid explained in reply to your raised brow, handing you the length of smooth red rope and removing his metal arm, setting it against a wall. You watched quietly as he undressed, biting your lip when you saw how big he was, already half hard. Was it some sort of requirement for commanders to be fucking hung on this crew? What the fuck.

It was a strange intimate atmosphere as he stood naked in front of you, entirely unashamed in his nudity, his heavily scarred side on full display. You stepped towards him, more curious than anxious, running a fingertip down the scar that ran from this armpit near his stump to his groin, and his breath caught in his throat, goosebumps prickling on his remaining arm.

“Sorry, I should have asked first,” you took a step back but he grabbed your hand gently, running a reassuring thumb over the back of your hand.

“It's okay, you're gonna have to touch me to do the ropes anyway,” you were both staring at where your hands were together before he let go and cleared his throat. “We should probably get started before he comes in here”

You'd never even seen shibari ropes in person, let alone tied them, but Kid was an uncharacteristically patient teacher as he walked you through it, making sure you were checking the ropes weren't too tight as you went, till he found himself kneeling on the bed, his good arm bound behind his back. It looked far hotter in person than it did in the dirty mags Heat had let you borrow.

“Okay, looks good, go get him,” he grinned eagerly at you as he got comfortable on the bed, his legs crossed as he sat and waited. You hurried off out to the deck, more than wet after having spent the last half hour breezing your fingers over your naked captain and binding him in decorative roping. A few soft kisses had even been shared between the two of you, like you were assuring each other as you went about tying the delicate knots.

“Kil!” You shouted to your boyfriend, quickly grabbing his attention as you practically slid towards him. His brow raised under his mask at how fast you were moving, given the fact you still had a limp. Killer dismissed the newbies as you hobbled over, sensing you required his attention given your speed.

“What's got you moving so quick, princess?” He chuckled.

“I have a gift for you,” you smiled innocently, “I know you're still mad at Kid, but I got you something I think will help”

“Okay, I'll bite,” his curiosity was piqued, and he scooped you up easily, holding you bridal style. “Where can I find this so-called gift?”

“It's in the bedroom,” you kicked your feet a little as he carried you towards the back cabins, and you giggled excitedly. You dropped down from his arms when you got to the door, covering the holes in his mask over his eyes as you led him through the door, careful to lock it behind you. “Keep em closed!” You told him, and he replaced your hand with his own as you quickly tore off your shirt, mask and shoes, leaving only your panties as you slid onto the bed, giving Kid a chaste kiss before positioning yourself sitting against the headboard. Your chest was still a tender, vibrant red from the burn, but it was healed enough to have done away with the bandages, though you were trying very hard to not be self conscious about it. Kid leaned back against you as you'd both planned, and he looked up at you as you ran a finger down one of the scars on his face, exchanging playful grins.

“Okay, you can open em!” You giggled.

For a moment Killer didn't move as he took in Kid's naked, bound body resting against you, your bare breasts almost resting on his red hair.

“Yin…” he started.

“Do you hate it?” You pouted, unable to read his neutral expression. You'd hoped he would be more enthusiastic, but maybe you'd gone too far in assuming he was okay with this after Heat. “Kid said you used to do this when you were fighting, I don't want you guys to fight anymore”

He let out a sigh, and you and Kid watched anxiously as he turned his back to both of you to remove his mask and place it on the dresser, ruffling his bangs before turning back to you.

“Don't be mad at her Kil,” Kid shuffled to sit up with a little difficulty given his bound arm, “it was my idea, I'll go if you want me to”

“Oh I'm definitely mad,” he growled as he turned back to both of you, and Kid audibly gulped, “not at her though. Never at her, my sweet princess.” He knelt at the edge of the bed, threading a finger under one of the ropes and pinging it, “Did you tie these princess?” He turned his attention to you and you nodded eagerly. “My clever girl,” he ran a finger under your chin, and swiped his thumb over your bottom lip. You preened under his praises, “such a good girl. Unlike some people, who need to be taught how to behave”

He grabbed the front of Kid's bindings and yanked him hard off of you, pulling him with significant force till he fell to the floor with a heavy thud that you were sure must have hurt, given he had no available arm to catch himself. You swore you heard a whimper escape Kid as he scampered to his knees. Killer grabbed him by the throat, forcing him to look up at him as he skillfully undid his belt one handed with his free hand. He pulled it from the loops in his jeans, and Kid eyed it with a nervous hunger, his cock now fully at attention.

“Present for me, pig,” Killer growled as he threw Kid back towards the bed. He leaned over the bed, his bound torso resting on the mattress and his feet still on the floor, his bare ass in the air. His pupils were blown out as he looked at you, and you crawled towards him curiously. Watching his face as Killer took the belt and folded it in half, before bringing it down hard over Kid's ass with an audible crack. Kid groaned, his eyes not leaving yours but the skin where his brows would be furrowing, and you broke out in a wide smile at seeing the usually so stoic and bossy captain laid out like this.

“Count,” Killer ordered.

“One,” Kid whimpered, before the belt came down again. “T-two,” by the fifth smack Kid was a mess, whimpering every time the leather made contact with his bright red ass, the skin starting to break a little in places. You'd never seen such violence in a consenting manner, it fascinated and aroused you as Kid struggled to keep the count and Killer dealt out a total of ten hard lashes. By the end Kid was panting, his face buried in your thighs where you knelt in front of him while you stroked his hair and cooed praises at how good he was doing. The stark contrast between your sweet words and Killer's harsh punishment was making Kid insane, precum already leaking and soaking into the blankets underneath him.

“Princess,” Killer got your attention as he discarded the belt and stripped down to his jeans, “did this idiot bring a bottle in here?”

“Yes!” You let Kid's head fall to the bed and grabbed the bottle of lube from the side table, handing it to him eagerly. He rewarded you with a kiss, hungry and wet and dominating, before pulling away with a wide smile.

“Go sit where you were again, you were doing such a good job sweetheart,” he stroked your chin as he spoke, “but spread your legs, I don't want him to get comfortable on your thighs incase his movement hurts your leg”

“Okay!” You climbed back onto the bed, sitting with your legs spread in front of Kid, who eyed your clothed centre hungrily. “Like this?”

“Perfect, princess,” he squirted a liberal amount of the lube onto Kid's ass, toying with his hole as he bent down over him, “if you're good for me maybe I'll let you get a taste of her. She's so sweet now with my baby in her. Like nothing you've ever tasted”

Kid whined and was chomping at the bit to try and get to you, making you giggle as Killer grabbed his ropes and yanked him back. Kid's eyes went wide as Killer simultaneously shoved a finger in his ass, the captain's head quickly dropping to the mattress with a moan as Killer pumped his hole, stretching him open till he could fit a second, and eventually, with some patience, a third.

“Be a good boy and tell me what you want,” Killer instructed as he finger fucked Kid's ass. You were holding his head up, stopping him from burying his moans or hiding his lust-addled face from you.

“I w-want- I want,” Kid whimpered.

“I want~ I want~” Killer mocked, making Kid jolt forward with a particularly rough thrust of his fingers, “are you a man or a mouse? Spit it out”

“I want your dick!” Kid finally spat out, his face bright red with blush, no longer able to look at you.

“There it is, I thought you'd lost your voice,” Killer purred as he slid out of his jeans and applied a generous amount of lube to his erection, pumping it a few times to coat it before lining it up with Kid's ass. “And what do you have to say to our princess for allowing you in here?”

“T-thank you princess,” Kid stuttered, trying his best to look at you but only flushing harder as a result at your crooked but honeyed smile.

“Good boy,” Killer purred before grabbing the ropes that crossed over Kid's back and burying himself in his ass in one swift motion. Kid cried out and whimpered, and you stroked his hair once again and cooed to him in soft words as Killer fucked him at a brutal pace. You didn't even know he was capable of such a punishing speed, but then again you had been a virgin the first time you'd gotten together, and healing, then pregnant, since the second time. Kid buried his face between your legs, forcing them further open and making you moan as he grunted against you and pressed his nose against your clothed cunt. Your hands wove through his hair and pulled hard, holding him in place as you practically rode his face for friction. You alternated between watching where Killer's dick was buried in Kid's ass, and throwing your head back in pleasure. It this what it was like for Killer when he watched Heat fuck you? It was a high you'd never experienced before and your cunt was aching with need because of it.

“Killllll~” you whined, wanting his permission to let Kid go further, desperately needing something on you, inside you, anywhere and everywhere as long as it got you off. He grinned at you, enjoying the way you were greedily using the captain's face like it was a riding toy.

“Go on then princess, you've been so good, not that I think he deserves it,” Killer smirked, watching you pull your panties aside and roll your slick centre against Kid's eager tongue, which was out and waiting, begging to be used. You laid back against the bed, pulling Kid's hair as he ate you out and enjoying the sounds of the two men groaning and grunting. Kid's tongue thrust in and out of you, far longer and thicker than anyone else's you'd ever had, long enough to curl inside you deliciously before licking wide stripes up your cunt and sucking on your sensitive bud of nerves. Your orgasm was building hard and fast and you were positive you were going to squirt with the intensity it was approaching with.

Killer was using Kid's bound arm as a anchor as he fucked him, his pace never showing any mercy to Kid's abused ass, and you looked up and saw his eyes were shut, his brows furrowed and his mouth open and panting in a slight grin as he fucked the captain. He opened his eyes for a moment and they met yours, and the smug grin that spread over his face was more than enough to put you over the edge. As predicted, you came with a audible gush of fluid, Kid moaning loudly into you and shuddering as you coated his face, the sudden and unexpected release putting him over his own edge as his dick pulsed and spilled out, trapped between his stomach and the bed, his cum quickly rubbed into the bedding as Killer continued to penetrate him before finally letting out a long, deep groan and stilling. He made one last hard thrust inside Kid, as though making one last point, before pulling out, bending over Kid and resting his head against his back. You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked down at Kid, his head still between your legs, whimpering. You reached down and tilted his chin up, his face glistening with your release, his lipstick smeared all over the lower half of his face and his eyeliner running down his cheeks from crying at the lashing and brutal fucking. He looked like an absolute dream.

Being somehow the most physically able of the three of you right now, after the excursion Killer had just gone through, you slipped off the bed and excused yourself to the bathroom. You quickly cleaned yourself up, discarding your soaked panties, and grabbed a damp cloth and a glass of water, wishing you'd had the foresight to bring some extra glasses in here before starting. You returned to the bedroom to find Killer had rolled off Kid, and was quietly stroking the captain's face as he laid next to him. You handed the glass of water to Killer before kneeling on the bed and gently wiping Kid's face, cleaning away the various fluids and ruined makeup. You ran the cool cloth between his ass cheeks, wiping away the messy lubricant, before urging him to roll over and wiping away his cum from his abdomen and cock. Killer sat up against the headboard, quietly watching you care for Kid the same way Killer cared for you after sex.

You threw the dirtied cloth in the vague direction of the laundry basket before starting to work away at the ropes, pressing soft kisses against the raw marks some of them had left. You'd tied it exactly as Kid had instructed, and Killer had checked the tension, but he'd yanked so hard on them that a few sections had left thin grazes against the captain's pale skin. His arm held your waist softly once you freed it, and your found yourself sitting in his lap by the time the ropes were entirely removed, your arms wrapped around his neck and your hand buried in his soft red hair, exchanging careful, intimate kisses and soft moans while Killer watched you, in awe of how tender you could be with a man you were once scared of, a man you'd once fled from when you thought he was going to kiss you.

Eventually you pulled away, eliciting a whine from Kid that made you smile, giving Killer a soft kiss as you took the empty glass from him and returned to the bathroom to refill it. You handed the glass to Kid and slid into Killer's lap, giving him equal attention while Kid drank the water greedily and recovered. The two of you laid down, sliding under the covers, still naked, and Kid finished his water, placing the glass on the side table and looking at the two of you longingly. Killer opened the covers behind himself and Kid eagerly slid in, sandwiching Killer between the two of you in a twist of limbs. Your chest was pressed to Killer's, and Kid acted as his big spoon.

“Are you guys still mad at me?” He mumbled against Killer's back.

“That depends, do you still want me to get an abortion?” You replied, a little colder than you'd expected it to come out.

“I'm sorry, I am,” he held Killer tight, making the first mate sigh. Killer's back became wet with tears as Kid pressed against it, “I just got so scared, I don't want my niece or nephew to be in danger because of my dream, but I don't want either of you to have to go away because of them. I don't wanna be alone”

“We're not going anywhere, Kid,” Killer assured him, knitting his fingers between Kid's over his chest.

“You have to do something about Quincy though,” you huffed, “the girl is a complete dolt, I'll forgive you if you take charge of her training”

“Deal,” Kid huffed.

“Uncle Kid huh?” You smiled.

“Shut up,” Kid grumbled.

“Neh,” you teased, “I like it”

You met Killer's eyes and he smiled at you, glad that the three of you had settled this stupid fight. You pressed your forehead against his as Kid started to snore softly, making you giggle at how quickly he'd fallen asleep. Reasonable though, given what he'd just been through. You gave Killer one last kiss before curling up against his chest to sleep, his chin resting on the top of your head as you both drifted off.

[NEXT CHAPTER]

#one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #killer one piece #killer x reader #massacre soldier killer #heat one piece #heat x reader #kid pirates #kid x killer #kidkiller #eustass captain kidd #eustass kid #eustasscaptainkid #kid x reader

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melissa-titanium · 13 days

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whats that one post. about blood being taken extremely seriously in mp100. i'd like to say i am someone who is completely unphased by blood in real life or fictionally but my first time watching th final ep of s2.

this shot made me PHYSICALLY FUCKING REACT. like not "OH MY GOD BLOOD!" it was "OH MY GOD BLOOD IN MOB PSYCHO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" because this is clearly a WOUND . like its not some crazy bullshit SOAKED IN BLOOD moreso than a human is capable of losing while still conscious. this was like. i dont know. more realistic? and i loved it. you almost NEVER see unfathomable amounts of blood or gore in mob psycho so seeing even a little bit is such a violent shock its awesome its awesome. as much as i love insane fucking gore i think the less "significant" wounds in a show where actual physical wounds dont happen that often is cool. it almost adds some sort of contrast so you know you have to take this shit seriously

and the fact that there is an OBVIOUS REACTION to something like this makes it feel soooooo so much more real . like . "you're bleeding like crazy!" LIKE YEAH HE IS!!!! HE IS!!!!!!! AND ITS TAKEN SERIOUSLY!!!!!! WHICH IS SOOOOO COOOOL i love it i love it. mp100 knows perfectly what to emphasize at what times auuuuuuuuuuuh

unrelated but also still related because its from the same arc. he's such a fucking faggot its not even funny

also i love this

#mel roars

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abbythewritor · 1 year

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'Fairness." One Piece x Saitama reader. 0

"Just a Normal girl looking for an everyday life. At least, if you call sailing across the seas with idiots with useless dreams a simple task, then you might wanna see a doctor. Seriously."

Warnings: Blood, gore, mentions of Luekimia, and heaps amount of blood and strength. It might be a little cursing, but not bad, and maybe some flirting in there, but it's mostly clean.

Other things:

-You didn't get bald due to your powers; you got bald to an extreme illness.

-You part of the straw hat crew, but others are interested in you and your power.

-Everyone that is a male is taller than you.

-Monsters from the OPM world will appear in One Piece, and I'll make some new monsters you will fight.

-I hope you enjoy my book and enjoy the prologue. :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The world is crazy....and boring.

Every human on this earth has advanced opportunities to grow, become successful, and be someone or something better.

Humans can go to college, date, be an actor, actresses, heck, even garbage men.

Some people, in many most eyes, are viewed as heroes, police officers, firefighters, heck, even people who are just doing a small amount of good.

When we look at the earth thoroughly and see the truth about life, anything and anyone has to start simple before they can become something more significant.

Heck, when life proceeds, and as human lives grow, excitement rolls up, the feeling of achieving something or living off of adventure.

That's what I wanted as a kid, to become firm, to have a life full of excitement, adrenaline, heck, even adventure.

But that all blew over one day when I discovered I had leukemia.

My family was devastated, as my excitement and dreams were gone in one instant.

You see, I grew up in a world where people can have incredible powers, who all fight all kinds of monsters, creatures, and even aliens that invade our earth. I was so inspired by them during my Kemo treatment that I acted like I was one of them, living in excitement and adventure; I wanted to grow and become something better.

But, at that time, I was getting worse; my hair was all gone, my bones were brittle, and the doc said I had little time to live.

Until one day, a man visited me...a tall, bald man, his suit a bright yellow color, his cap blowing like a guardian angel.

He protected me and my room from a monster, a monster giant his size.

His eyes were filled with boredom, anger as his eyes met mine, noticing I was just like him. He also noticed the stupid wires connected to me, especially a breathing tube, which caused his heart to grow weak.

The way the man looked back at the monster, killing it with a single punch, I felt surprised and scared?

His hand was near mine as he dropped some type of metal circle, which fell to the floor where his eyes met.

I sensed that something was bothering him, knowing he may have lost someone he cared about.

Without hesitation, I grasped the man's hand, which made him look at me.

He could sense my worry as my tiny feet stood on the bed, heading closer to him as he kneeled. "Mister, I'm sorry," I said as he kneeled down to me blankly. "Why are you sorry? I should be sorry for wrecking your room." My head shook. "It's just a room; you lost someone, didn't you?" His head tilted. "What do you mean-Oh." He realized what you were discussing as his hands picked up a metal ball. "He seemed important...did that monster kill him?" His eyes looked to you again, not knowing what to say as he hated to tell little ones lousy news. But, again, a hero doesn't lie, as this kind of stuff strikes the man in the heart."You're a smart one, Kid, and yes...his name was Genos; you pretty brave when that monster came; what's your name?" "Y/n. Y/n L/n, what's your name, Mister?" He smiled slightly. "Saitama, you have a nice name; we have unique styles; your hair is fabulous today, Y/n." He patted your head as you giggled with the feeling of his rubber gloves. "I don't have hair, neither do you, Mister Saitama; how did you lose your hair?" "Hmm.." He looked up to his head, then back to you, "A monster ate it." Your eyes widened. "No way, really? Was the monster you just beat up the one that ate your hair?!" Saitama chuckled slightly as his head shook. "No, let's just say the monster was friendly. Did the same thing happen to you-" He paused when your face turned sad as you looked at your hands. "Have you heard of the disease called leukemia?" His heart broke while nodding. "Yeah, it's a type of cancer...is that...how you lost your hair?" Looking up at Saitama, tears glossed over your orbs as you nodded. "It happened a year ago, just before my parents passed away. We're so poor we didn't know how my treatment would go, but after the monsters killed them, I was handed to an orphanage, and they took me here to get treated. Funny huh? Seeing a little girl going through the worse sickness in the world, alone, without family? I just wanted to be an ordinary girl with a life full of excitement and adventure. Instead, I'm hooked up to these stupid wires. Ugly, huh?" "No." You looked at him as he sat on the end of your bed. "I understand the feeling of wanting excitement and adventure, but having those in life doesn't make you a better person; excitement is what comes through you. Those wires, you being in here, still alive, excite me, and you're so brave. I mean, you just experienced something exciting; I kicked a monster's ass-" He paused what he just said as he slapped a hand over his mouth, as you giggled at his words. "Bad word, Saitama! No cursing allowed!" His hands went up with defense. "I did not say anything; you heard things Y/n. "That's a lie! You just sinned again!" "Oh no, what so ever will I do? Will though lord of this earth send me to damnation?" Standing on the bed, you smirk. "I, an Angel of God, she'll give you a chance to repent, and you will be sent to heaven like Genos is right now!" Getting up, Saitama kneeled and bowed his head.

