#The Bloody Sands of Time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soaps-mohawk · 2 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 50: Flashback

Summary: You face down a nightmare as your life starts to move forward.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 9,371 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, explicit sexual content, p in v sex, fingering, oral, unprotected sex, unsafe bondage practices (don't do this), restraints, creampies, overstimulation, squirting, angst, flashbacks, panic attack, PTSD, angst, emotions, language

A/N: Sorry this one took so long but it kicked my ass. Also sorry for the emotional roller coaster...

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It’s cold, the wind strong enough to whip sand at your legs. You don’t care, treading through the soft white sand towards the darker, firmer wet sand. Your hands are shoved in your pockets in an attempt to keep them warm, and the closer you get to the water, the more you can feel it in the air, whipping around you.

“Don’t go too far.” A voice carries on the wind, John treading behind you in the sand.

“Yes, dad.” You roll your eyes, ignoring him to walk along the water’s edge. The beach is empty, as would be expected on such a day. Even though spring is on the horizon, it’s still not nice enough weather for the tourists.

Even today was a lucky break from the rain that fell for two days straight leaving muddy puddles everywhere.

They only let you come down here because you know you’re leaving soon. The time has come, the inevitable return must happen now. There’s nothing keeping you here, and life has to move forward. As much as you’d prefer to stay here, the last thing you need is for your pack to get hit with AWOL or even desertion charges. Kate can only keep things this way for so long, and now that the threat is gone, the excuses are wearing thin. They’re still part of the military, they still have their duties.

John has to go back while he waits for his retirement to be processed. He has things he has to do to make that possible, things he has to close, things he has to pass on to Simon. Kyle has to wait until his gets filed and approved. And you have to go back with them until it’s over.

You’re not happy.

You won’t be happy until you can put that place behind you for good.

Arms wrap around you and you swing blindly, jumping with a yelp.

“Bloody hell, stop.”

You’re breathing heavily, heart thudding in your chest. You hadn’t even heard Simon approaching, too lost in your head again.

“Scared the shit out of me.” You breathe.

“Shouldn’t be so lost in your head.” He says. “You think we’d let some random person approach you?”

You shake your head. “No.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Nice job, though. Swing first, ask questions later. Need to work on your swing again, though.” He says, keeping his arms around you. “Barely felt it.”

“Rude.” You pout, turning your gaze back to the sea.

“We’re heading back now. ‘S too cold out here. You’ll get sick.”

You don’t want to go. You’d stand out here all day if you could, watch the tide come and go. You know they wouldn’t let you. Too many risks.

“But I don’t want to.” You deepen your pout, blinking up at him with the best puppy-eyes you can give.

“But you have to.” He says, unwavered by your cuteness.

“No.” You say, crossing your arms and turning away from him.

“Yes.” He says, adjusting his hold on you.

You’re flying for a moment before you end up draped over his shoulder. “Hey!” You yell, trying to kick his stomach. “That’s not fair.”

“Should have listened.” He says, carrying you back through the sand.

You tilt your head up, staring back at the sea while it slowly gets further and further away. It might be your last chance to see it up close for a long time.

“Help me,” You plead as you pass by Johnny.

The Scot only shrugs. “Sorry, cannae help ye, kitten.”

You let out a frustrated groan but go limp on Simon’s shoulder, knowing there’s no changing their minds. You’re not sure you could even get them to convince Simon to let you down. You’re going to be carried back to the car whether you like it or not.

Some deep part of you enjoys it.

You’re self soothing.

That’s what you tell yourself as you mix the batter in the bowl. You’re waiting for the moment when John tells you to start packing, that you’re leaving this safe haven to return to the brutal world you left months ago that you hoped maybe by some small mercy you might be able to avoid going back to. How silly that thought was, though. Of course you’d wind up back there no matter what, even with John retiring.

You jump when hands close around your waist, squeezing gently as a body presses up against your back.

“That bowl insult you or somethin’?” Johnny breathes into your ear, lips brushing the skin. “Been staring at it like it placed a curse on ye.”

You shake your head, going back to mixing the batter. “No. Just got lost in thought.”

Johnny hums, pressing kisses to the skin behind your ear. “Anythin’ important?”