"Oh gorgeous angel of heaven, please forgive my stupid, bald-headed self and accept my hands as I repent of the sins I committed." Heart warm and eyes sparkling, you grasped his hands easily as he looked up to your beautiful, bright smile. "You are forgiven, Hero!" Smiling, he stood up. "I'm glad; I didn't want to lose my best friend." Your eyes widened while your head tilted. "Best friend?! But, Mister, we just met-" "So? Let's call it an Instant connection-" *Boom!* An explosion was shown in the distance of your knocked-over wall, the floor rumbling from the impact as he looked at you quickly but calmly. "Duty calls, say, if I defeat this monster, ice cream is on me, okay?" His heart warmed from your excited face. "Really?!" "Of course, but in case I don't come back, here." Taking off his cape, he dropped it over your shoulders, which made your eyebrows furrow. "But, you need this-" His hand went up as destruction was still heard in the distance. "It's just a piece of clothing in my eyes; you seem to need it more than I do because what I see...." Walking closer to you, he gave one last head rub as he gave you a soft yet warm smile. "Is a hero...."

"A hero that deserves fairness in the world."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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fefe658 · 4 months

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Cw: mild gore

Sizeshifting superhero, known for being kind and gentle and caring. They use their power for good, always making sure to keep a low voice when they're big, being extra careful not to damage anything when they walk trough the city streets.

They hold an incredible amount of power, and yet they're always so careful with it.

One day, their team is fighting against a villain, and the battle gets very heated.

In the action, the villain manages to kill/badly injure the shifter's significant other, and the shifter snaps.

For a moment, the shifter is fighting against some goons. The next, they're a dozen times their original size, teary eyes staring right at the villain.

Before the villain can even move, a fist five times their size collides against their body. Then again, and again, and again.

The shifter hears a scream: not from the villain, not from their minions, but from one of their teammates.

They open their eyes, and can barely see trough their own tears. Tiny, blurry figures scrambling around, some of them staying deathly still.

Finally, they snap out of their grief induced craze, and look at their blood stained hands, and at the petrified faces of their teammates.

It happened. They lost control. They finally slipped up. They're no better than who they had just killed.

Villain was right, they were just a tragedy waiting to happen.

#g/t #giant/tiny #g/t community #fearplay #g/t scenario

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bravevolunteer · 1 month

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SCOOPED MICHAEL — THE MASTERLIST

A compilation of headcanons detailing the scooping, its physical and mental effects, and how Michael manages it. Meant to function as a guide/archive with answers to the most common questions. Warning for descriptions of body horror / gore ( primarily in the first two sections ), as well as mentions of dissociation, suicidal ideation, and theoretical substance use.

THE SCOOPING / ENNARD / REMNANT

Upon being lead to the Scooping Room during his final night at Circus Baby's Entertainment and Rental, Michael was met with the room's namesake: a device designed to destroy animatronics and pull out their endoskeletons. Stood directly in front of it, its excavating arm easily tore through Michael's flesh when it went off.

The first wound was the most brutal, tearing a large gash from Michael's naval all the way up to his sternum, the primary entry point located between the ribcage and pelvis. The machine began to pull out his organs ( though they did have to be removed in pieces ), before jerking back and leaving Michael slumped against the opposite wall. He was only conscious for a few moments afterwards, just enough to feel the excruciating pain and look down at the blood and viscera spilling out before everything went dark.

Since the Scooper wasn't built for human disembowelment, it was not a clean removal. Ennard either likely had to use it again a couple times or manually pull out the excess in order to crawl inside. Michael is left with all his internal organs removed and a heavily damaged ribcage, along with all additional damage from Ennard using him as a skinsuit.

The scooper contains a remnant injector, which was administered to Michael from the machine's reservoir when it made contact. While his body sustains sufficient damage, this is what keeps him from dying.

While Michael is alive when Ennard pilots him, he is not necessarily conscious OR entirely unaware. He exists in a sort of in-between state, fluctuating through varying levels of awareness. As a result, he does have memories of this time, but they are incredibly blurry and disjointed. What he remembers most is the feeling of it rather than specific moments: watching his own body move without his control, the different entities inside him fighting to take over.

The amount of time that Ennard is in control is left open— based on the regular pace of human decay, it would likely be at most two weeks before existence became unbearable, but this can be slowed due to remnant.

Ennard leaving his body was equally messy— they emerged primarily through his chest as well as his mouth ( leaving significant tearing on the side of his face ), coming out a gruesome amalgamation of wires, eyes, and blood.

Michael wakes on the sidewalk, fully in control of himself. The remnant keeping him alive is best described as Michael essentially possessing his own body— he still has a grasp on some senses, as damaged as they are, but he is technically using himself as a husk about as much as Ennard was.

APPEARANCE:

When Ennard leaves his body, it has significantly decayed. The state of his appearance is reflective of actual decomposition stages, however it tends to linger somewhere between due to the strange grey area he exists within. The decay eventually exists in a state of mostly stagnation.

His skin gradually discolors to a pale, purplish shade. It's not literally bright purple, but closer to extremely pale with purple undertones, similar to this shade pre-advanced decay ( image depicts drawn stages of decomposition )

He looks sickly: his face is sunken and seems hollow with noticeable eyebags. He keeps his hair due to the slow pace at which it tends to decompose normally, but it thins out and he will lose some ( if that becomes noticeable, he'll eventually get a wig ).

Injuries / scars : Largest is the gash from the scooper. While that wound doesn't actively bleed, it never really heals and stitches tend not to hold, leaving him with the hole in his chest exposing what's left of his bones and insides. Deep gash on right cheek exposing teeth ( from Ennard's exit ). Assorted scars across his torso, limbs, and face. Gashes in areas where Ennard would poke out that he has to actively keep stitched up.

The wounds that he keeps stitched do tend to reopen, either when he's in rough physical circumstances or just when it's been awhile, requiring Michael to replace them himself. He's definitely also had to stitch back on a finger or two.

As an unruly amalgamation of wires, there are some pieces of Ennard that were left behind. Mostly stray wiring lodged in his body. It doesn't cause problems as much as it's simply there, but it does sort of help to hold his mess of leftover internal parts in place.

Michael puts in significant effort to hide these aspects of his appearance in public. He wears clothing that covers most of his body, frequently layers, usually wears a jacket ( this is the black trench coat scooped Michael agenda ). All clothing has a dark color palette to avoid drawing attention to himself.

He'll also wear accessories to conceal parts of himself that clothes don't: gloves, hats, sunglasses, cloth masks

Underneath the clothing, he usually has bandages wrapped around sensitive areas on his arms and legs, occasionally some on the side of his face. This both prevents him from worsening any injuries and hides them should his clothes not be enough.

Will sometimes use makeup: not a significant amount, just enough to make his face appear a more humanlike shade

PHYSICAL:

Michael experiences constant chronic pain— this eventually becomes his default state to the point where he's learned to function within his limits, but it was a difficult adjustment. The intensity fluctuates depending on circumstances. Pain is most common around around his chest/ribcage area and during extended periods of standing or walking. He does have to move or stretch, though, or else the pain will come from stiffness in his limbs.

Although he doesn't always require them to walk, Michael will sometimes use a mobility aid. He has a straight cane with an orthopedic handle and two forearm crutches that he picks between depending on needs and location, but they both reduce strain and make movement easier.

The oldest Michael possibly is when scooped is 25, though the default placement is around 23. Therefore, he is still physically that age, just decayed.

Eat and drink: Michael is unable to eat or drink anything, as he doesn't have the necessary functioning to process food. His sense of taste and smell is dulled as well. He does still chew gum often, as it's harmless and provides a small sense of normalcy.

Substance use: Obviously cannot drink alcohol either ( no liver ) and smoking/drugs would have no effect. He can technically try, but with no lungs any inhalants would simply... pass right through him. Swallowing doesn't work for the same reasons he can't process food. Snorting is technically viable but his brain functioning makes the effect debatable and the risk of further damaging his body is high.

Sleep: Not required, he doesn't get any benefits from it but he CAN still sleep. When he does, it's usually to pass the time since there's only so much he can do ( more common in intense depressive episodes ). He does still experience constant nightmares, though, which usually makes the experience more of a hassle than it's worth. Ultimately, he has a similar sleep schedule to when he was alive, disjointed and chaotic.

Breathing: Not required, no lungs. He no longer breathes "by default," though it took some time for that instinct to fade. It kicks back in during moments of distress where he'll breathe raggedly/gasp for air he doesn't need, the attempt to catch his breath is entirely mental ( can be seen in 3/PS ). He will also intentionally breathe sometimes as a more human response/familiar motion.

Temperature: He's always cold, no longer able to feel warm temperatures much. The cold doesn't necessarily bother him much, either, it feels like a neutral state. This does help when it comes to wearing layers.

Michael does still bleed... in a way. Blood isn't constantly being pumped through his body anymore, but whatever's left will leak out of certain injuries when they reopen ( more likely in forearms and legs due to livor mortis ).

He's unable to cry, as his tear ducts no longer produce the fluids for it. He sure can feel like it, though.

Biggest weakness is extreme heat. It neutralizes remnants' effects, which is why burning is the method used to free the trapped souls/himself.

External damage to his body won't kill him, but invulnerability to death doesn't mean it'll heal. This is why the animatronics still pose a real threat to him: being stuffed into a suit would destroy his body even more and he would simply go on to possess that instead. He'd rather deal with the existence he's adjusted to.

MENTAL:

In addition to his onslaught of pre-existing mental health issues, Michael develops depersonalization-derealization disorder. While he had experienced dissociative symptoms before, the intensity and frequency at which they occur increases. This is rooted in his body being piloted against his will, the disconnect between his mind and what he sees in the mirror, and the isolated experience from floating between life and death.

He will often feel as if he's watching himself from outside his own body, numbness— fundamentally disconnected from his thoughts, feelings, body, and surroundings. He also has a warped sense of time caused both by dissociation and existing in isolation for so long.

When he isn't simply numb, the state he lives in amplifies his constant exhaustion, loneliness, and depression. The emotional pain dulls into dejected acceptance over time, but nothing necessarily eases the loss.

Michael continues to survive solely based on his drive to put everything to an end by killing his father and freeing his victims, both out of empathy and a desire for atonement. He doesn't have a will to live anymore outside of that, which is why he maintains that he'll burn with them.

LIFESTYLE:

Michael Afton has been legally recognized as a missing person since his last night at the warehouse. Michael does not try to combat this ( letting the government know what happened to him doesn't strike him as a great idea! ) and instead works within these lines. He uses multiple fake identities over the years to get apartments, bank accounts, and jobs. Sticking around Fazbear Locations and housing that doesn't have many qualms around shady practices makes it easier.

While he did have to put significant effort into learning how to forge documents... he's more inclined to bullshit things around Fazbear since he knows it'll work anyway. This shows in his tendency to make up aliases on the spot, which he's never been that good at coming up with ( Mike Schmidt, for example )

Although Michael has his aforementioned methods of disguising himself, he primarily lives in isolation to lower the risk of anyone catching on. He is either at home or at work, not much else between, and he tends to be incredibly secretive at the jobs where he does get the chance to interact with others.

He has a handful of stories he switches between to excuse his unconventional appearance: burn victim, claiming to have a "rare genetic disease," pretending to be a germaphobe ( to explain the clothes ), or simply pretending there's nothing weird about it.

#⁂ ･ﾟ: none of us belong‚ everything i do is wrong‚ and soon there will be nobody left around ➛ headcanons #body horror tw #gore tw #🧍‍♂️ hello #i knew this would end up an essay but jfc this ended up as an ESSAYYYY #it's okay that's the point. this is my headcanon archive it's mostly for me to reference when i forget my own answers LMAO #props to whoever reads all of this but i don't expect anyone to DSHJFK

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alicevanderlinde · 1 year

Text

Echos of Love

TW: Torture, Blood, Gore, Mutilation, Amputation, mentions of death, starvation, dehydration- the works. If you're easily triggered by any of those things above, I highly suggest you don't read this.

Additional tags: Angst, Love, Emotional (I cried while writing this) Dark, Tragedy, Hurt, Pain, Recovery, mentions of pregnancy, Pregnancy. There's more I probably should add but my two brain cells have worked hard on this and I think they've reach max capacity sooo... Yeah.

I left this off on a small cliffhanger but I do have intentions of finishing it but also I was thinking about writing about the events leading up to this, so if you're interested please let me know.

Word count: 7064

Anyway with that, let's get into it. Hopefully you enjoy!

Alice's body jerks as the sensation of ice-cold water cascades over her, silencing her gasp with a cloth gag. Her eyes snap open, momentarily startled by the unexpectedness of the situation before quickly shutting again, wincing at the harsh brightness that intensifies her throbbing headache. The muscles in her arms ache, pleading for relief under the weight that agonizingly strains them. Judging by the relentless pain coursing through her, she surmises that she has been suspended like this for a significant amount of time.

Summoning all her strength, Alice forces her eyes open once more, only to find three men standing before her. While two of them remain unfamiliar, the man in the middle is unmistakably Colm O'Driscoll, her father's long-time rival. Alice scolds herself internally for allowing herself to be apprehended, despite her valiant attempts to elude them. She had resorted to violence, even inflicting harm upon some of them, but it all proved to be in vain.

In contrast to his associates, Colm appears immaculate, save for his unkempt, graying hair. Dressed in a white suit and matching hat, he exudes a certain elegance that clashes with the rough appearance of his companions. He commands the others to depart, and they promptly comply, leaving Alice alone with him.

"I must say, Miss Van Der Linde, or should I say Mrs. Morgan, I am delighted that you could join us." Colm remarks, his tone dripping with an unsettling satisfaction.

Alice mumbles something unintelligible, her words muffled by the gag. Frustration pushes her to exhale forcefully through her nose, eliciting a pleased chuckle from the well-dressed man.

"You see, my dear, it is quite rude to speak with your mouth full." He taunts with a touch of amusement, his grimy fingers tenderly tracing her cheek. Alice instinctively pulls her face away, desperate to escape his nauseating touch, but her bound position restricts any significant movement.

"I thought your daddy would've taught you better by now." Colm jests, his fingers now slowly exploring the contours of her jawline and descending towards her exposed chest to the small swell of her belly.

As Colm's fingers trace her small baby bump, she shudders, desperately trying to pull away, but the unforgiving chains that bind her keep her in place. She feels dwarfed and helpless, like a mouse trapped in a lion's den.

Tears stream down her face, uncertainty gnawing at her as she wonders if Dutch, her father, or Arthur, her lover, even know where she is. She had never meant to run off like she did, but the overwhelming influx of pregnancy hormones and anger had driven her away from the safety of the camp. Surely, they would've figured something was wrong by now, it's been weeks.

"Now, I demand answers, and you will provide them to me," Colm states, pausing momentarily to remove her gag. "If not, I will be compelled to do something I would rather not."

Her glare is defiant, but she remains silent.

He retrieves a cattle brand from the glowing embers of the fireplace, brandishing it dangerously close to her face, the intense heat radiating towards her. She instinctively closes her eyes, exhaling a breath she had unknowingly been holding.

"I won't tell you a damn thing." She declares with unwavering confidence, despite the fear coursing through her veins.

Shaking his head in disappointment, Colm clicks his tongue disapprovingly. The brand makes contact with her ribcage, causing her to scream in agony as she tries to lurch forward. Her hands, securely tied above her head, prevent any significant movement, intensifying the numbing pain that had plagued her arms for what felt like an eternity.

Her stomach churns, threatening to reject whatever little contents it holds as the stench of seared flesh lingers in the air. Struggling to catch her breath, every gasp a reminder of the torment, her cries transform into mocking, humorless chuckles.

"Go to hell." she croaks, her voice dry and hoarse from dehydration. Her head hangs low, her body growing weary from weeks of relentless torture. Every inch of her being throbs with excruciating pain, no part of her spared from these unspeakable acts.

"Now, I've instructed my boys to go easy on you because of your condition, but my patience is wearing thin, and your time is running out." he sneers.

Lifting her sunken head, she meets his gaze with a hollow chuckle. How could he possibly consider daily beatings as a lenient treatment? "You can't kill me... I'm too valuable, and we both know it."

"Don't flatter yourself, Alice. You're just as disposable as your mother was." he says, his voice laced with a sinister chuckle, aware of the pain those words cause her.

Her face twitches with sadness, the mention of her mother striking a devastating chord within her.

"You remember that, don't you? The way her head rolled on the ground after I severed it." he cruelly recalls.

Of course, she remembers. She was forced to witness the horrifying act as he took her mother's life. Her mother's agonized cries still echo in her mind to this very day.

As if on cue, the two men from before enter the room, brandishing the very axe used in her mother's brutal demise. The blade, still stained with her mother's blood after all these years, glistens menacingly.

She closes her eyes, desperately trying to transport her mind to a different place, but Colm grabs her chin with an iron grip, forcing her to confront the horrifying reality before her.

"Bring her down." Colm demands to his men, and they swiftly comply, handing the axe to Colm before approaching her and releasing the chains that had bound her wrists.

She collapses to the ground, her legs tingling painfully from being suspended for what feels like an eternity. Before she can gather enough strength to lift herself, the men forcefully drag her to the coffee table, compelling her to extend her right arm onto its surface. She resists, but his henchmen quickly remind her of her defiance by pressing a knife against her throat, while another firmly holds her arm in place.

Colm stoops down, examining the exquisite wedding ring on her finger-a symbol of the love Arthur had bestowed upon her-while the axe remains slung over his shoulder.

"Morgan spared no expense, did he?" he remarks, before straightening himself up and bringing the axe down with a brutal force that severs her arm right at the crook of her elbow. A blood-curdling scream escapes her lips, so loud and chilling that she can hardly believe it emanates from her own lungs. Through tears clouding her vision, she witnesses the vivid crimson spurt from the wound.

She slumps to the ground, clutching her severed arm, tears streaming uncontrollably as the pulsating pain resonates with each beat of her heart. All she yearns for is to be in Arthur's comforting embrace, where he would cradle her and whisper reassurances, promising that everything will be alright. However, the harsh truth sinks in-she is all alone, bleeding out.

Lost in her anguish, she fails to realize that Colm and his men have abandoned her, perhaps assuming she poses no threat or could easily escape.

With every passing second, her strength wanes, and she desperately scans the room for something to stem the bleeding, only to find nothing. Just as hope begins to fade, her gaze lands on the glowing embers in the fireplace.

Tears streaming anew, she shakes her head in disbelief. "Oh God, please, no!" she pathetically whispers, her throat raw and sore from her agonizing screams.

Summoning every ounce of strength, she painstakingly drags herself along the floor, reaching the fireplace. With great effort, she pulls herself up the small step, cautiously bringing her severed limb closer to the flickering flames. Through whimpers of pain, she feels the warmth searing the agonizing spot. Deep down, she knows that unless she cauterizes the wound now, death will be inevitable. Bracing herself, she presses what remains of her arm directly into the scorching flames, releasing a gut-wrenching scream as searing agony engulfs her.

She senses the blood curdling under the intense heat, every flicker of the flame reverberating through her entire being.

With sheer determination, she grits her teeth and forces herself to maintain her severed arm in place, emitting pitiful cries as the wound sears shut under the scorching flames. A mixture of relief and anguish washes over her when she finally deems it sufficiently cauterized. Slowly, she withdraws what remains of her arm, gasping for precious air as she teeters on the edge of consciousness.

The gang's tireless search for Alice has yielded no results, except for the sight of her trusted steed abandoned on the roadside, alongside her discarded weapons. The absence of any clue regarding her whereabouts, the unknown identity of her captors, and the uncertainty of her survival all mount with each passing day.

Over a month has elapsed, and the flickering flame of hope, once burning bright, now wavers perilously close to extinction.

Dutch bears the weight of guilt more heavily than the other members, haunted by the memory of pushing Alice away in a fit of rage when she dared to voice her dissent about their outlaw lives. She never revealed the reasons behind her stance, yet her resolve was unmistakable-leaving Dutch tormented with regret.

Arthur, returning from a mission assigned by Dutch, remained blissfully unaware of his wife's absence until a week had passed. Eagerly anticipating Alice's customary warm welcome upon his return home, he was instead met with somber faces and evasive gazes from his fellow gang members. In that moment, the sinking feeling of something being terribly amiss settled deep within him, amplifying when John urged him to speak with Dutch.

Reluctantly, Dutch disclosed the devastating news to Arthur, who, despite his exhaustion, roused himself and ventured once again into the unforgiving wilderness, embarking on a desperate quest to find his beloved.

Arthur, Dutch, John, Javier, Charles, and Kieran persistently continue their nomadic search for Alice, yet every day seems to lead them to another disheartening dead end. Assailed by sleepless nights, Arthur rises at dawn, unable to find solace in more than an hour of rest at a time, acutely aware of Alice's absence and longing for her comforting presence. He, in turn, rouses his weary comrades, commencing their search before the sun truly graces the sky.

Weeks turn into an agonizing blur of fruitless endeavors, leaving the men utterly fatigued. While their shared worry is palpable, hope has relinquished its grip on all but Arthur. His heart relentlessly yearns for his love, shattering a little more each day in her absence.

"Arthur, my boy, I understand your anguish, but we must return." Dutch's fatherly tone contends as Arthur finally succumbs to the overwhelming weight of exhaustion.

"She's out there somewhere, Dutch... We cannot abandon the search now." Arthur pleads desperately, his entreaty conveying the depth of his desperation.

"We will take two days to rest and regroup. We're going to find her, son." Dutch states firmly giving Arthur's shoulder an reassuring squeeze.

As Arthur prepares to protest, his gaze traverses the countenances of his comrades, their visages mirroring the toll their relentless quest has taken. Their exhaustion is unmistakable.

Arthur's thoughts consume him, separating him from the company of his fellow men as they journey back to camp. Haunted by the ghosts of Eliza and Issac, his mind is plagued by the agonizing memories of when he failed his own family. Fear grips him tightly, leaving him to dread the possibility that Alice will too become nothing more than a specter, leaving behind a trail of haunting recollections of their once cherished moments. Every stolen glance, every tender kiss, every loving embrace, and every passionate night of affection will be transformed into memories too painful for him to bear. Though these moments were filled with happiness, they now serve as cruel reminders of his own shortcomings.

Lost in his own inner turmoil, Arthur fails to notice the men have moved ahead, drawing nearer to the familiar refuge of the camp, hidden within the embrace of nature's lush thickets. The weight of the world seems to collapse upon him, draining the very life from within. His heart throbs with an anguish he could never have conceived, not even when Mary had shattered his heart.

Silence engulfs the world around him, depriving him of the once beautiful songs of nature. The vibrant hues that once charmed his eyes and mingled to create breathtaking sights are now invisible to his desolate gaze. Lost and trapped within the depths of this darkened pit of despair, Arthur finds himself unable to locate the way out, sinking deeper into the abyss.

The piercing shriek of a woman from the gang shatters Arthur's thoughts, snapping him into action. Urging Boadicea into a fierce sprint, he leaves the other men trailing behind in a swirling cloud of dust.

As Arthur reaches the scene, a cluster of women obscures his view, shielding him from something he is unsure if he is prepared to witness. Dismounting with remarkable speed, he moves through the gathering, his heart racing with desperate hope for answers.

Navigating through the crowd, a glimmer catches the corner of his eye, drawing his attention. And then he sees it: her arm, severed and coated in a crimson sheen of blood. His gaze fixates on the ring he had once given to her, still adorning her finger - A promise of a better future. It serves as a grim message delivered to the gang, a haunting message directed squarely at him.

A roar of anguish rumbles from Arthur's core as he crumbles to his knees. In that moment, all the pent-up emotions that had been simmering within him surge forth, overwhelming him. The hope he had clung to for finding her alive starts to slip away, leaving only a void of despair.

The men wade through the scene, their gaze fixated on the gruesome message laid bare before them. Dutch's eyes meet those of his gang members, seeing the distraught in their eyes, it break him. They yearn for his charismatic words of guidance and inspiration, but in this moment, his well of eloquence runs dry. He turns his back on the gang, just when they need him the most.

A heavy silence settles upon the group, broken only by the sound of shared sobs intertwining with Arthur's anguish. In this harrowing moment, every untamed soul within the gang is subdued, their spirits momentarily quelled by the weight of grief.

Alice stirs, awoken by the sharp pang of pain coursing through her weary and battered body. Trembling, she musters the strength to rise from the unforgiving ground, her every movement a testament to the weight of her abuse and the loss of her own precious blood. Leaning against the wall for support, she feels its steadfast presence providing a meager solace.

A deep breath steadies her as she observes her now cauterized arm, the wound still fresh and angry, radiating heat. The acrid scent of seared flesh lingers in the air, intensifying the nauseating feeling swirling within her gut.

Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, Alice's left hand begins tracing gentle circles on her belly. Throughout her cruel captivity, she has watched her belly slowly swell, a constant reminder of her entrapment. Bound and without respite, she has longed for the chance to touch and connect with the life growing inside her, a torment in itself.

Yet, a sense of empowerment surges within her as she realizes that this growing life within her has endured every ounce of suffering the O'Driscolls inflicted upon her. Against all odds, this child has clung to her, bringing a flicker of hope amidst the depths of her nightmares. Tears well up as laughter escapes her lips, envisioning the resilience and stubbornness inherited from his father. From the moment she discovered her pregnancy, she knew deep within that she would be blessed with a son.

And then, in that fleeting moment, she feels it-the delicate flutter of a tiny kick dancing at the tips of her fingers.

A loving smile graces her chapped lips as tears of joy spill from her eyes. "We're going to make it, Jr." she murmurs tenderly, embracing the glimmer of faith in their shared survival.

Grasping the mantle of the fireplace with a whimper, she hauls herself up, the soreness crashing over her body in relentless waves. Every fiber of her being protests, aching with the weight of agony she endures. Yet, fueled by an unwavering determination for her son and Arthur, she persists, forging ahead despite the torment.

With a sense of haste, she rummages through drawers, desperately searching for anything to cover her exposed flesh. Finally, she uncovers a worn shirt, its size engulfing her form, but she lacks alternatives and time is of the essence. Slipping it on, she finds solace in the makeshift garment, even if it embodies the appearance of a nightgown. Carefully, she knots the sleeve at the site of her missing arm, a task made all the more difficult without the aid of her right limb.

The longing for freedom tugs relentlessly at her heartstrings. The thought of breathing in the fresh air and feeling the comforting warmth upon her skin consumes her thoughts. As her fingers brush against the cold metal of the door handle, a gentle yet distinct kick in her belly redirects her attention, drawing her focus to the hushed voices of the O'Driscolls looming just beyond.

She scolds herself for allowing her desires to cloud her judgment, realizing the potential dangers that lie beyond the walls that confine her.

Realizing that her initial plan of simply walking out of this place is highly impractical, she starts to formulate a new, more cautious strategy. Being surrounded by O'Driscolls in their territory, she knows she must proceed with extreme caution to ensure her safe return home.

Without a clear idea of her location or the distance to camp, she understands the importance of careful planning and execution to navigate her way back.

She finds a fire poker and arms herself, preparing for whatever may lie ahead. She carefully assesses her surroundings before quietly making her way through a window, mindful of her limited mobility caused by the absence of her right arm. In a moment of misstep, she accidentally hits her seared stump against the window frame, suppressing a cry of pain and biting her lip to mask it. Instinctively she adjusts her position to protect her pregnant belly from any harm, landing on her side directly on her nub.

Lying face down in the dirt, she takes a moment to compose herself, determined to remain as inconspicuous as possible, breathing softly so as not to draw attention to herself.

She resents her own weakness, engulfed in feelings of self-pity as she becomes acutely aware of her helplessness in this moment. Overwhelmed by defeat and fury, she unleashes her frustration by forcefully punching the ground, silently weeping as the unrelenting pain taunts her body.

Upon hearing approaching footsteps, she swiftly hoists herself up from the ground, seeking immediate cover behind a crate. Her grip on the fire poker tightens so intensely that her pale skin turns even whiter.

For a brief moment, she closes her eyes, fully cognizant of the potential consequences her next move may bring. Her ears strain to catch the distinct crunch of gravel as the man's boots draw closer, his spurs audaciously jingling, taunting her senses.

As the man notices the open window, cursing under his breath, he becomes aware of the fact that she must be somewhere out here. He begins to open his mouth, likely to alert his comrades, but before he can utter a word, Alice bursts out of her hiding place, consumed by an unhinged rage. With a swift and brutal strike, she delivers a devastating blow to his head, splitting his skull open, causing his eye to violently dislodge from its socket.

He collapses to the ground lifelessly, already gone before his body hits the earth like a sack of potatoes. Alice, consumed by a red haze of rage, continues mercilessly attacking his lifeless form with the fire poker. With each crushing blow, his head becomes an unrecognizable mess of blood, skull fragments, and brain matter.

Gasping for breath, she fights to steady herself, battling the encroaching dizziness as she surveys her surroundings. Her eyes lock onto the horses tethered a few yards away from the entrance of the dilapidated cabin, but to her dismay, she realizes that four O'Driscolls are standing alongside them.

Her trembling hand retrieves the revolver from the fallen man's gunbelt, attempting to aim it at one of the O'Driscolls. But the horrific shaking in her hand, coupled with the fact that her dominant arm had been severed, makes it almost impossible to steady her aim.

In a desperate attempt to assert herself, she fires a warning shot into the air, hoping to catch their attention and draw them towards her location. Her heart pounding, she swiftly heads towards the woods, her plan to lead them away so she can seize one of the horses and embark into the unknown wilderness.

Moving with a lightness in her step, she cautiously observes the O'Driscolls from a safe distance as they cautiously approach their fallen comrade. Desperation fueling her movements, she sprints towards the horses, pushing against her body's desperate plea for rest.

With a swift motion, she mounts the closest horse, urgently digging her heel into its side, urging it into a full gallop. Struggling to control the horse with her remaining hand, she dreads the prospect of having to relearn everything. However, for now, such thoughts must be set aside. The sweet taste of freedom is tantalizingly close, and she is determined to grasp it.

She desperately scans her surroundings, her line of sight flickering in search of any clue about her location. Determined to focus on the journey and the destination rather than the pulsating pain at the end of her severed arm, she tries to ignore the agonizing throb that intensifies with each powerful stride of the horse. However, her hopes are dashed as her gaze is met only with the vastness of untouched nature stretching along the road. Normally, she would relish these moments, savoring the sights of new places at her own leisure. But now, her mind is consumed with finding her family.

Just as despair begins to creep in, her eyes catch sight of a weathered road sign, its carved wooden surface revealing the word "Annesburg." Relief washes over her, knowing that she has found what she sought. However, a heavy sense of trepidation settles in her heart. Recalling from memory, she realizes that Annesburg is a challenging two and a half days' ride from her current location, and that's without any breaks. Already drained by exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition, the thought of enduring such a grueling journey fills her with apprehension. She knows she must remain vigilant, constantly watchful for any danger lurking in the shadows.

Adding to her worries, she has no idea how to navigate her way from Annesburg to Horseshoe Overlook. The mental image of the map Arthur had gifted her is now nothing but a blurry recollection, leaving her feeling disoriented and lost.

Arthur finds solace within the confines of his tent, purposefully keeping the cloth flaps closed to shield himself from the outside world. Tears flow freely down his face, grief consuming him like never before. Clutched tightly in his hands, he holds onto the dress she wore on that fateful day, the day she became his.

As his fingers delicately trace the intricate designs woven into the soft fabric, memories flood his mind. He recalls how she transformed into a vision of ethereal beauty, her hair cascading in lustrous black curls, dancing freely in the wind. Accentuating her curves, a dress Arthur bought embraced her figure flawlessly. In that moment, she seemed otherworldly, a goddess worthy of adoration.

Arthur is forever captivated by the sparkle in her emerald green eyes, which shone with the warmth of the setting sun. Those eyes, filled with unconditional love and unspoken promises, are etched in his memory, an everlasting testament to their unbreakable bond.

He had always felt unworthy of her affection, constantly believing that she was far too good for him. She possessed an innate goodness, a selflessness that pushed her to help everyone within the gang and extend her helping hand to strangers in need. She would even put herself in harm's way to protect those she held dear. It was through these selfless acts that he had uncovered the depth of her feelings for him, as well as his own for her.

Their hidden emotions were finally revealed during a harrowing encounter with Bounty Hunters on a job. Surrounded and outgunned, fear may have gripped her heart, but her stoic facade remained unyielding. In the face of danger, her unwavering strength ignited a fire within Arthur, inspiring him to fight tooth and nail to escape the perilous situation they found themselves in...

As they cautiously made their way back to safety, Alice couldn't shake off the unease that lingered in her gut. She expressed her worry to Arthur, a faint whisper hinting that they were still being watched. Yet, her concerns were swiftly dismissed, her nervousness brushed aside as baseless fears. Arthur assured her that there was nothing to be concerned about, oblivious to the imminent danger.

But Alice's instincts proved sharper than his awareness. In an instant, she spotted the glint of a sniper's scope, long before Arthur even registered its presence. Time slowed as she valiantly threw herself in front of him, taking the bullet intended for his heart. It was a kaleidoscope of surrealism as a mist of crimson paint splattered the air, staining his face, forever etching the price she had paid for his safety. They narrowly escaped the ambush, and Arthur emerged unscathed, shielded by Alice's selflessness.

Her body bore the consequences of her heroic act, hanging on to the last remnants of consciousness. The following day, as she awoke from her slumber, Arthur hovered nearby, a mixture of anger and regret clouding his expression. He unleashed a torrent of emotions, blaming her for her recklessness, unable to comprehend why she had thrown herself into harm's way to save him. Initially, he allowed no room for her to respond, cutting her off at every attempt. But then, something within her snapped, and her voice rose defiantly, declaring, "I did it because I am in love with you!"

As her words hung in the air, Arthur fell silent, his hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck. He yearned to protest, list all the reasons why she should not love him, highlighting scars and mistakes that marred his being. Yet, before he could utter a single word, she took advantage of his slightly agape mouth, meeting his lips with her own in a tender, passionate moment. In that unexpected kiss, he realized the truth - that those stolen glances, those blushes, and that sweet, innocent smile she reserved for him were all a reflection of her love. A love that accepted him for who he was, flaws and all, warming even the coldest reaches of his heart.

His lips quivered with a bittersweet smile as he recalled the extraordinary transformation that unfolded from that fateful day. A love story that once seemed unimaginable had unfolded before his eyes.

Their first time together was a tapestry of vulnerability and tenderness. He couldn't help but notice the scar on her shoulder, a permanent reminder of the sacrifice she made for him. It haunted him, threatening to overshadow the beauty that lay before him in the dimly-lit hotel room they had sought refuge in. Overwhelmed by guilt, he turned away, fearing for her safety and the uncertain future they faced. But, in that moment, she reached out and gently took hold of his hand, her eyes speaking volumes.

Their stolen moments of affection, concealed from prying eyes and her overbearing father, burst forth after a night of drunken vulnerability. Craving each other's touch, they longed to break free from the confines of secrecy. And, fueled by their profound connection, she summoned the courage to defy the disapproval of Dutch, choosing to stand by Arthur and declare her love.

The day he proposed to her was a moment suspended in a world beyond their troubles. Overwhelmed with stress from Dutch's interference in their relationship and her own fears of Arthur pulling away, she had been carrying a heavy burden that week.

Unbeknownst to her, Arthur's distant behavior was not due to Dutch but rather his own struggle to find the perfect way to propose. His heart ached with memories of Mary Linton rejecting his marriage proposal, her father's disapproval leaving him feeling unworthy. That night, as the gang gathered around the comforting glow of the campfire, Arthur felt a surge of determination.

Taking her trembling hand, he admitted his regrets for the distance between them and revealed his intention to make amends. With a tender sincerity, he knelt down before her, offering a ring he had saved for months. The emotions consumed him, causing him to deviate from the rehearsed poem he had written. Instead, his heartfelt confession of love flowed effortlessly from his lips, surpassing his anticipation.

The joyous reaction she unleashed as he slipped the ring onto her finger remains etched in his memory. The exhilarating sound of her excited squeal reverberated through his mind, propelling him to rise and meet her lips with an overwhelming surge of affection.

And on the day they joined in matrimony, a month before her eventual disappearance, everything fell into place with a sense of urgency and secrecy. With the assistance of his loyal gang members, Arthur orchestrated a spontaneous celebration, transforming the camp into a romantic haven. John, understanding the importance of the day, took Alice into town to keep her occupied.

Little did Alice know, as she went about her day, that her own secret was about to be revealed. Seeking answers for occasional sickness, she had visited a doctor who confirmed the miracle growing within her womb-an unexpected pregnancy already one month along. Overwhelmed with worry that Arthur might abandon her, she confided in John, who reassured her that Arthur would embrace this second chance for family.

As the day wore on, anticipation built within Alice. John brought her back to camp, her eyes widening in astonishment and disbelief at the sight before her. A trail of delicate rose petals guided her, until she found Dutch standing proudly, his arm outstretched to escort his daughter down the makeshift aisle. Tears brimmed in Dutch's eyes, a mixture of joy and bittersweet emotions as he fulfilled his role.