You could tell him the truth, but it will ruin the moment. He’s in a playful mood and the last thing you want is to bring him down. “No.” You say, pushing him back so you can turn in his arms, the bowl of batter in your hands. “Just thinking about how tasty these brownies will be.”

He stares down into the chocolate mixture in the bowl before looking back at you. “Mama’s recipe?”

“Of course.” You say, trying to wiggle out of his hold but he doesn’t let go.

“Bless.” He almost moans, slipping a finger into the batter before sticking it into his mouth. He does moan as he tastes the batter, slowly pulling his finger from his mouth to savor it. “Delicious even raw.”

You make a face, pulling the bowl out of his reach before he can dip his finger in again. “No eating it all before it gets baked.”

“C’mon just another taste.” He whines, trying to reach around you as you shove your hip into his stomach to push him away.

“You can have one once their done.” You slip around him, stepping up to the stove to dump the batter into the pan.

“Please let me lick the bowl.” He says, saddling up against your back again.

You roll your eyes, smoothing the batter before turning back to him. “Here.” You reach into the bowl, gathering some of the leftover batter onto your finger before wiping it on his nose.

He goes crosseyed as he stares at it, taking a step back. “That’s not fair.”

“You wanted some.” You hum, putting the brownie pan into the oven before setting the bowl in the sink.

“What are you two getting up to?” Kyle asks, stepping into the kitchen.

“Getting harassed for brownie batter.” You say, filling up the bowl with water so he can’t steal anymore.

“’M not harassing her.” Johnny says, gathering some of the batter on his nose onto his finger.

Kyle raises a brow, staring at him. “Right.” He takes a step forward, crowding into Johnny’s space. “Here.” He grabs Johnny’s jaw, fingers dimpling into his cheeks as he holds him still. Kyle leans in, licking the rest of the batter off his nose.

Your lips fall open as you watch them, warmth starting to pool in your stomach as Kyle cleans the batter off Johnny’s face. “Fuck…” You breathe, watching as Kyle leans in, giving Johnny a soft kiss before releasing him.

“Think she liked tha’.” Johnny breathes, still staring at Kyle.

Kyle inhales deeply, his lips twisting up in a smirk. “Think she did.” He steps closer to Johnny, putting his hands on his waist. “Should put you on your knees right here you needy whore.”

Johnny lets out a deep groan, your face starting to get hot as you watch them.

“Look at you.” Kyle groans, his hand pressing against the front of Johnny’s pants. “Already so worked up.”

“’S not fair, I havenae gotten any yet.” Johnny whines, pushing his hips up against Kyle’s hand.

“You just have to be patient.” Kyle scolds him.

“Fuck being patient.” Johnny growls, turning on you.

He crowds you back into the counter, looming over you. You can smell the sweet chocolate on his breath as he leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips. He hums, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before he kisses you hard, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

You moan into the kiss, his hands finding your hips to lift you onto the counter. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as you can. You can feel his bulge pressed right up against the seam of your jeans from this angle, his hips starting to rock slowly against yours. He’s desperate for any friction he can get, whining needily into your mouth.

“Fuck…” Kyle groans, stepping up behind Johnny, pressing his chest against his back.

Johnny’s hands slide down your sides until they reach the waistband of your jeans. “Of all days tae wear jeans.” Johnny groans, fumbling with the button.

You bat his hands away, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down. He wastes no time, batting your hands away this time, sinking one of them into your pants. You moan against his lips as his fingers push against your folds, already slick with arousal. He nips at your bottom lip as Kyle’s hand flattens against the bulge in his pants, letting out a quiet moan as his hips press into the other man’s hand.

He wastes no time sinking two of his fingers into you, a moan slipping out at the stretch. His fingers press deep into you, your hips shifting to push against his hand.

“So fuckin’ tight.” Johnny groans, his own hips rocking against Kyle’s hand.

A moan leaves your lips as Johnny’s fingers curl inside of you, pushing up against that spot. Your hips jerk, sliding closer to the edge of the counter to give him more room. His fingers move inside of you, thrusting in and out as his palm pushes up against your clit. Pleasure is blooming in your abdomen, racing outwards to your fingers and toes as Johnny moans against your lips.

You could cum just like this, and you might have, had there not been an interruption.

“Can’t leave you three alone for five minutes.” Simon’s deep voice ruins the moment.

Kyle backs away from Johnny, adjusting his own pants. Johnny lets out a whine, fingers still stuffed inside of you.

“Right where we make food, too.” Simon sighs, tugging Johnny away from you. You let out a whine as his fingers are tugged from your pussy.

There’s a bulge in the front of Johnny’s jeans, clearly evident through the thick fabric. Simon lifts Johnny’s hand to his face, his fingers shiny with your arousal. He sucks the digits into his mouth, Johnny nearly crumpling to the floor.

Simon hums appreciatively, licking Johnny’s fingers clean before releasing his beta. He approaches you, looming over you as you sit on the counter. You stare up at him with innocent eyes, trying to read his face, but once again he’s an emotionless mask. His hands grip your hips, lifting you down off the counter.

“Don’t want the brownies to burn.” He murmurs, zipping and buttoning your jeans for you.

“They wouldn’t have burned.” You pout, staring up at him.

“You really think Johnny could have stopped himself at a quick fingering?” Simon tilts his head.

“No.” You say quickly. He’s been chomping at the bit for a chance to get at you these last couple days. You’re certain if Simon hadn’t interrupted you’d be bent over the counter with your jeans around your ankles.

“Finish the brownies first.” Simon says, leaning down to kiss you.

“Yes, sir.” You murmur against his lips.

A deep growl rumbles in his chest, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as his scent starts to thicken in the air.

“Little shit.”

It’s quiet in the cottage. John, Kyle, and Johnny are upstairs doing lord knows what, and Simon is on the couch across from you. Both of you are reading, happily sitting in silence aside from the occasional pop and crackle from the fire. It’s nice, this brief moment of quiet and stillness. The cottage has started to feel small and overwhelming, alive with energy all day. Not that it hasn’t been that way for a while, but perhaps it’s just your brain looking for a way to cope with the reality that you’ll be leaving soon. Looking for some negative to attach to this safe space.

Footsteps thud down the stairs, your eyes glancing up over your book to find Johnny hurrying into the living area. He beelines for you, pulling the book out of your hands.

“Hey!” You complain, reaching for it but he’s faster, tossing it on the coffee table before bending down.

Suddenly you’re in the air, Johnny’s arms wrapped around you as he hefts you over his broad shoulder. You cling to his shirt as he adjusts you, his hand patting your ass.

“Aren’t you going to help me?” You ask, staring at Simon as Johnny turns.

Simon simply smirks, watching Johnny as he heads for your room.

“Don’t break her!” Is all Simon says, giving you a little wave before he disappears around the door frame.

You land on your back on the bed, bouncing just a little as Johnny dumps you there. He flicks on the lamp after closing the door, before moving to stand in front of you. You lift yourself up onto your elbows, eyes trailing his body. He’s hard, the bulge evident as it pushes against his jeans. Your eyes trail further upward until you’re staring at his face, his eyes dark and hooded as they stare down at you.

“Finally.” He says, his hands dropping to your thighs. “I’ve been waitin’ for this.”

“I know.” You say, your stomach clenching in excitement. You’re going to be tired tomorrow but that’s alright. You’ve got nothing better to do besides sleep.

“Much as I don’t want to,” His hands squeeze your thighs. “I’m gonnae take my time.”

A shiver runs down your spine. It’s a promise. You know he’s telling the truth. Johnny doesn’t play when it comes to sex.

His hands trail up your legs until they’re teasing the bottom of your shorts. He plays with the fabric there for a moment before sliding his hands higher to your waist. Your toes curl in anticipation as he dips his fingers beneath the waistband. Goosebumps break out across your skin as his warm fingers slide higher under your shirt, trailing up over your ribs to your breasts.

He groans as his fingers brush the undersides of your breasts. “No bra?”

“No point in one,” you breathe, nipples hardening in anticipation.

He breathes out a curse, pushing your shirt up over your breasts. He doesn’t bother taking it all the way off, leaving it there bunched up around your neck. His hands cup your breasts gently, thumbs stroking the soft skin.

“Perfect fuckin’ tits.” He groans, squeezing them in his hands.

“Thank you.” You say breathlessly, arching your back to push them more into his hands.

He chuckles, his thumbs brushing over your nipple. A heavy breath leaves your mouth at the sensation against the sensitive bud. Johnny’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as he pinches your nipple, tugging on it lightly. There’s a burst of pleasure and a hint of pain that has your stomach clenching again. He tugs on it harder, a sound leaving your mouth at the intense sensation.