Arthur, having taken meticulous care to prepare himself, stood awaiting his bride. He had meticulously groomed himself, receiving a fresh haircut and trimming his beard to a handsome 5 o'clock shadow. He even had a suit tailored for the occasion. Alice's heart swelled with love and admiration as she took in his dashing appearance.

To set the perfect ambiance, Javier strummed his guitar, serenading the couple with heartfelt songs of love. The melodies filled the air, enhancing the profound significance of the moment.

The kiss they shared in that poignant moment, right after sealing their vows, transcended any previous display of affection. It was an electrifying connection that stirred their very souls and left an indelible mark on their lives.

Aware of the profound impact this news would have on their future, Alice made a conscious decision to keep her pregnancy a secret for the time being. She understood the responsibilities of Arthur's upcoming lengthy and perilous job, which would separate them for at least a week. Alice was determined not to distract him or inadvertently endanger him.

The entrance of the tent allows a stream of blinding light to infiltrate, momentarily obstructing Arthur's vision. Shielding his eyes with his arm, he discerns the silhouette of a familiar figure, John.

"Hey Arthur, how are you?" John's voice carries a blend of hesitancy and sorrow.

Arthur's mind is consumed with thoughts of Alice-how she's faring, or if she's even alive. "I'm... alright." he musters weakly, hardly convincing even himself.

"I know you miss her, Arthur. We all do." John offers empathetically.

"She ain't your wife." Arthur retorts defensively, unintentionally lashing out amidst a whirlwind of emotions. His frustration unwittingly directed at John.

"No, but she's like a little sister to me." John utters with a heavy sigh, taking a seat on the chair beside the cot. His eyes dart nervously, while he rhythmically taps his knees.

"John, I appreciate you checkin' in on me, but right now, I just want to be alone." Arthur confesses solemnly, yearning for solitude with only her presence.

"There is something I need to tell you... about Alice." John discloses, sensing Arthur's eagerness. However, an overwhelming hesitation freezes him, unsure if he should share the information.

John's continued silence exacerbates Arthur's sense of foreboding.

"What?" Arthur presses, observing the wheels turning in John's mind.

"I... It can wait. It ain't my place to tell." John says, shaking his head. He alone bears the knowledge of Alice's secret, the life growing within her, and the burden weighs heavily upon him. John acknowledges that Arthur deserves to know he will be a father once again, but he can hardly begin to fathom how Arthur will react. With the uncertainty surrounding Alice's well-being, adding news of her pregnancy to the mix would only deepen Arthur's anguish.

"What the hell do you mean it's not your place to tell me?!" Arthur stands tall, gripping John's shirt and forcibly lifting him from his seat. "What do you know about my wife?!"

"Arthur, you can't handle what I have to say!"

"Tell me, damn it!"

"I can't." John insists.

"You sure as hell can!"

"Arthur, please calm down."

"Just tell me! I can't stand not knowin' any more!"

"She's pregnant, Arthur!" John finally confesses. In that frozen moment, the world stands still. Arthur's grip on John's shirt loosens, causing John to stumble and collapse onto the ground.

Arthur's anxiety causes his chest to heave uncontrollably, his world crumbling around him with even greater intensity. Observing the flicker of unwavering determination within Arthur's piercing icy-blue eyes, John quickly rises and places a steadying hand on his chest.

"Arthur, you can't venture back out there." John pleads urgently.

"I won't waste another moment waitin'. I'm goin' to find her." Arthur declares resolutely, forcefully bypassing John and striding purposefully across the camp.

"Arthur, you ain't in the right state of mind. You need to rest." John implores, trailing closely behind.

"And sit idly while whoever has her inflicts more harm? There's no way in hell I'm stayin' here." Arthur retorts, his gaze fixed ahead as he forges onward, with John doggedly following in his wake.

"She wouldn't want you to sacrifice yourself, Arthur." John says, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Those words strike a raw nerve within Arthur, causing him to abruptly turn and stalk over to John. He halts inches away, leaning in close with a dangerous intensity. The scent of cigarette smoke lingers on Arthur's breath, a testament to his inner turmoil.

"How could you possibly know what the hell she would want?" Arthur growls icily, his fists clenched tightly by his side.

"What if something were to happen to you? What if you were to die? If she's still alive, it would devastate her."

"I can't bear not knowin' if she's alive or dead. And now, knowin' that my child is growin' inside of her, I won't rest until I find her, even if it means dyin' in the process."

"What if she returns and you're not here?"

"I failed her once already. I need to find her." Arthur asserts, his voice filled with anguish. "She's my entire world, John. The pain of not knowin' if she's safe is tearin' me apart."

"We don't have any leads on her whereabouts. We don't even know who has taken her. You know she would never forgive herself if anythin' were to happen to you. Alice is strong. She'll find her way back to us... But you have to stay. If you don't, you'll only end up gettin' yourself killed."

With each passing moment, the battle against her exhaustion becomes increasingly daunting. It has been over a day and a half since she escaped, and her body's desperate need for sleep grows harder and harder to ignore. Every second that ticks by serves as a testament to her unwavering strength and determination, pushing through the waves of pain that crash relentlessly against her weary form.

Her eyelids struggle to stay open, heavy with fatigue. A cacophony of growls erupts from her belly, a painful reminder of the hunger that gnaws at her from within, as if her insides are being devoured. The sight of water makes her mouth water uncontrollably, a relentless plea for respite from the unquenchable thirst that courses through her. Yet she soldiers on, fueled by an unyielding determination to reach home, to once again find solace in the embrace of Arthur's arms.

Lost in an unfamiliar landscape, she questions if she's even heading in the right direction. Everything blends together in an indistinguishable blur, creating a disorienting maze of uncertainty. She cannot even be certain if she is still among the living, though the excruciating pain she endures seems inconsistent with her imagination of the afterlife.

In an instant, her senses are blanked out, only to gradually return as she awakens on her back, sprawled out in the unforgiving embrace of the dirt road. Though she has fallen from her horse, the pain that courses through her body somehow feels distant, as if her senses have numbed in response to the impact.

A familiar warmth envelops the tightly wound sleeve that conceals the space where her arm used to be. Weary eyes trace the crimson stains that saturate the grimy fabric, a stark reminder that she is till alive as blood flows from her wound. She shuts her eyes, summoning every ounce of strength within her to rise from the ground, but all she manages is to shift onto her side, slowly dragging herself along the unforgiving road.

As she inches forward, a gradual seepage of blood permeates the threads of her shirt, each step reopening the raw, tender flesh beneath Colm's branded mark. The fabric clings to the jagged edges of her torn skin, amplifying the pain that accompanies this hellish journey.

John successfully persuaded Arthur to take a stroll along the outskirts of the camp, leaving behind a departed Dutch. The gang can't shake off the feeling that their unity is gradually unraveling, similar to the frayed fabric of a well-worn shirt.

The sight of Arthur in such a distraught state is an unfamiliar one for John. He's used to seeing Arthur hold his composure during even the most critical moments. However, something vital has been torn away from him, leaving him disoriented and incomplete, as if a part of himself is missing.

Meanwhile, Dutch has been absent since last night. He ventured into Valentine, seeking solace in a few drinks to clear his troubled mind. Unfortunately, the whiskey only amplifies his dark thoughts and intensifies his longing for his daughter. Ever since Alice's birth, Dutch had made a solemn vow to protect her at any cost.

Still teetering on the edge of intoxication, Dutch sets off, without a clear destination or purpose. He can't determine if his little girl is even alive anymore, which weighs heavily on his conscience. The loss of his daughter, coupled with witnessing the hardship inflicted upon her husband, reminds him of the tragic events surrounding Annabelle. At least, in Annabelle's case, Colm killed her swiftly, sparing Dutch prolonged uncertainty. In this instance, he finds himself caught in a similar torment.

Continuing down the road, Dutch estimates that he's roughly a mile away from camp. Consumed by his thoughts, he edges closer to succumbing to defeat when a sight catches his attention: his little girl, slowly dragging herself along the road in agony.

Dutch's heart both leaps with anticipation and sinks in despair. A trail of blood follows her, evidence of her desperate attempt to find her way home. Tears well up in his eyes as he dismounts his horse and rushes to Alice's side. The sight of her tortured state is gut-wrenching and heartbreaking. Her body is adorned in bruises, and her arm has been cruelly amputated. He already knew her arm was cut off thanks to the horrid message sent to them but seeing it first hand was something he wasn't ready for.

The phrase "My poor baby" escapes Dutch's trembling lips as he struggles to maintain composure. Alice gazes up, her pain-stricken face managing to muster a smile. Through labored breaths, she utters, "Daddy." The relief is palpable as she realizes that he has found her.

Without a moment's hesitation, Dutch scoops her up into his arms. Despite the weight loss she has endured, Alice still feels somewhat heavy in his arms.

"Don't worry, Alice. We're going to make it back home." Dutch reassures her, determination burning in his eyes. He sets off on foot, determined to carry her the entire mile back to camp. He knows that in her current weakened state, it's not safe for her to be on horseback.

Speaking softly, Alice's fragile voice breaks the silence. "Daddy... is Arthur alright?" Her words tug at Dutch's heart, but he masks his worry with reassuring strength.

"He's going to be just fine, sweetheart. Right now, our priority is getting you back home." Dutch responds, his voice filled with both love and conviction. With each step, he holds Alice closer to his chest, enveloping her in his familiar warmth.

A faint, weary smile forms on Alice's lips. She nods briefly, understanding the need to conserve her diminishing energy. Closing her eyes, she succumbs to the overpowering urge to sleep, finding solace in the thought that her father has found her and will keep her safe.

Author's note: I've been in a dark place so this fic got dragged down with with me. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. I'm bad at this shit, I've also been procrastinating about posting this because like, I'm me and I'm fearful of putting this out there and people won't like this but here we are... Bye

#arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #rdr2 #arthur morgan x oc #angst #romance #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fanfic #im in a mood

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osmanthusoolong · 8 months

Note

is ravenous a good or bad film to watch while high?

I’ve watched it approximately 30 times, including while various levels of high, so I’m probably not the absolute best person to ask about that.

So I asked A, who says that as long as you’re not too high, and don’t mind a significant amount of blood and gore, you should be good.

But I think people should just watch it generally, frankly (previous limitations apply etc)

#asks

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ask-the-totally-real-peppino · 2 years

Text

Quick Info

Current Location: Peppino's Pizza (By the forest outside the building)

Available for Asks

Primary: Fake Peppino (Goes by 'Pep')

Secondary: Brick (the Rat),

Read the story from the beginning here!: [https://ask-the-totally-real-peppino.tumblr.com/tagged/story%20post/chrono]

Read the intermission from the beginning here!: [https://ask-the-totally-real-peppino.tumblr.com/tagged/intermission%20post/chrono]

Read the bonus story posts here! (Bonus story posts are self-contained stories, typically celebrating a special occasion or showing a past/future event, that occur within the canon of the story, but are not direct continuations of the main plot line.): [https://ask-the-totally-real-peppino.tumblr.com/tagged/bonus%20story%20post/chrono]

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Reference Pit

(References for all characters that have appeared, regardless if they are available for asks or not. These are also tagged as 'reference' for easy finding.)

Pep (Fake Peppino) - (Toyhou.se Version)

Peppino Spaghetti (ref pending)

Gustavo (ref pending)

Brick the Rat (ref pending)

??? (ref pending)

Bean (the mod)

Fake Bean (the fake mod)

Clone OCs (Toyhou.se Link)

~~~

Hello, and welcome to my ask blog! Primarily featuring Fake Peppino, but many of the other Pizza Tower characters and definitely some OCs will appear here too!

This is post-game, so spoilers are abound! Also, due to the nature of Fake Peppino, there will be a lot of body horror, ranging from mainly mild to occasionally severe! (More on content warnings below!)

~~~

Rules

M!A (Magic Anons) are allowed! This can range from sending small gifts to transforming characters for a set amount of posts!

Fanart is a-okay! Please try to represent the character the best you can, and ask before making significant design changes (such as a 'Genderbend' or 'Species Swap')

Please ask beforehand, if you would like to dub my work! And please be sure to credit and link back to me!

No Sexual Content in asks (The occasional innuendo/suggestive joke is fine)

No sending or tagging me in RP starters (this is not an RP blog and I do not RP in private either!)

No spam, such as repeated messages, reblog bait/ask chains etc

Please do not repost, trace or edit my art (unless given written permission)

Please do not use my art/characters in A.I. chatbots etc

Please do not tag my art as 'kin/me' (Nothing against kin! Just my art is very personal to me)

Please be patient! I am only one person, and I am doing this for fun!

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Content Warnings

While I intend for this blog to mostly be fluffy and silly fun, I do want to explore some potentially squicky topics, so here is a list!

Common, will not be tagged: Mild Body Horror (ie Pep's goopy skin etc), Scars, Foul Language, Depictions of Panic Attacks/Meltdowns, Use of Caps and Glitched/Zalgo text

Uncommon, will be tagged: Eye Strain, Alcohol Use, Smoking (mostly regular cigarettes, but maybe weed too), Partial Nudity (bare chests mostly), Emetophobia/Vomit, Blood, Violence, Moderate to Severe Body Horror, War (via Peppino flashbacks), Guns, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied Gore, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Death

Rare, will be tagged, and under a read-more cut: Suggestive jokes, On Screen Gore, On Screen Cannibalism, On Screen Death

Not a content warning, but make a lot of OOC posts bc I have a lot of thoughts! These will all be tagged with 'ooc post', if you don't wanna see them! (But some do have lore in themmmm)

~~~

About Mun

Hi! You guys can call me Bean, Ben or Ruben! I use they/them, and I’m 28. Pizza Tower has taken over my little brain, and so I made this blog to be a bit silly with my favourite character, Fake Peppino~

Main Blog: @smalltimidbean-reblogs (semi-active) (Follows are from this blog!)

Art Blog: @smalltimidbean (active)

#info #rules #pinned #about #reference

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slasherbish · 2 years

Text

A cold night (Art the clown x GN reader)

warnings: blood, gore, art being art

Art had a fun filled night of torturing and killing people. The cold air was crisp and had the tang of iron in it. Just how he liked it. After a while of playing with the bodies and having a good silent laugh, Art decided to pull out the small pocket watch that a special someone had gotten him last Halloween. He looked at the time and frowned slightly. It was well past 2 am, the clown hadn’t meant to stay out that late and knew that his darling would be worried, and dinner would be cold. Their cooking was always pleasant after a long night of ghoulish fun.

Tossing his tools of terror into his large black garbage bag he walked to the nearest exit. Waving goodbye to the dead bodies strewn about the room, Art tried to open the door. The monochrome clown frowned as it only opened a few inches before making a thud and stopping. It refused to open any further, at this point he decided to look down. There, at the foot of the door was the head of a victim still attached to it’s body. He rolled his eyes and silently huffed, kicking the limp body out of the way harshly. It angered him slightly that even in death the human was being a pain in his ass.

Meanwhile at the small house Art shared with his other half something terrible was happening. A knock was heard at the back door, (y/n) ran to the door excitedly hoping for it to be their favorite clown. Upon opening the door they saw no one. They raised a curious brow thinking that Art must be playing one of his pranks. “Art come on, it's too late and cold for pranks” They whined, stepping out onto the back patio, their bare feet uncomfortable from the icy cold ground. Shivering the person looked around, every second that passed filled them with more and more unease. Art wouldn’t have waited this long to pounce. Something wasn’t right.

“Well well well good lookin’ “ A deep voice said from behind. Art’s favorite human spun around and started to scream. That blood curdling scream was cut off by the man stabbing them in the stomach. (Y/n) looked down at the sharp object lodged in their abdomen and then up at their assailant. The creep smiled a devilish smile at the pain he had inflicted. “You fucked up” Is all (y/n) sputtered out before dashing into the house. Knowing it was a horrible idea they took the knife from their abdomen and slashed at the man that was now giving chase. The knife slipped from their hand due to the amount of blood on the handle. The creep chuckled thinking that he had the upper hand. Art’s partner in crime grabbed at the counter they were leaning against and swung whatever they picked up. It was a meat tenderizer and it made contact with the intruder's head. There was a sickening thud and then “son of a bitch” before the man turned to run, it had freaked him out. His victim should’ve been dead by now, the strength of that hit wasn’t normal. This person wasn’t worth the literal headache. (Y/n)slumped to the floor, holding their wound as their vision started to go dark. ‘Art where are you’ was their last thought before the world went black.

Back with Art on his way home. He was smiling and walked at a leisurely pace. He wanted to get home but he was also feeling almost euphoric after the night he had. ‘Nothing can ruin this night’ He thought. The killer couldn’t wait to get home and tell his significant other every gory detail of the night. He had decided to take a small detour in order to scare the shit out of young kids. He tapped on at least four kids' windows to wake them before popping up and then silently laughing at the terrified kids' faces. He loved watching people be scared of him, except his (y/n) of course.

Finally he could see the house. It didn’t surprise him that the light in the kitchen window was on. (Y/n) often left it on for him, it was a sweet little gesture that showed him they cared. He unlocked the shed that sit on the side of the house and put away his tools and garbage bag. Arts human had given him the shed to use for any “projects” he had and to store his torture tools. Humming silently he locked the shed door and skipped to the back door. He stopped in his tracks, the clowns blood ran cold upon seeing a bloody trail into their home. No smile could be found on the usually jovial clown's face. Art ran into the house following the trail until it stopped. There on the cold floor in front of him was a deep crimson puddle of blood, and in the middle of it sat the limp body of (y/n). For the first time he was scared, his jaw fell open in shock. Were they dead? He thought, kneeling down to his lovers body. ‘No they’re breathing. Not dead’ ran through his head as he looked at their chest.

The clown didn’t know much about medical stuff but he had watched his human tend to wounds on him many times. After some time he had cleaned, stitched, and wrapped every wound. His pale hand held theirs hoping beyond hope that they would open their eyes. What he wouldn’t give to see those (e/c) eyes look up at him once more. His blood was both boiling due to whoever dared hurt his partner but also felt like ice at the fear of losing the one person that accepted him as he was.

(e/c) eyes fluttered open, the first thing they saw was a frowning clown deep in thought. “Hey there killer” they had croaked out. The smile that appeared on the clowns face was the largest he’d ever smiled. He dragged (y/n) into a bear hug only letting go when they squeaked in pain. “He got away. I’m sorry but I did hit him in the head with the mallet.”

His eyes widened a little hoping for more information. “There’s blood on it.” (y/n) said knowing he could track the intruder with that. He gave a look that said ‘Can I go after them’ and of course they replied with a smile and “Go have fun. I’ll be okay now” with that Art had grabbed the mallet and sprinted out the door. He was going to make the man pay in unimaginable ways.

It didn’t take long for the black and white clown to hunt down his target. He stood smiling at the large man. The creep spit on the ground rubbing his aching head. “What the fuck you lookin at clown bitch?” He yelled. Art held up the mallet with the targets blood on it. He laughed, “Was that your kill? Too fuckin bad” That made the clowns face contort into a snarl. “Oh that was your bitch! Ha what a lousy bitch.” That was the wrong thing to say. Before the man had time to say oops the killer clown had broken his knees with the mallet. Silently Art laughed at the look of shock and pain on the monsters face. He continued to fit and kick the man over and over for at least an hour until the man was nothing but a bloody pulp. Art doubted that anyone could identify the man who hurt his partner without a DNA match.

Art made his way home again, this time his smile would stay. He carried (y/n) up to their shared room and tucked them into bed. They smiled and chuckled at Art pantomiming his way through what he had done that night. (Y/n) loved watching the clown tell them about his day. The pain had dulled with the help of hospital grade painkillers that they had stolen a while back. Once Art had told them everything, he went to shower and change into a footed onesie that (y/n) had custom made to look a lot like his clown suit. He hopped into bed and held his human. He had a twinge of fear in the pit of his stomach that something like this could happen again. They noticed the small look of fear that had crept into his eyes. “Hey it’s okay. I’ll be more cautious next time. Maybe we could come up with a special knock” They reassured him. His eyes calmed and he snuggled closer if possible. “I love you Art” (y/n) said before the two drifted off to sleep.

Post credit scene lol

Art did not clean up any blood in the house. That clown left it all for you to clean up once you could. When you did finally make your way down a few days later you groaned loudly at the mess. Art smiled at you sheepishly.

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sadtonight · 2 years

Text

"In the dead of night... crimson lines are to stain my raiment..." — Part two

Summary: (unspecified none modern au) is there any sensations of dread in his presence? What about calmness? Being aware of what he is...of what your immortal lover could do to you if pushed to extremes? It's easier to bask in the imaginary warmth that his body can't radiate;

Characters: Pomefiore;

Warnings: moderate description of gore, description of blood consumption, reader is gender neutral, established romantic relationships;

Side notes: very proud of this work!! No idea if it's due to generally feeling happy for some time or because of coming to terms with my art, its imperfections and more or less satisfactory results. I got extremely carried away if you couldn't tell ha ha...

Vil

— unremarkable, without distinct fashion sense and devoid of any significant talent. Harsh and cruel thoughts directed at you that Vil tried to water down as much as he could. Thanks to meeting an absurd amount of individuals in his centuries long life, it was becoming increasingly harder and harder to separate each and every identity from one another when they all acted and appeared the same;

— you were not an exception, if anything you were confirming his forming distaste of mortals. But Vil Schoenheit wouldn't be himself if he didn't gave you a chance to redeem yourself in his eyes by showing the tiniest, vaguest sign of potential. And to his both dismay and astonishment, you didn't even need to lift a finger but to be yourself for him to feel already forgotten feeling on fondness. Vil didn't believe in pure luck without any effort, thus it was about time to test you;

— after newfound knowledge sinked in, you contemplated on what to do next. The job was well paying for the workload you received, given you were not to be eaten at some point. Surely, if you came up to any of the boys, especially the owner, to announce your resignation, their voices alone could freeze you in place. Couldn't you just not come to work? Too dangerous with what you had found out...

— amidst your pondering, you missed several coughs coming from annoyed male near you. Vil had to gently tilt your face to face him and not his old portrait, making your eyes shot up in fright. Now that he had your undivided attention, he explained to that he needed a hand in testing his new line of beauty products made out of ingredients shipped from far away countries;

— that was not the first and definitely not the last time he requested your assistance. Initially you couldn't feel anything but needles of fear prod into your body when you were so close to the vampire: the beautiful male kept leaning in, saying something that never reached your ears to the fullest extent, your mind preoccupied with white shiny fangs that would make themselves known every time Vil parted his purple lips a bit more than usual;

— oh how you wished to never hear his voice, dripping with honey, singing unfamiliar yet delightful songs above your head while he combed your hair. To never listen to his insanely engaging stories from attending gatherings, balls, dinners, weddings, birthdays and funerals while you were walking in his well-kept garden full of poisonous, lovely flowers;

— it wasn't new to Vil, however painful to you. He wasn't oblivious or ignorant of your sufferings nor of what knowledge you possessed — your quickened pulse gave you away. He had all time in the world, yet same can't be said about you. So he finally confessed: his feelings, his true age, his preferences for blood and distaste for alcohol, his many scripts and scenarios he published and so much more;

— despite Vil talking, it was you who experienced catharsis. It wasn't his vampiric charm after all, flashed in your mind for a split second, as you crushed into his body, him enveloping you with his arms. On man's end, however, doubts begun to settle in: would he regret it? So many lovers had passed away, only for him to lose another one in a blink of an eye right before him again;

— if beauty and perfection took great continuous effort, if love was to be painful, Vil was ready to face it head on. He didn't find his vampirism to be an obstacle, rather one of his assets. The air of eternal nocturnal beauty added more than took away. Regrettably, this came with its set of glaring issues, the most offensive not being able to see his reflection, to see himself. Vil spend years looking for the right painters and sculptors that could recreate the image of himself he faintly remembered, gripping the fleeting memory when it threaten to escape his mind;

— that's why the beautiful male ate up any praise coming from you: he would never outright admit his helpless before your words, not if you point it out. He may exude the air of haughtiness, acting lordly while you describe favourite features of his body, meanwhile if he weren't grasping the arm of his plush violet throne, he would leap right into your arms and crush you from the intense exhilaration he hasn't felt in a very, very long time. The man did not need any flattery come from anyone other than you, safe for his trusted assistant;

— for his dedication to keeping the beauty he could no longer fully indulge in, despite not being able to eat the fruit of his own and collective labour, Vil still took care of himself heavily relying on the many portraits to better his looks. You became his main outlet for applying makeup and doing hairstyles, sewing clothes and composing outfits, for posing with him to a new line of portraits, which now also featured you;

— the male enjoyed seeing you marvel in his presence, loved to trace his cold fingers across your body making your shiver, adored watching his hickeys bloom purple on your skin, feverishly worshipped you verbally and non-verbally when he was given an invitation to feed of you. Vil was your special someone, and in return you were his — the male was utterly obsessed, wanting to drag you to dance with him at every given moment;

— Vil knew better than to treat you badly though. The chimney was finally working, and warm delicious food from the best chefs was served. Doctor's appointments were a must, just like healthy lifestyle and normal human sleep schedule. What? Don't say you believe that by being in relationship with a vampire gave you the rights to stay up late at night? No, dear, Vil will stay until he is sure you have fallen asleep, meanwhile reading you a story, laying underneath the covers with you or just watching drowsiness overtake you.

Rook

— the next day after hearing Epel's story, you unwillingly clocked in to your work at 7 p.m., closed the main doors and before you fully turned around you were immediately greeted by the most dangerous man of the three — Rook Hunt. He sung his usual 'Bonjour, mon auxiliaire!' and winked at you. Yet it was too early for him to show up, which raised your suspicions, thus you wondered out loud if he wasn't planning to go hunting tonight;

— the male's face darkened: it was his hat casting extra shadows to his eyes than it usually did, smile jerking angularly further for a millisecond but expression remaining all the same. Rook was satisfied by your observation paired up with alertness and came clean about not going to hunt now, deciding to do so later... after you were finished, because he intended to take you along with him to hunt;

— you could feel sweat form on your palms and breath hitching in your throat. Dead meat...you were dead meat! You protested, arguing that you were always terribly tired after work and had errands to take care of in the early morning following day. Alas, your excuses fell flat on the man's ears, he assured you that there was nothing to fear as he was to accompany you during the little night randevu;

— the information only fueled your panicked state and before you could protest any longer Rook told you that he would be waiting for you here when time would come, vanishing into the grand mansion. Work didn't help you lift your spirit to which you would soon be bidding good-byes. Without a doubt, he knew you knew of his true nature. He was devilishly perceptive and equally crafty with his expressions, knowing his way around words. After all, Rook took care of the mansion and it's residents, 'protecting the house from pests which resided in wilderness and roamed city streets' as he called it;

— he was definitely going to murder you, hunt you down like an animal in the dark woods. You shivered. The window in the room you were in had been closed, but now it was wide opened. You would scream in terror and pain but nothing would come out. The dust cloth rubbed same spot over and over. The portrait didn't even belong to Vil nor Epel. Because, your throat would be torn by Rook's sharp vampiric teeth, his face covered in your warm crimson fluid. Your eyes darted to the side. The grand clock showed 11:35 p.m. Tears would stream down your tintless cheeks and Rook would laugh and lick them off with his cold tongue. It was almost time to clock out, you thought;

— there was a gap in your memory: right now it was almost midnight, you were tailing close behind Rook, avoiding tree roots and trying to navigate in darkness but you swore you were tending to a portrait moments ago. Strangely, you felt nothing, pure emptiness, as if you accepter your looming doom. Crispy cold night air and white crystal snow would be a pleasant sight to behold. At least your demise would come from a handsome man in a picturesque place, you morbidly deadpanned in your mind;

— then all of the sudden, you arrived to a cliff side, overlooking the whole city, big bewitching full moon lighting up the forest. Rook signed in content and sat on a withered tree trunk, looking with fondness into the scenery. He begun telling a well-known city legend about monster hunters who chased away creatures that were threatening humans. The family was secretive, yet so prominent that upon seeing them carry out their duty, folk would utter 'the Hunts' in relief under their breath;

— even in your mentally petrified state, you could put two and two together. Rook, however, stopped on his tracks and casted a look at you. In a soft voice he told you that even though he became what he swore to eliminate, his love for humanity never once wavered, declaring that he would never deliberately hurt an innocent living soul... Especially you, by whom he admittedly was wholly smitten with. So he hoped you could put faith in possibility of you becoming lovers, even for much a short while;

— with time you dealt with your fear and apprehension, trying to get used to him being a vampire, reciprocating his feelings. Rook of course in his playful manner would play jokes on you, chasing you around or ordering to surrender yourself to him. Needless to say, your human side was more precious than his fleeting desires: if he was in need of blood, he would catch himself a rabbit, but the male often would trace his fangs along your unclothed flesh, just to keep you on your toes;

— despite having years behind his back, he never lost interest in his hobbies, going as far as to adopt new opens over time. But strolling in the city or visiting pubs, museums and theatres were things he also wanted you to experience for yourself in the great depth. All the while having your warm soft hand intertwined with his! Rook loved touching your alive body and in fact occasionally removed his leather gloves just to feel warmth underneath his palms and fingers;

— oh but how he loved hugging you from behind! To wrap his arms behind you, push your frame into himself as close as possible, and feel your quick or steady heartbeat. For a few sweet moments Rook imagined that he was mortal again, that you together were one whole living, breathing being. Inseparable by time and circumstances and very fate itself. The man was truly filled with gratitude for the gift of vampirism that his master bestowed upon him, enabling to meet someone dear as you.

Epel

— something that has barely changed ever since the great reveal was your attitude towards Epel: although he was a nocturnal bloodsucking creature, that could most likely kill you with a swing of its arm, the boy barely induced any terror or dread, so you were spending all your free time at the mansion in his company, becoming good friends in the process;

— for once, lilac haired male felt relief instead of contempt towards his overall appearance which failed to instill fear into mortals upon one look alone. Vil and Rook told him countless times that vampires usually are not defined by their atrocious outward form unlike good chunk of other monstrous entities, but rather by theirs eery resemblance to humans that was used to lure in and control foolish victims;

— however, Epel wasn't the most patient when it came to his vampiric side. Naturally, he was honing his acquired skills and yet his strength falling short when it came to displaying it. Don't get him wrong, he still couldn't look at how Rook would slash local transgressors with his talons without feeling bitter bile coming up to his throat. Or not flinching when Vil ruthlessly berated editor of the printing house for making minor typographic mistakes, making generally indifferent workers suddenly fall to their knees and plead for forgiveness;

— the boy desired to be and to look reliable and dependable, so that people would confide in him for their issues. His family always brushed Epel off, never acknowledging his contribution. That's precisely why he chased after Vil with whom he fought and with the help of whom he could be powerful enough to protect his loved ones. That's why he became the actor, not because he wanted to earn the title of 'the fairest of the theater' instead of Neige, but because that way Vil would grant him what Epel restlessly wished for;

— unfortunately, his family's way of thinking cost them their lives and apple farm, which was burned down by spiteful debt collectors, and cost Epel his old carefree life. It all became pointless: the stage, the vampires, the shiny red apples still unharvested from remaining unburned trees that were supposed to be props for Vil's plays. In spite of the boy not keeping his end of the barging, Vil considered himself guilty of not aiding the male earlier, thus taking him into his mansion where he taught young vampire spawn how to keep living;

— many years had passed and Epel was yet to find meaning in his existence. He would try to distract himself in the apple orchard, carving things with his pen knife from the fruit, something he vaguely remembered his father showing him how to do. Initially, nothing good came out so the boy quickly discarded the activity in favour of playing with neighborhood kids, only adopting it as a hobby again following his dad's passing and apples not being eaten after the performance;

—the dilemma haunted the poor male for all this existence: he could never show his self to anyone or make anyone not take him for granted. The last drop that toppled the vase was Epel's crush on you: friendliness grew into attraction, where he would eagerly awaiting your next working day, writing you letters in the beautiful handwriting that he was learning from Vil and considering visiting you on the weekends at night at some point;

— you liked his appearance, which he was fine with, and returned some of the gestures, however regarding them coming from politeness rather than strong feelings. At first he thought the fault was due to him being a vampire, but from the looks of it, you could care less. The purple haired boy needed to express his feelings more directly, and there was no better way of doing so than to perform them, at least that's what Rook told him to do;

— Epel didn't have many choices to pick from, thus with a pain-filled wince he selected the perfect romance play that didn't make him gag upon reciting the lines. He sent you an invitation through Rook, to come to where your first meeting occurred. When you arrived, you saw Epel stand on the stage with resolve reading in his body language. The performance was very animated and emotional, Epel delivering his lines with unfeigned authenticity, earning a sigh from Vil and a chuckle from Rook who were concealed in the shadows;

— Epel finished by professing his love for you instead of the characters from the play. You were moved by the boy's performance and dedication to the acting, so you agreed to go out with him and got up to the stage to pecked him on the cheek. The action triggered Epel to change back into his country self, easily picking you up and spinning you around in the air, saying something you somewhat recognised and laughing so hard it brought him to tears;

— ever since that night, the master of the mansion and his assistant would nag and prod the petite boy to properly behave around you and keep his vampiric tendencies in check. The truth was that one of the first things Epel asked you to do once you were officially in the romantic relationship was to let him get a taste of your blood. There was no way of saying 'no' to the doe eyed male, thus you tagged your sweater to the side to reveal your exposed neck, inviting him in. You came to regret that decision when Epel not only painfully bit into the flesh but also spilt over some of your blood onto your clothes;

— sometimes he would be dignified, refined lover who happened to be a vampire, and sometimes he would cling to your side and beg you for affection, trying to convince you by using his natural and unnatural charms. The second instances, however, were truly making you feel kind of scared when he managed to order you around like a doll. Epel would never turn his ability against you though, because he was there to protect you and make you the happiest human in the whole world.

#twisted wonderland headcanons #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #vil shoenheit x reader #rook hunt x reader #epel felmier x reader #sad's holiday special 🍃

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rhbangevents · 2 months

Text

FAQ

What is a Reverse Mini Bang?

A Reverse Mini Bang is a fandom event where Artists and Writers team up to create a collaborative project. In this event, Artists anonymously submit one or more pieces of art, and then Writers craft a complete story inspired by the artwork. This event will focus on the Renheng and Xingyue pairing. It is non-competitive and open to anyone 18 years and older. Minors are NOT allowed.

How does it work?

For first-time participants, here's the general process:

Artists will begin drawing at least one (1) art piece, we will give at least one (1) month headstart and are expected to submit a complete artwork when the time comes.

All submitted artwork will remain anonymous to minimize bias.

When art submissions open, Artists will submit their files through a provided Google form. Artists will list the following information on their form:

A short description: 1-2 sentences about their piece/idea!

List the characters depicted in the piece

Tag their artwork with the appropriate tags: ex Nudity, Gore, Dead Dove etc

List any content restrictions for the work: these could be anything from tropes to squicks. Authors MUST abide by these restrictions

List their desired level of collaboration:

Limited/Minimal Interaction: The Artist wants to be mostly hands off!

Starting Point/ Cheering On: The Artist has some starting ideas and wants to help at the start, but once the idea is set, they’ll mostly be there for support!

Collaborative: The Artist wants to collaborate on plotting and or worldbuilding.

Heavy Involvement: The Artist wants to be a part of the whole process, start to finish, perhaps even co-write. If you intend to co-write, please explicitly communicate this on your form and to your partner.

Indicate the ratings of fanfiction you are comfortable with (you can select multiple). Authors MUST adhere to these preferences.

General

Teen and Up

Mature

Explicit

This is just an example (you are at liberty to input as much information as needed):

A short description:

Renheng Xianxia Au. Dan heng time travels to the past to stop demon lord ren from destroying the world but then finds out his past incarnation is married to the person himself.

List the characters depicted in the piece:

Yingxing, Dan Feng, Dan Heng and Ren.

Tags: xianxia au, time travel, reincarnation, angst, fluff, blood, a little gore.

Content restrictions for the work:

PWP/fic more than 50% explicit content, Angst (withOUT a happy ending), OC as Protagonist, OC in significant/plot-critical role(s), A/B/O dynamics

List their desired level of collaboration: Starting Point/Cheering On

Ratings: Mature

Mods will assemble a gallery with assigned numbers on each art piece, this is where Writers will choose the artwork they want to write for. Please read through the details carefully before you pick.For best practice:

Writers will fill out a claims form that lists your top 10 picks (amount may vary depending on participants).

Each Writer will be assigned exactly one (1) artwork to write for. As such, please list your choices in order of preference in ascending order. One (1) being Most Preferred, Ten (10) being Least Preferred.

Both Artists and Writers will be asked to list any participants they do not wish to be paired with. This information will be kept confidential.

Special Note: Those who’ve signed up as a Writer and Pinch Hitter, you may be paired with two (2) artworks through this process, should a piece in your top ten goes unclaimed.

Mods will pair up Writers and Artists based on these selections.

Any unmatched art will be announced in the discord server to Pinch Hitters, who will volunteer to claim them. Pairs will be announced shortly after.

Please note that while you may not get your top choice, we will do our very best to ensure you receive one of your top five (5) picks.

Creation process will continue for at least one (1) month before the official release week.

Where do I sign up?

You must complete a sign-up form to participate. After verifying your age through social media, we will send you a Discord invite link via email.

What is the word requirement for writers?

Minimum of 2000 words, no maximum. Go wild!

How many artworks do artists submit?

Artists are only required to submit one artwork, but in cases where there is an uneven number of participants (more Writers than Artists), you may submit two artworks.

What is considered a ‘finished artwork’?

The interpretation of ‘finished artwork’ varies among Artists. Backgrounds and full color are optional. Acceptable submissions encompass black and white pieces, comics, and artworks with or without backgrounds, excluding sketches or works in progress.

Is NSFW content allowed?

Yes.

Is Dead Dove content allowed?

Yes. For Dead Dove content, Artists must label their piece with “interest with DD content” and discuss it with their assigned partner on their level of comfort. Forcing an assigned partner to participate in DD content is inappropriate and not allowed.

Do I have to follow a ‘theme’?

No need. You can do whatever you want! AUs, Canon compliant, canon divergent etc. All are welcome.

Are side ships allowed?

Yes. Side ships and platonic relationships are allowed, so long as the main focus of your work is Renheng and/or Xingyue, and that no other characters are paired romantically with our main couple. Remember, this event is for M/M Renheng and/or Xingyue ONLY.

Is switching the main pairing dynamics allowed?

Not allowed. This event is for Top Ren x Bottom Dan Heng and Top Yingxing x Bottom Dan Feng ONLY.

Is Yingheng and Renfeng allowed?

Not allowed. For this event, our only focus is the non-reversible Renheng and Xingyue pairing.

#faq

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a-killer-obsession · 4 months

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Wavelengths [Killer x Reader, Heat x Reader]

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 20 - See Me

Just straight angst tbh

WC: ~4k

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @iggy5055

For five grueling days the commanders of the Victoria Punk had taken turns watching over you. It had taken a significant amount of persuasion to get Killer to return to his own room to get some sleep, after almost two straight days sitting at your side, leaving only to use the attached bathroom. With all of the crew, other than the commanders, strictly prohibited from the infirmary during your long sleep, his mask had remained off. It made it easy for the others to see the dark bags under his eyes, the whites of them bloodshot and irritated from crying and forcing himself to stay awake. He had fallen asleep a few times, but never for more than half an hour, until Kid had physically removed him from the room and barricaded his cabin door shut with him inside, forcing him to rest. All of the commanders were on a rotation keeping watch over your condition, even Double who you barely ever spoke to on a normal day had willingly taken up a guard post.

The ship had returned to the island it had come from before rescuing you, Kid didn't have the energy to give commands right now and Killer was in no state to back him up if something happened out at sea, so until you were awake they had made the decision to stay docked. It meant as well that Mohawk had unlimited access to any medical supplies he may need, though once your fever had broken on day two there hadn't been as much need. Your wounds were closing well, no longer plagued by infection, and your bruises were slowly fading. He'd had to install a catheter, which felt like an unbelievable invasion of your privacy, but it was medically necessary if he wanted to keep you hydrated intravenously without risking damage to your bladder.

Yesterday, confident in your level of recovery, he had lowered the dose of your pain medication, so everyone was in high hopes that you would wake up soon. As such, the watch rotation had been limited to those who most insisted on being at your side when you woke: Killer, Heat, and Kid. Mohawk was also nearby whenever he wasn't resting or eating, on standby in case you woke up and found the pain management to not be enough. The last thing anyone wanted was for you to be in any more pain.

For the first three days since being retrieved you had been in a deep, dark void of sleep. No dreams, but it also meant no nightmares. As the fatigue of the infection faded, the dreams returned. Mostly you dreamed of the island, but it was an idyllic haze. Moss covered stones and ivy covered trees and the most sapphire blue water you had ever seen flowing through a perfect stream. Brightly coloured koi swimming in the bright rays of sun that bounced and sparkled on the surface of the water, making small, delicate rainbows. Vibrant, exotic butterflies fluttering through a clearing of wildflowers, where Killer held your hand and whispered sweet nothings as he made love to you in the soft fragrant grass.

Killer's face melting, dripping onto you in thick viscous clumps, boiling your skin wherever they made contact. Blades of grass turning crimson with fresh blood, whipping at your flesh like they were alive and had a mind of their own. Trees stripped bare by harsh winds that chilled you to your bones, and the smell of rotting animal carcasses near a dried up stream, scattered with the bones of dead fish. Hail that turned to sharp stones, stripping your skin bare as you ran through mud, sinking lower and lower as your limbs grow heavy from fighting it. It flows into your mouth, silencing your screams, filling your lungs and suffocating you while dark looming forms crowd over you and laugh. “Little mouse,” they mock, the forms wavering like clouds of black smoke with red, glowing eyes that pierce right through you, “squeak for us little mouse.”

You jolt awake, a scream tearing from your throat, blood curdling and shrill, your eyes wide in fear as you fail to recognise your surroundings. A single strong arm wraps around you and with haki covered fingers you claw at it, shredding at the skin there as your scream turns to harsh growls and you fight against the restraint.

“YIN, IT'S ME,” Kid yells from beside you, struggling to keep you from falling off the cot. Just his fucking luck that you chose his shift to wake up, as if he hadn't pissed Killer off enough as it was. “BREATHE, GIRL, FUCKING BREATHE”

Mohawk is quick to come to your side, injecting you with a light sedative, not enough to knock you out, just enough to calm you. Kid's arm pours blood from fresh wounds as he holds you firmly, but you stop fighting him, hyperventilating as you come back to reality and accept that you're awake. He lets his grasp on you soften, holding you against his chest as he does for Killer, supporting your torso with his metal arm so he can use his flesh one to rub your arm soothingly till your breathing finally begins to even out.

“There you go girlie, there you go,” he coos quietly as you finally calm, eyes pricking with tears, one hand balling the fabric of his vest as you hold it tight for support. “You're home, you're safe, everything is going to be okay now”

“Kil- Kil-,” your stutter with a raspy voice. It sounds so unfamiliar that you're not sure it even came from you. Kid gives Mohawk a nod and he quickly exits.

“Doc is gonna get him, okay?” Kid soothed, “He's okay, he made it home safe because of your sacrifice, he's just sleeping right now but Mohawk will get him”

You whimper and nod in agreement, resting your head against Kid's wide chest as he wraps his flesh arm around you. You never thought Kid could ever be capable of such gentle, tender care, it was so unlike him. The two of you had such a turbulent relationship, but right now you felt safe as he held you, in the knowledge that you were loved, and your captain had not abandoned you after all. You couldn't remember it happening, but they had come for you, and you were home.

“You really scared us Yin,” Kid said far too softly to be in character for him, “I'm so sorry, this was all my doing, I was just trying to force you and Kil together so you could stop fucking each other over”

“Kid, what are you talking about?” You had to whisper, your throat sore and torn from screaming and not having physically drunk anything in days.

“I couldn't watch him hurt like that anymore,” he admitted, “he loves you, he's just so fucking stubborn, you both are. I know you and I haven't had the best relationship but I didn't want to watch you hurting either”

“He loves me?” You rasped.

“Of course he fucking loves you,” Kid half laughed, “he's been crazy about you since you came on board. I know you don't see the change, but he's different around you - he's happier, more comfortable in his own skin. He hasn't been the same since you got back from the island, and then there's the episodes-”

“What episodes?” You asked.

“Ah, I've said too much,” Kid scratched the back of his neck as he loosened his hold on you, “it's not for me to say. All I can say is he hasn't been this fucked up since Vic died. Whatever he said to you on the island, he doesn't mean it, he just can't admit that anyone could ever love the real him. He's hated himself for a long time, but it seems like he hates himself less when you're around”

“I-”

“YIN!” Killer near cried as he ran in, the infirmary door swinging on its hinges as he rushed to your side, holding your face so carefully between his large hands. Kid let you go and you quickly melted into Killer, his arms wrapping around you as the tears you'd been trying so hard to hold back finally spilled out and soaked his t-shirt.

“I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,” he cried, his tears dripping in to your hair from where his chin rested against the top of your head, “I shouldn't have left you there, I should have fought harder”

“Kil,” you rasped, “you had to go, or you'd be dead. It's okay now, you came for me”

“We took so long though,” he sobbed, “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. They hurt you so bad, we should have been there earlier”

“Kil-” you wheezed. He was squeezing you so tight you could barely breathe.

“I'm so fucking sorry Yin,” he cried.

“KIL,” Kid growled, “you're gonna fucking kill her yourself”

Killer finally realised how tight he was holding you and let go, your breaths coming in ragged and painful. Your hand shot to your chest, a sharp ache making it hard to breathe. You started to hyperventilate as you struggled to catch a breath, panicking as it started to feel like you were suffocating. Mohawk gently pushed Killer aside and injected something into your IV that you hadn't even noticed was connected to your arm until now, before putting an oxygen mask over your face to help you. Killer slowly backed away, eyes wide in fear, till his back hit the wall near the door.

“Kil, don't-” Kid could barely get out the warning before Killer fled, the door swinging again from the force he had slammed through it with. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you looked to Kid for support.

“He'll come back, Yin,” Kid sighed, “he's just scared of hurting you”

“This wasn't his fault,” Mohawk said, gathering up the things he needed to tend to Kid's arm, “you've got a broken rib, it'll be hard to breath for a little while”

“Try explaining that to him,” Kid groaned as the doctor attended to his arm. He already knew he was going to have to replace more furniture. Killer had in general been extremely skittish since you'd returned, his guilt was eating him alive. He felt that if he'd just never given in to his own selfishness on the island, none of this would have happened. The fact you'd been raped had him gagging whenever it flashed across his mind, he'd had trouble keeping food down in general since hearing about your condition.

Before you had the chance to really break down about Killer running from you again, Heat appeared in the door, like the visage of an angel. Always there when you needed him, it made you curse yourself that you'd fallen for Killer and not Heat. Things would be so much fucking easier if it was Heat. Regardless, you still loved him in a different way as your closest friend, and eagerly held out your arms for him as he entered. He replied by tilting you up on the bed and shuffling in behind you, letting you lean back against his warm chest. It felt nice against the body wide aching that you felt, a Heat sized hot water bottle, though the pain was slowly lessening no doubt as a result of whatever Mohawk had injected you with.

As soon as you were comfortable Heat directed his eyes to meet Kid's. “It's happening again,” he said quietly.

“I'm on it,” Kid sighed, giving you a curt nod and rushing out the door to find his best friend before any irreversible damage could be done to the ship or to him.

“What's happening again?” you wheezed.

“Killer isn't well,” Heat sighed, giving Mohawk a forlorn look. Mohawk returned his frown before letting out a deep breath and excusing himself, taking with him a small first aid kit. Most of the crew now knew about Killer's mania, it had gotten hard to hide given the frequency over the last few weeks, so he prepared himself to stitch more wounds.

“Did he get hurt?” You asked. Heat didn't like the way your voice sounded so strained and held the oxygen mask to your face so you'd stop removing it to speak.

“Stop talking baby, rest your throat,” you gave him an annoyed huff which made the corner of his mouth raise, ever the defiant even now. “He hasn't been well for a very long time,” Heat continued, “I'm sure you're aware by now that he has some self-esteem issues, and it's why he wears the mask, but it goes much deeper. He has-”

“Episodes,” you finished for him, “Kid told me that much, but I don't understand what he meant”

Heat tutted at you for removing the mask again before continuing. “He has… I guess you would call it manic episodes. It happened a lot after Victoria died, back before we'd even left our home island, but it hadn't happened much since he got the mask, until you got back from the island and they started happening again. It's been really bad week for him, and he keeps refusing medication”

“Oh,” you whispered sadly, “I did this”

“You didn't, babydoll,” Heat assured you, “he's just got a lot of mixed up feelings right now that boiled over when we lost you. He'll come right eventually, he always does”

“Is that why he doesn't want me?” You said, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“You know that's not true,” Heat sighed, “but I think it's maybe why he's keeping his distance. There's really nobody to blame here but he puts it all on himself anyway. Is it the fault of the storm for sending you to that island? Puberty fucking with his self esteem when we were kids? Our stupid plan to get the two of you together? The marines? Nobody is to blame here but that doesn't stop him from blaming himself, and it's only putting stress on his condition”

“Kid mentioned something about forcing us together, what did he mean by that?” You frowned.

Heat sighed and ran a stressed hand through his blue locks before sliding off the bed to avoid the question for a little longer. He quietly retrieved a glass of water for you before returning back to your side, making the mistake of glancing at you and seeing your disapproving expression at his avoidance.

“Look, we couldn't just keep watching you both hurting each other anymore okay?” He said, exasperated, “I may have mentioned to the others that you said you love him after Kid said Killer had a breakdown about loving you and regretting what happened, so we made up an excuse about needing log poses and needing stealth to get them so the two of you would spend time together”

“It was none of your fucking business,” you spat, fuming at him. “It wasn't your fucking place or anyone's fucking place to push us together like a couple of dolls. We made a deal on that island, but Killer was the one who threw me away. He made it clear that he didn't want me when we got back. It's not my fault that his own decision hurt him, as if it didn't fucking rip me apart”

“I don't get it!” Heat yelled, throwing his hands up in defeat, “you love him, you told me so, and he told Kid he loves you. Why can't you just both get over it and be happy together? I feel like I'm watching two monkeys at a typewriter, I can't just keep waiting for one of you to accidentally write ‘I love you'”

“BECAUSE HE THREW ME AWAY HEAT!” you screamed, “HE THREW ME AWAY! JUST LIKE MY DAD! JUST LIKE THE MARINES! JUST LIKE EVERY RAPIST COMMANDER WHO GREW TIRED OF ME WHEN I DIDN'T SCREAM ENOUGH FOR THEM! JUST LIKE DELILAH! AND JUST LIKE YOU ALL WILL TOO!”

Heat stood staring in shocked silence. Not once had the two of you ever fought, and he had no idea you felt like this. “Yin, please-”

“Leave, Heat,” you turned away from him, fury and pain written all over your face. Tears were starting to roll down your cheeks against your will.

“No,” he started towards you.

You flipped the seastone on your bracelet that someone had put back on you while you were asleep, and looked at him with dead, blank, pink-grey eyes. “Leave, or I'll make you leave,” you growled.

“I'm sorry,” he sighed as he stepped away, having nothing he could do to retort against your threat, “I'm sorry Yin”

And then he was gone, and once again, you were alone.

You didn't speak again for several days, not that your aching throat would allow for it anyway. Killer didn’t visit again, and you weren't surprised. Heat visited often despite you yelling at him, trying his best to make conversation and fill you in on everything you'd missed, but you would just pretend to sleep, or pointedly stare blankly at the door. You didn't want to talk to him, you didn't want to talk to anyone who had anything to do with that stupid plan. You found out that Mohawk and Double hadn't been a part of it, they were just following what sounded like a normal mission commanded by their captain, so when you did begin to speak, it was only to them.

You couldn't help it though when Mohawk discharged you and you found yourself tossing and turning in your own bed. Eventually you cracked, and Heat was more than willing to stay with you to make you feel safe. You couldn't stay mad at him forever, he was your best friend here, you needed him. You did your best to get past what had been a well meaning plan and try to forgive him. Kid too had been forgiven, after days of him leaving little metal animals at your door. It was adorable, really, you couldn't stay mad at that. Wire was harder to forgive, especially after finding out that it was his idea to delay your rescue. You'd nearly torn his throat out on the deck when you found out till he finally snapped and broke down. You didn't even think he was capable of crying, and it may have been emotional manipulation but you couldn't help but forgive him.

Six days after being discharged, now back on the open sea, you had the stark realisation that you hadn't seen Killer at all. You expected to just have to ignore him as you passed like ships in the night, but you hadn't seen him at all. You sat down to lunch and noticed how quiet the other commanders were, defeated expressions on their faces as they all silently picked at their food.

“Where's Killer?” You finally asked, curiosity and concern getting the better of you. You were mad at him, but that didn't mean you'd miraculously stopped loving him.

“His room,” Kid didn't raise his head to answer you, “he hasn't come out since his last… episode”

You sighed and stood, you had to talk to him, this was getting out of control. Your anger was far outweighed right now by your concern for Killer's mental health.

“Where are you going?” His head finally perked up as you started to leave.

“I promised him we'd talk,” you replied flatly.

The others exchanged looks that were somewhere between worry and hope. They'd all taken turns trying to get Killer out of his depression but had all been unsuccessful. Maybe you could be his relief, like Victoria had been all those years ago. You had the same stubborn, aggressive, take-no-shit attitude as she had, but with that same gentle, selfless heart under the exterior that never failed to make people smile. They needed so badly for Killer to smile again.

Mohawk stood and rushed to your side as you walked away, prompting you to stop and look at him. He took your hand gently and placed a small plastic pill container in it, closing your figures around it.

“Please, if you can, get him to take these,” Mohawk's eyes were sad and pleading, “he needs to take one every day”

You looked at the container in your hand, raising your brows at him. “For his… sickness?” You asked. Mohawk nodded and you responded with a sigh. “Okay, I'll try,” you told him, before taking your leave.

You weren't sure whether or not to even bother knocking as you stood outside his door. You didn't know what you'd say if he let you in either, you knew now that he loved you back, but you still felt hurt and rejected by the way he threw you away after the island, and the fact that he never came to see you again after running from the infirmary. Regardless, you could feel the ache in your heart from knowing that he was hurting so badly that he'd isolated himself. You couldn't just keep standing outside his door though, he had observation haki, he no doubt knew you were already here so the longer you delayed, the more awkward it would be.

With a deep breath you tried to be brave, settling on not bothering to knock, you had a feeling he wouldn't answer anyway. You opened the door slowly, nervously peering around the edge of it, your heart in your throat as it beat much too fast.

Killer's usually pristine room looked like a wild hog had run through it. The dresser was on its side, the contents of the drawers spread out over the floor. The doors of the wardrobe hung from their hinges, cracked and threatening to break off entirely. The side tables were tossed aside, books that had previously been kept in them torn apart and thrown around the room. The hooks on the wall that usually held weapons were empty, and you wondered if Kid had removed them, it spoke of the gravity of the situation. Beyond that you swore that the furniture in here was different, it'd been a long time since you'd been in here during initiation but you could have sworn Killer had a set of ebony wood furniture, not oak.

You spotted his mask in the corner, cracked right down the center, a large hole in the wall above it. You picked it up gingerly, running your hand over the front of it before placing it on the unmade bed.

Killer himself was nowhere to be seen, so you ventured in further, assuming he must be in the bathroom. Glass embedded in the carpet crunched underfoot as you carefully tried to find your footing on the barely visible floor. The bathroom door had a huge hole in it, the wood splintered around it, like someone had punched straight through. There was no longer a medicine cabinet, just an unpainted rectangle on the wall where it used to hang, and you could have sworn the sink looked different. Maybe you were misremembering, you had only been in here once after all.

You found Killer in the otherwise empty bathtub, curled in on himself with his head buried between his knees, his long locks matted and unruly as they hid most of his body. He looked truly dishevelled, and you could see cuts and scrapes and bruises in various stages of healing littering his arms. You found yourself climbing into the tub too before you could think too hard about it, sinking down to sit at the opposite end from him. He didn't give you any movement to acknowledge your presence.

“Kil, you have to take your meds,” you weren't sure what else to say, but the meds at least gave you an excuse as to why you were here. “Everyone is worried about you”

“They shouldn't be,” he mumbled, “I'll only hurt them”

“Kil you are hurting them,” you replied with a sad frown, “they just want you to be okay, it hurts them to see you like this. Take the meds, please”

You held out the pills to him, shaking them a little so he knew you were waiting for him to take them, but he still didn't move. You ran an exhausted hand through your hair and stood up, climbing out of the tub and returning to his room to hunt for a hairbrush. When you found one you returned to the bathroom and sat at his side, taking a thick segment of his hair and carefully working your way through the knots.

“Don't,” he grumbled, shying away from you.

“Quit being a baby, your hair is all fucked up, and since you won't care for it, I will,” you continued brushing. He didn't like it, not because he didn't want you to touch his hair, but because it reminded him of the tender care you afforded him on the island.

“What happened wasn't your fault,” you said as you brushed, “I'm still mad as hell at you for hurting me but what happened at the marine base wasn't your fault”

“It is, I should have protected you, I should have sensed his haki,” he said quietly, still making no effort to move.

“We all make mistakes, doesn't mean it was your fault,” you replied, moving to the next long segment of hair. He sat quietly, having no reply for you.

“Killer,” you said softly, “can you look at me please?”

You wanted so badly for him to just look at you, to just recognise that despite everything, you were there, at his side, trying your best to talk to him despite how much you were hurting, even if he hadn’t been there for you while you were healing. You wanted to pour your heart out and make things right with him but he wouldn't even dignify you with eye contact. When he still didn't move it started to make your heart ache, the strings that held it finally snapping under the tension. You felt ignored and thrown away again, and it made you feel like you were invisible and insignificant. Tears started falling before you had a chance to stop them.

“I'm right here Kil, why can't you see me?” You cried. That finally got him to move, but it was too little too late as his icy blue eyes caught the tail end of you leaving. You threw the container of pills on the bed before slamming his door shut behind you and fleeing back to your own room to sob.

[NEXT CHAPTER]

#one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #killer one piece #killer x reader #massacre soldier killer #heat one piece #heat x reader #kid pirates

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sirdindjarin · 2 years

Text

Hurt - Joel Miller x Reader (Part Four)

A/N: This is a non-canon (timeline and cause of Ellie's immunity is fucked with), highly indulgent story. Based on Pedro Pascal's excellent daddyness in the HBO adaptation of The Last of Us.

Summary: Joel is significantly injured, you are a hero, and Ellie makes a confession.

Masterlist ->

AO3 Link♥

RATING: Mature - sexual pining, making out, kissing, cursing, gore, canon-typical violence, blood, mentions of death.

TAGS: Age Gap (reader is mid-twenties, Joel is mid-forties), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Angst, Fluff.

WC: 7.4k

___________________________________________________

The floor is cool on Joel’s exposed skin. The fluorescent lights above make a sickly buzzing sound. All too conscious for the amount of pain he’s in, Joel recognizes another noise: the push bar on the entry door. Joel steels himself for another death, be it another’s or his own.

He engages his weakened abdominal muscles to sit up, and scoot against the closest wall. When the person exits the entry hall, Joel will be to their direct right. Given that he’s on the floor and looks like a corpse himself, he’s confident he can shoot before the other person even realizes he’s there.

Joel doesn’t hear any footsteps.

Not a big guy, he thinks. Or maybe just cautious.

He bends his left, uninjured, leg, and rests the barrel of his rifle on it, too exhausted to hold it with his bleeding left arm.

He waits. And waits.

His heart rate is inversely proportional to his slow breath, and the blood rushing through his ears dampens his hearing. Joel knows his life will come down to a gut-reaction here.

The tip of a gun protrudes from the hallway. Joel doesn’t fire, lulling the person into believing they’re alone. Now comes the hand grasping the gun. Joel still doesn’t fire, but he squeezes the trigger, ready to complete the pull.

A feminine head looks left - away from Joel - and he squeezes a little harder before remembering that every woman he’d seen from this group should be dead. The feminine head turns his direction and gasps.

All tension drains from Joel. He drops the barrel of his gun to the floor and breathes out your name.

You run to him, sinking to your knees. Releasing your gun on the ground, you cradle his bloody face in your hands while you examine him. Bone-deep relief washes through him and allows his eyes to close at your touch.

“Where are you hurt?” Your voice quivers. You let go of him to pull your bag around and dig through it for medical supplies.

“Ellie?” He croaks.

“She’s okay, I got her.” You take in the considerable amount of blood covering him. His face, arm, stomach, and leg are all a deep brownish red. His lip is busted and the skin on his cheekbone is split.

Joel is battered and bleeding and it’s for you and your sister. He looks like the devil personally rose up and beat the shit out of him, leaving bruises and tears along his warm, beautiful skin.

“Where are you hurt?” You ask again, this time through budding tears. You pull up his shirt to find his first stab wound. “Is this a bullet wound?”

Joel gives you the faintest shake of his head, “Letter opener.”

Huffing at his bad joke, you pour a bit of saline into his wound, then fold a square of gauze and tape it over the hole.

“I have to get you out of here before I sew you up,” you whisper more to yourself than him. “Your leg?”

“Bullet hole. A twenty-two.”

“Shit,” you hiss.

You don’t look at it further, afraid to see bad news. Depending on how far away he’d been when he was shot, it was likely that the bullet hadn’t been powerful enough to go all the way through his muscle.

Joel finds your eyes and you’re horrified to see a shine in his. You brush his face once more, your fingers swiping at tears that have yet to fall.

“You shoulda been in Wyoming by now,” he half-jokes.

You throw him a glare, but say nothing. Literally bleeding out for the sake of you and Ellie, and in significant pain, you’ll let him say whatever he wants to at the moment.

You slide your shoulder into his armpit. “Can you stand?”

Without waiting for an answer, you put all of your strength into your thighs and try to raise him. Using only his left leg, he straightens with a groan. He leans back against the wall, and his head hangs. Joel’s sore jaw brushes the crown of your head, his stubby beard catching strands of your hair.

For a moment, the two of you just breathe in each other's arms, silently euphoric that the other is alive. His thudding heart is all you need. As long as it was beating, yours would follow.

He pushes it, “Woulda been safer. You had no idea who was in here.”

Tired of the merry-go-round, you sarcastically reply, “Well, I debated it but Ellie insisted I come get your ass.”

He snorts.

“Please get used to it,” you mumble.

He responds by tucking you more firmly into his side. His right hand clasps your chin, tilting your face up to his. His bruised and bloody face is tragic. Joel’s watery eyes do nothing to ease the discomfort in your soul.

“What happened?” Your mind conjures up all sorts of horrible scenes, your eyes dancing from injury to injury.

“I - I shot a man’s wife in front of him. He tried to kill me for that,” Joel does not sugarcoat anything. “Didn’t blame him. I understood.” His voice grows stronger, his fingers move to cradle the side of your face. Your eyes flutter as you relax into his palm and Joel leaves traces of his awed gaze along your skin.

“I understood,” he repeats. “I ain’t been able to think of one thing I wouldn’t do for the both of you,” he confesses in his deep, lilting voice. He seems stunned by his own revelation.

Your breath hitches as the tears that had swelled earlier return in earnest. “Then why do you want to leave us so badly?”

“I don’t,” he answers as though it’s both the most obvious thing and also the problem. “I -'' he stops. The hardened man couldn’t even admit his feelings; how could he admit his flaws?

Joel knows you’re scared of losing him and he scrunches his face in frustration, but he can’t find any more words. To your own consternation, you don’t push him further. He had said enough for now. You shift away from him.

“It’s too far for you to walk. I’ll run, get the car, and come back.”

Joel’s grip on you tightens; your heart throws itself against your chest in response, but it’s necessary.

“Joel, for god’s sake, you can’t walk that far,” you repeat and begin to extricate yourself from his side, but he holds you fast. “It’ll be safer and quicker if I go alone,” you use your greatest weapon: common sense.

He frowns down at you, his nostrils flaring. Releasing control over your safety is something he desperately doesn’t want, and despite his current condition, he could kill the world if you needed it done.

“I’ll run,” you promise, looking up at him. “Let’s get to the front door,” you prop him up once again.

This time he allows you to bear some of his weight. Joel swallows his pained complaints, wanting to protect you from them. His force of will allows you to get him to the entrance of the building within a minute. He slides down the wall onto the floor.

“I don’t want to leave you, but I’ll be back in less than fifteen minutes like I said. Promise.”

Joel squeezes his eyes shut and reclines his head against the wall. “I know.”

___________________________________________________

“Ellie!” The bathroom door clangs with the pounding of your fist. “You okay?”

“Having a blast,” comes the muffled reply. The deadbolt unlocks and your sister swings the thick door open.

You smile at the sight of her, “Get in the car.”

She narrows her eyes at you, “Where’s Joel?”

“I finally killed him,” you deadpan. “C’mon, you really think I’d be smiling if he wasn’t okay?”

“When I said, ‘either kiss or kill each other’ I was definitely rooting for one over the other.”

“He’s back at the school. He’s… injured; so we’re gonna take the car to him.”

Ellie swallows, eyes wide. “How bad? What happened? Is everyone….?”

You frown as you plunk into the driver’s seat and turn the ignition. Joel should be fine, but his injuries were not the average scrapes and bruises. You floor it, needing to see him again as soon as possible.

“He was shot,” you admit; Ellie sharply inhales. Continuing, you soothe, “But he’s talking and walking and everything. We’ll fix him.”

Ellie rears back and punches the passenger’s headrest, then the back of the seat. Her anguished cursing turns into a yell as she throws her punches.

“Ellie! Hey, it’s alright! He’ll be okay!”

Panting, she sits back in her seat, her steely gaze focused on nothing. Ellie’s temper was rare - occurring only when something truly awful had happened - such as the day you’d had to tell her that, no, your parents weren’t coming back.

The tires screech as you unceremoniously park in front of the school. Through the glass door, you can see Joel’s legs as he sits on the ground. You leap from the car and jog up to the building.

Pushing open the door, you’re greeted by a fleeting smile. The tousled gray hair is clumped with blood at the tips and he looks like he’s going to pass out. You squat to haul him up, but he’s a solid man and you struggle under his weight.

“Joel,” you urge, “just a little bit further.”

Footsteps run toward you from the outside; whirling in alarm, you’re relieved to see Ellie. She loops Joel’s other arm over her shoulders and the two of you stand him up, grunting with the effort.

Joel presses his lips into a firm, determined line as he hobbles to the car, and when he reclines in the passenger seat, he hisses at the pressure on his thigh. You swing around and slide in the driver’s seat. Shoving the gear shift into Drive, you peel away from the godforsaken school, looking for a hospital.

“Need a shirt,” Joel grits out.

Ellie hands him one of her long-sleeved shirts. He folds it into a tight strip and cinches it as a tourniquet around his leg.

“Shit, man. Gimme your left arm,” Ellie says.

Joel silently obeys. Ellie wraps gauze around his least-serious injury.

“You guys’ll have matching scars,” Ellie points out.

You look at her, then Joel, then back at the road. She’s right. The mostly-healed gunshot wound through your left forearm corresponds almost exactly to the gash on Joel’s.

Brown eyes study your profile as you drive through the dead city.

___________________________________________________

It takes you a horrifyingly long time to find the hospital, and when you do, the crumbled walls and blasted glass don’t give you much hope. Joel, having passed out only moments before, doesn’t get the chance to stop you as you rush into the building. A repeated list of what you need is your only thought as you look through debris for supplies. It would be nice to restock the items you’d used on this fucking nightmare trip.

In a tucked-away pocket of this relatively compact hospital, you find a locked supply closet.

“Fuck, yes,” you crow. A lock meant something worth protecting.

Firing at the handle, causing it to splinter into a shower of metal shrapnel, you kick open the door, weapon at the ready. You swear you hear angels singing at the sight. Chemical ice packs, a stitching kit, forceps, and a gallon of saline solution all for the taking.

Rushing back down to the car as the sun begins to set, you start to feel an edge of panic. Ellie stands next to Joel’s open door, waiting anxiously for your return. You don’t want to move Joel again, and since it’s his right leg that’s injured, you wedge your way in.

Finally, finally, you examine his bullet wound, and it’s the best possible outcome besides him not getting shot at all. The angle, distance, and motion at which he was shot means that the small caliber bullet exited within an inch of its entry. A one-in-a-million shot that surely used every ounce of luck that Joel had.

Like a wormhole. I could probably stick my finger through it, you think wildly.

You laugh slightly hysterically at the relief that you wouldn’t have to dig a bullet out of him. If it had been deeper than the fat layer, you wouldn’t have dug around in there, anyway, but the easily-cared-for wound is a huge weight off your shoulders.

Joel hadn’t bled as much as you thought, either. Now that you are assessing him in the daylight, it’s clear that much of it was not his blood. He stirs as you cut away at his jeans.

“These’re my favorite pair,” he grumbles.

“They’re about to become shorts,” you flash him a smile.

“How’s it look?” His voice is faint. Joel may not have lost as much blood as you thought originally, but he certainly wasn’t going to be hoisting Ellie up to a window or carrying forty pounds of firewood any time soon.

“How far away was the guy who shot you?” You’re curious since this bullet hole is so odd.

“Dunno,” he cranes his head to look down at you kneeling on the step of the sedan.

“Were you moving weird? This entry and exit is bizarre.”

“Might’ve been rollin’... on the floor,” he gives you a quirked grin.

Ellie laughs, “Holy shit, and these are your only injuries?”

“You ever learn any manners?” He fires back.

“Talk to her,” Ellie nods at you. “She’s why I am the way I am.”

“I’ve already told her she raised you wrong.”

While they bicker, you pour saline around the wound with great care. You know that everything you do for the next few moments is going to cause him pain, and it already has your hands shaking. He’d sustained these wounds for you and Ellie. There was no way around the guilt you felt for that.

You pat his shin to let him know what’s coming next, and when his right hand drops to grip your knee, you bite into his flesh with the needle.

___________________________________________________

That late evening, you can’t hold it anymore. The tires rumble as you slow the car onto the dirt shoulder.

“Sorry, guys. I’ll be right back,” you exit the car with as much dignity as you can with your full bladder.

Ellie watches your darkened silhouette disappear over a rise and feels the nauseating anxiety take hold. She was disappointed in herself for not telling you immediately, but she couldn’t face it.

A child who’d never faced her own mortality, she’d done what she could to keep the grief and anger to herself. But then… then it never happened. She never changed. Never lost her mind. Now what? She still couldn’t tell you. Ellie couldn’t face the way you would look at her - the way you might look at her.

“Joel,” her voice cracks.

“Hm?” He asks noncommittally.

Her entire body shakes. Will he shoot her before she can explain? Can she even explain?

“I need your help.”

Joel pivots in his seat as much as his injuries will allow, interested, “With what?”

Powerless to form the words, Ellie screws up every ounce of courage she has. She rolls up her sleeve, unveiling a circular wound filled with puncture marks.

Joel recoils, his physical trauma forgotten in his horror, his back against the dashboard despite the confined space. The conditioned response is first to appear: fear - terrible fear. Then his face twists and the more Joel part of his mind takes over. Fear mixes violently with sorrow.

"No," he pleads, a canyon forming between his eyebrows. “No. No, no you weren’t bit. You weren’t.”

His chest seizes and his breathing spikes, pain radiating from all his new stitches. Joel stares, eyes damp and scared, wondering when she’ll lunge at him. And when she did, how much he’ll hate himself when he reacts. His mind hurtles through feelings faster than he can recognize them.

“Wait, listen - I should’ve turned. I didn’t, Joel! I should’ve by now!” Ellie babbles, trying to get across to him that she was no danger.

“Your sister,” he croaks, the wetness in his eyes beginning to pool.

I can’t let her- Joel won’t finish the thought.

He would have to do it.

Joel’s indecision around leaving would be made for him; you would hate him. You might even kill him. If it came to that, he’d understand. But he could do this for you. Joel could save you from knowing your sister had been bitten and the responsibility it brought. It meant that Joel Miller - the man he had been - would truly die, and he felt the heart-stopping horror rising in his throat.

“Joel, oh, shit - listen to me. Listen to me,” Ellie begs. “I should’ve turned already!” She bores holes through him, her eyes burning with tears. “But I didn’t!”

Through Joel’s desolating grief and dread, her words start to reach him. He blinks. He brings his hand to his face.

“You… you were bitten an hour before dawn.”

She nods vehemently, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything. I should’ve, I know, but I fucking couldn’t, never been so scared,” she wipes at her tears. “Please. Don’t tell my sister yet,” she implores.

“Don’t tell -” he splutters, “we have to tell her.”

“I will. I promise, I will. Just… not right this second, I can’t - I can’t see her face.”

Somehow, that makes sense to him.

The two of them sit in silence, Joel’s wounds aching and needling at him while he, somewhat shamefully, refuses to turn his back to Ellie.

Meekly, she asks, “Can you help me bandage my arm?”

The bewildered man mechanically reaches into his pack. “Sure,” he says with little composure.

Ellie holds out her arm and Joel pointlessly dampens it with saline. She grimaces and bites her cheek to keep from making any sort of noise as Joel wraps the wound in clean gauze. Joel touches her as little as possible.

She’s just a scared kid.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

Joel is too disoriented to reply, simply nodding.

When you pull on the door, he noticeably twitches. Stiffly, nervously, he sits back in his seat. Ellie is relieved to realize that the car’s interior light is broken as the guilt, confusion, and worry are still evident on her face.

Joel watches Ellie from the corner of his eye. He can’t help it. Over and over he does the math. The location and size of that bite meant that Ellie should’ve ceased to be Ellie a little after lunchtime. Mid-afternoon at the latest. He does the math again. And again. Eventually, his main concern shifts from Ellie to you.

___________________________________________________

The night is surprisingly warm. You drive with the window down, lost in your own thoughts until late in the night. Joel and Ellie both had mentioned stopping to make camp, but you insisted upon getting as far from that city as you could.

In honesty, you needed the time to think. The clicker attack, being shot at, losing Ellie, nearly getting killed yourself, Joel’s desire to leave, and his own near-death experience were too much to endure in one day.

Your old friend Guilt makes a sickening home for himself inside your stomach for letting the clicker get close enough to touch Ellie. It could’ve killed her. That thought freezes your bone marrow. You dwell on it long enough to swear it’ll never happen again, and then you banish it from your mind. Ellie was okay. The clicker had been stopped in time.

Joel was another problem. He wanted to leave. He was afraid. Knowing his history, you’re surprised he’s stayed for as long as he has; surprised he’s given so much of himself. Demanding more from him would be cruel. Joel did what he could, and when it became too much, you would let him go.

Your heart blanches at the coming loss. Joel feels like your reward for surviving this long. He was your partner, your safety. Giving him up will kill a part of you that you’re not sure will heal. But you’d do anything for him - including letting him go; you’ll have to soldier on for Ellie’s sake.

Joel’s rough voice breaks an hour-long silence, “You plannin’ on stoppin’?”

“Yeah. Now, I guess.”

The headlights pick up a flat, grassy plain on both sides of the highway. Since the night is so mild, an open field should do just fine. The car rolls to a stop with a quiet screech of the brake line. At some point, Ellie had curled up in a blanket and fallen asleep across the backseat. As you watch her troubled face, you decide to let her stay unconscious. You’re eager to have her forget today.

Joel watches as you set up a bed for you and him on the plush grass outside. It’s a beautiful night and some peace will be nice. Plus, Joel needs to relax and get some blood flow. He seems even more tense than usual.

Stubbornly refusing your help, Joel kneels on his good leg on the bed of blankets and sleeping bags right outside the car. He shuts the door as quietly as he can, then he slowly shifts onto his ass. Joel releases a pained sigh.

You rub his shoulder as you lay next to him, “How do you feel?”

“She told me not to tell you. But you need to know,” Joel says with apprehension, ignoring your question.

You sit up swiftly and ask, “What? Know what?”

Joel grips your arms. Even in the black of the night, you can picture the grim look of intensity on his face.

“I’ll tell you; but we both need you to be calm. Strong. Listen to me fully before you react.”

“What is it, Joel? You’re fucking scaring me.”

“Ellie is immune to the virus.” He speaks nonsense.

Immunity? The fuck. That’s not even real. How would he even know that?

Feeling your denial, he tries again: “Ellie won’t ever turn into… one of them.”

Joel doesn’t want to say the words he knows he must.

You snort, uncomprehending, “Okay, how do you know that?”

You feel rather than see Joel lower his head. Then comes the sound of his lungs expanding with resolve. His fingers tighten as he answers you.

“Ellie was bitten by the clicker.” His next words come in a rush so as to cover his previous statement, “But she’s fine, she’s - she’s okay. Ellie’s okay.”

Language fails you, your mind fails you. No.

Why is Joel lying to me? Ellie wasn’t bitten.

You’d checked… hadn’t you? You replay the morning. The pieces won’t come together.

“No,” you refute. Your lungs constrict. “No.” It’s a strangled cry.

“I saw it. I watched her. Somehow, she’s healthy.” Joel reassures you, his thumbs stroking your skin.

You shake his hands off. “Bullshit. Why would you lie about that?”

Joel reaches for you again as you start crying, your body believing him before your mind does. You really had failed her. Joel captures you in his arms and his hands rub crescents on your back.

In shock, you weakly try to fight him off. “I need to see her; I need to check on her. Joel, get off me. Get the fuck o-”

“Later,” his deep voice asserts, refusing to let go. “You’ll scare her.”

Half of you wants to kill him for even suggesting that you not go to her, the other half knows he has her best interest at heart. Waking her up in your wild state would be selfish.

Your body slumps, defeated, into his. He holds you tighter as you wrack with sobs. In the cruelest fate, Joel knows what he should say. He also knows that it will not help.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

His hand strokes your hair. Joel feels the prickle of tears in his own eyes. He focuses on you - shoving his own concerns about failing Ellie aside for as long as he can. After all, he had stood there while you fought the clicker off.

What you feel now is an echo of his pain, his loss. In the moment, you feel as though you’ve lost her. But, unlike him, tomorrow will bring her back to you.

Mumbling denials, you let him keep you grounded while everything he’s said washes over you. It doesn’t make sense. It wasn’t possible. But Joel wouldn’t lie about something like that. Nor would he have sat with his back to Ellie for so long if he wasn’t sure she was safe.

“’m sorry,” a single tear falls from Joel’s eye as he buries his face in your hair. “Sorry I froze.”

You push him away with sudden anger and heave the burden of blame onto him. A cloud unveils the moon and you see the outline of Joel’s angular face as he looks down.

“You just fucking stood there and she should’ve died. You don’t give a fuck if we live or die?”

“Of course I do,” Joel says harshly, his head snapping up.

You turn your face away, already ashamed of your self-serving accusation. He had taken a literal bullet for you both.

Thinking about that morning, he notices now that his heart is racing uncontrollably and his breath gets away from him. Then his voice weakens, “I get so - so afraid. I don’t know how to - I wouldn’t survive… again.”

Overwhelmed, you fall back into a seated position, your head in your hands. Joel leans protectively toward you but doesn’t touch you. He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“What if the virus is just slow in her?” You whisper through tears.

Joel can’t answer that. He takes your hand, just wanting to hold you in some way.

“I was closer.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” he repeats adamantly. “None of us heard it come in.”

“Why did she tell you? Not me?” Your voice breaks.

“Hmph,” he thinks about their earlier conversation. “I reckon she couldn’t bear to tell you. I sure as shit didn’t want to.”

That tracks. No one would want to deliver that kind of news. Though hurt that she hadn’t told you, your heart swells with the fact that Ellie felt safe enough to confide in Joel.

“She needs you. You gotta figure your shit out.” It was harsh.

“I know.”

“I need you,” you whisper it like a dirty secret.

One more tear trails down Joel’s lined face before finding a home in his patchy beard. He frames your face with his hands and kisses your forehead. You let him pull you down onto the sleeping bag, your head nestling on his chest. Joel’s breathing is hitched with pain.

You wonder aloud. “Has anyone ever been immune? What do we do if -"

The word you want to say doesn't sound right being spoken into this world. Hope of an end does not exist and therefore you should not speak of it. Through the juvenile fear, almost like jinxing it, you make sure to whisper your next words: "A cure?”

Joel doesn’t answer; the same thought had been looming around the corners of his mind all night.

The stars above twinkle down on the two of you. You stare into the abyss, marveling at the curveballs the three of you had been thrown today. Just forty-eight hours earlier you had been curled in front of a fireplace with the man who now lay bloody and wounded underneath your head. Your baby sister’s life would never be the same.

It’s clear when the pain medication you’d given Joel earlier kicks in: his heart rate slows, his chest rises and falls peacefully, and his chin magnetically tilts to rest on your forehead. It’s intimate in a companionable way, and it’s the only thing that gets you through the long, wakeful night. You only rise to peek at Ellie three times.

___________________________________________________

The next morning, your worried face broadcasts to Ellie that Joel had told you the truth. Ellie folds her arms across her chest protectively. “I feel fine. I didn’t feel the bite and I don’t feel -” she pauses, “any different.”

You carefully grab her arm, push up her sleeve, and unroll the gauze. Though you hadn’t truly ever believed Joel lied, it’s still shocking to see the gashed bite. There’s no doubt: Ellie should’ve turned.

“I’m so sorry, Ellie.” Tears spring to your eyes again.

“You didn’t bite me,” Ellie flickers a weak smile.

She’d had much more time to process it, and today - with the relief of you and Joel knowing - she is calmer. But a shiver runs up her spine as she remembers the smell and the sounds of the monster as it attacked her. Her memories derail when you squish her to you, kissing the top of her head.

“I’m like a super-soldier now,” Ellie mumbles, her voice muffled by your body.

“Mmm, no. You’re a kid and you’re just immune. Doesn’t mean they can’t kill you in other ways.” You release her as she frowns.

“You weren’t even supposed to know yet.”

“Ellie, that’s information you can’t keep from me.”

She frowns at the older man behind you. “Anyway. Thanks, Joel,” she sarcastically says.

“Hey, no. Don’t get mad at him,” you chastise her.

Joel, still seated on the ground, considers you for a moment in surprise. He had never heard you admonish the girl.

He explains to Ellie, “She needed to know an’ you didn’t wanna do it.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the ground. She nods. She supposes that he did her a favor, in a way. Facing you had been her biggest worry after surviving and Joel had taken that problem upon himself. Still, her teenage mind might think twice before confiding in him a second time.

“What do we do now?” You ask nobody in particular.

The world had changed. Right? Ellie was immune to the virus that had killed and continued to kill every human being with which it came into contact. Was the sun rising from a different direction, too?

“Aren’t we still going to Wyoming?” Ellie asks, confused.

“‘s’far as I know.” Joel drawls.

Asking Ellie to help you once again, you both squat to help him stand. He successfully hides the infinitesimal flinch he makes when Ellie touches him. It embarrasses him to be so skittish and the last thing he wants is for Ellie to see it. A decade of conditioning still directs his baser instincts.

Once again in the driver’s seat, and with the sun rising behind you, the day feels a little kinder than the night. Having slept less than two hours, you should be exhausted but the wide array of chemicals exploding in your brain have you tapping the steering wheel and humming.

“You wanna know the last time I drove?” You turn to Joel who opens one eye.

“Yesterday. You drive like you just got your permit,” he taunts.

“Well -”

“Oh, god. I forgot,” he groans and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“I haven’t driven in two years.” You smile. “It feels good.”

“Just two years? Where’d you find a car?”

“Old… friend of ours,” you answer lamely.

Ellie giggles in the backseat. Joel opens both eyes and narrows his gaze between the two of you. “Old friend, huh?”

You don’t reply. You had hated being mechanically inept and a patient soul in a QZ had taught you the difference between a carburetor and a spark plug. He had been interested in you, but your focus had been on leaving the QZ for Ellie’s sake.

“I’ll take it from the silence that I’m meant to feel some jealousy,” Joel teases.

Ellie chimes in, “That would depend on you having feelings.”

He shoots her a black look, discreetly amused. “Ellie, you oughta -”

“Stop,” you laugh, “all I was saying was that it’s nice to drive. You didn’t even let me navigate when we were making our way from the coast.”

“We’re goin’ west. Didn’t need a bloodhound to figure that one out, darlin’.”

Blushing at the unexpected, though slightly sarcastic, pet name, you remember that he’d called you ‘baby’ during the rushed panic of the previous day. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth to subdue the smile threatening to break free.

Fucking ridiculous, what he could do to you. He had seen you bare and begging for him, but you turn into a giggling schoolgirl at an endearing nickname? Looking out of the driver’s side window, you take a deep breath.

“Y’alright?” His gravelly baritone asks you confidentially.

Without looking at him, you nod your head, and in a higher pitch than usual, reply, “Mhm, I’m good.”

Joel studies your rigid profile, then turns to Ellie, “What happened to those puns?”

You absolutely cannot stop the eyebrow-raised, disbelieving look you throw at him, and he shrugs with a smirk. The world really had ended. Next, he’d tell you clickers weren’t all that ugly.

“Are the drugs you're on that good?” Ellie asks the question you wanted to, but before she even finishes speaking, her book is in her hands.

“What does a clock do when it's hungry?” She bounces in her seat.

“Too easy. It goes back four seconds,” Joel answers.

“Ugh, come on,” Ellie complains, dragging out the last syllable.

“Who are you? Where’s Joel?” You laugh loudly. The warm, smug look on his face is worth every bit of the roller coaster. “This is not the man who tried to get us killed by a chicken farmer.”

“Got you out of that,” he raises one eyebrow.

“Okay, okay, this one: What did the pirate say on his eightieth birthday?”

Joel looks upward in thought, but Ellie won’t give him the chance to come up with an answer this time.

“Aye, matey!” She growls.

That one gets a genuine chuckle from him, and he leans his head on the headrest. “That one wasn't bad. Maybe… six out of ten.”

“There’s a rating system now?” Honestly, he would shock you less if he’d told you he had been a flamenco dancer before the outbreak.

“Six? Bullshit, that was at least a seven point five,” Ellie argues.

The car shudders through a pothole. The road seems to be poorly funded. A dread comes over you.

“Hey, I think… think I might’ve made a wrong turn,” you hedge.

You’d been following the interstate for most of the drive, driving on the shoulder when necessary to pass stopped vehicles, but sometime in the night you must’ve drifted off course.

“Are you shittin’ me,” Joel comments to the air.

“Pull out the map,” you suggest to Ellie. You roll the car to a stop and survey the folded paper she hands you.

You sigh, “Yeah. I think I took this exit last night and got confused by the blockade. I think we’re on a state highway now. We went over this river two miles ago. We’re still headed west - just, kinda northwest.”

Joel takes the map and does his own evaluation. “We won’t be cutting through Cheyenne, now. But after Lincoln, maybe that’s a good thing.” He makes a face full of acceptance and motions for you to keep driving.

___________________________________________________

Several days later, the sedan rolls into a small town. Since Joel was so severely injured, it was necessary to stop every couple of hours to let him move around. You couldn’t even imagine the discomfort he must be in, so you do everything you can for him.

This morning, his pain had been worse than the day before, so you’d given him a minor dose of a medical-grade pain medication. He was drowsy, but peaceful after that.

“This is a cute little town,” you observe.

A steel mill coupled with what used to be boutique shops serves as the majority of the downtown thoroughfare. It was starkly abandoned. The residents seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Lincoln had been depressing, but this place was rather eerie. The setting for a Hallmark movie, not a horror.

Several vehicles line Main Street. The red sedan you’d taken from Lincoln is running on fumes at this point; you’ll have to siphon gas. Joel, unable to help you, huffs in irritation. He hates feeling useless more than he hates the pain. But he isn’t stupid; jostling his stitches would only prolong his incapacitation.

Thankfully, Ellie offers to help you.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you,” she says as she strolls down the street. “I just… couldn’t.”

“Don’t apologize for that. You always take care of yourself first; don’t worry about me.”

She makes an honest, enthusiastic comment to herself, “You do have Joel for that.”

Whipping your head to her with a confused smile, you ask, “What?”

“He takes care of you.”

“That man gets on every one of my nerves. Then he finds more nerves and gets on those.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, “No, he doesn’t.”

“Whatever. In any case, you be a kid, Ellie. I mean it. As long as you can, be a kid. Help me pop the cover off,” you indicate the SUV to the right. It had a huge tank, so hopefully its contents took longer to thin.

Maybe. I don’t know how this shit works.

Inserting the two tubes into the gas tank, you then wedge a rag around the gas tank to create a seal. Then, you blow into the shorter tube. Muddy-looking, tangy-smelling liquid begins running into the gas canister, and you beam at Ellie, feeling proud of yourself.

She awards you with a thumbs-up. Ellie turns around, wanting to see Joel’s reaction, but the car is too far away and the sunlight glints just right against the windshield.

“He was pretty out of it. You want me to go check on him?” Ellie asks.

“No, he should be okay.”

Ellie hesitates, then requests quietly, “Can one of us check on him?”

Understanding makes you smile fondly. You nod. “Sure. Just hold the tubing still and blow on it again if it starts trickling.”

As you speak, the tube spits out the last bit of gas.

“Or, you can move on to another car and try it for yourself, if you want?”

Ellie agrees with excitement. “If I get more than you, you have to teach me how to drive.”

“Hmmm…” you pretend to consider it. “Maybe.”

Handing the tubing to your sister, you walk back toward your car, shading your eyes as you do so. When you near, the passenger door flings open.

Jogging the last couple of steps, you’re relieved to see Joel lounging in the reclined seat. He’s stretching his leg in the open space.

“Ellie wanted me to check on you.”

“‘m good.” His voice is raspy as if he’d just woken from a deep sleep. His eyes bathe you in that warm abyss you dream of so often. “C’mere,” he mutters.

Like a gravitational pull, you wander into his personal space, fingers trailing up his torso. If he asks, you’ll say you want to check his stitches.

But he doesn’t ask. Joel’s hooded eyes fill with want, and you forget to tell your heart to beat. His rough palms frame your face and, uncaring about his split lip, he draws you down into a gentle kiss. He tugs your bottom lip between his, and electricity burns down your spine. Joel doesn’t move again except to press his kiss more fervently.

No, it’s you who fists the man’s dirty flannel collar, moving your lips in passionate gratitude and admiration. Melting into his mouth, a weak moan pouring from you. Each drag of your lips is paired with a moment he’s made you feel something - protected, loved, alive.

Joel’s broad fingers curl in the hinge of your jaw, wanting this, too. Needing to feel him everywhere, your body drifts further into his; and he gasps in pain when your hip connects with his thigh. You break away with an apologetic noise.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry,” your eyebrows knit together in concern. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He grimaces and you know he is very much not alright.

“All I do is hurt you,” you lament.

He laughs drily, “Yeah. What a terrible fuckin’ person you are. Come back.”

You obey, leaning over him in the seat. “It’s not funny, I do feel bad. Look at you: you’re worse off because of me in just about every way.”

“Baby, I make my own choices.” His fingers brush your cheekbone, then he drops his hand abruptly to the back of your upper thigh. He massages you there, and you gasp when Joel’s hand grazes a sensitive area through your jeans.

Cheeks immediately aflame, you wonder, “Why do you keep calling me -?”

“Would you prefer I didn’t?” He asks seriously.

“It’s sudden, is all. Answer my question.”

“I used to say them all the time,” he admits. “Missed it.”

This is a big deal, your brain screams at you. Don’t fuck this up.

“Oh.”

“If you don’t wan-”

You fucked it up.

“No! No, I do,” you insist, your earnest eyes expressing the same words.

Joel leans up to kiss you again, and again it’s sweet. More than lust, it’s full of something you’ve wanted for a long time. Longing, tension, devotion. His plush lips explain exactly how he feels.

But you’ve not yet learned how to manage your desire when it comes to Joel Miller. Kissing him is a flash grenade - all senses outside of him cease to exist. Filling yourself with him is a need. Hungrily, you cradle his face and deepen the kiss.

“Ahem,” a small voice comes from behind you.

“Fuck,” you jump, nearly falling out of the car.

Joel makes a similar sound, his arm clasping around your waist to prevent you from landing on the ground or his leg.

Ellie stands on the sidewalk holding the gas canister in her arms. It’s completely full.

“Looked like you were being eaten by a clicker, Joel,” Ellie mocks.

You groan and hunch your shoulders to your ears, trying to hide. So desperate were you for him that you’d been awkwardly leaning over him, panting and moaning over a few kisses and a pet name.

“I came to save him,” Ellie says, opening the gas cap and beginning to fill the sedan.

You slide out of the car. After grumpily ensuring Ellie was correctly filling the tank, you march around to the driver’s side.

A clicker wanders through a ragged blanket hanging from a door frame. The downtown building it comes from is mottled with unseen cordyceps’ tendrils. The echoing ka-dunk of a car doorhandle piques its inhuman hearing. Mindlessly, it launches itself through the abandoned buildings and into the street. It aims perfectly.

A scream.

Ellie?

Pain in your shoulder. A man - Joel - shouts frantically. Yellow, blue, green, brown, moldy skin takes all of your vision.

Your fingers fumble at your gun in its holster, shocked yet aware that death has come for you. You pull the weapon right as the clicker jerks away from you.

Joel and Ellie stand at the front of the car, both pointing their weapons at the creature as it dies on the asphalt. Ellie fires into the pulpy body once more.

Joel leans, fighting for air through pain, fear, and his protective impulse, on the hood of the car, but he offers a hand to you all the same.

“You’re o-” he stops as he sees his words are a lie, his perfect features frozen.

The sound of metal being hit by something heavy causes your heart to leap into your throat.

Ellie. She had swung the butt of her rifle into the side panel of the car. She begins to cry and scream.

Joel moves then. He drags Ellie away, all but shoving her inside the car. Her cries are muffled now, but if the clicker had friends, they were already on their way.

“Hurry,” Joel grimly tells you as he - far too hastily for his condition - ducks into the car.

You slink down into the driver’s seat and, on autopilot, pull away from the town. It’s only when you pass a faded billboard for Lincoln that your hand travels to the bite wound on your shoulder.

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