Johnny hums in response, leaning his body down over you. His fingers release your nipple, his tongue instead flicking over the bud. You gasp at the warm, wet sensation the cool air in the room cooling the dampness on your nipple, making it harden.

“There ye go.” Johnny says, his lips wrapping around the stiff bud to suckle at it.

His hand cups your other breast, his fingers tugging at your other nipple. The combined sensations has warmth pooling in your stomach, the pleasure from the stimulation coursing through your body. You never thought you could cum just from someone playing with your breasts before, but Johnny continues to try and make that a reality.

“Johnny,” You sigh, running your fingers through his short-cropped mohawk. “Feels good.”

He hums, continuing to suckle at your nipple, his fingers pinching and twisting the other. Your panties are quickly dampening, pleasure shooting from your nipples straight between your legs. His teeth scrape against your nipple, a gasp leaving your lips from the intense sensation. They’re starting to get sensitive, aching and burning but you can’t deny the pleasure still coursing through you from Johnny’s ministrations.

Quiet moans leave your lips as Johnny continues to tease your breasts, pleasure building deep in your stomach. Your legs lift, squeezing around Johnny’s waist as he leans over you. Your hips press upward, grinding against the front of his jeans to try and get more friction against your pulsing clit.

Despite the discomfort you can feel yourself starting to tiptoe towards the edge the more Johnny continues to play with your breasts. You can’t believe it, how good it feels, how quickly you’re approaching an orgasm just from Johnny’s mouth on your nipple.

He sucks hard, lifting his head to tug at your nipple with his mouth. You moan from the pleasure and the pain, his other hand tugging hard at your other nipple.

“Johnny,” You gasp, fingers curling in his hair as your pussy begins to pulse. “F-fuck…”

“C’mon.” He goads you, switching nipples to suck on the other.

Your legs start to tremble, squeezing hard around his hips as your own push up against his jeans. You’re grinding against him needily, pushing yourself closer and closer to the looming edge of pleasure.

His teeth sink into your nipple, biting lightly. Your entire body shudders, hand tugging hard at his hair as a half yelp, half moan leaves your lips. He sucks hard at your nipple, tugging hard on the other and you’re cumming, soaking your underwear.

Johnny suckles at your nipple for just a moment more, until you’re tugging at his hair, lifting his head from the over-sensitive nub. You’re breathing hard, chest rising and falling as your pussy flutters from your orgasm.

“Good girl.” He praises you, leaning up to kiss you before he’s sliding down your body, heading straight between your legs. He tugs your shorts down, tossing them somewhere behind him as he presses your legs up. “Look at that.”

He leans down, pressing his face against your panties. He takes a deep breath in, your lips parting in surprise as he buries himself quite literally in your pussy. You’re not quite sure how he’s breathing, but you can feel the warm exhales against your damp panties. He lets out a low groan, teeth tugging at the fabric for a moment before he sits back up straight.

He pushes your legs up farther, moving your hands to the backs of your thighs. “Hold those fer me.”

His thumb drags along the fabric of your panties, pressing hard until he reaches your clit. You sink your teeth into your lip as he pushes his thumb against it, making small, tight circles through the fabric. The friction against your clit has your pussy dampening again, nails biting into your skin from the sensation. He really wasn’t kidding about taking his time. You’ve never seen him quite so patient before. You thought he’d be quick and desperate just like he was when he ate you out on the table in front of your pack.

The thought of that moment has your sensitive nipples hardening, more slick starting to soak your panties. What you wouldn’t have given to let them all have a taste, one right after the other. You’d have let them do anything to you in that moment.

When you sat up and realized no one had their cock out, it had disappointed you a bit. Was Johnny eating you out not enough of a show?

Johnny continues to rub your clit through your panties, slow, methodical circles that drag the fabric against the sensitive bud. You’re moaning quietly, still holding your thighs apart for him. Your panties are fully damp now, his eyes glued to where the fabric has darkened.

He moves his hand from your clit, a disappointed sound leaving your lips. He grips your underwear, tugging upwards and stretching the fabric until it’s tight against your pussy. It’s pushing against your clit, your hips pressing upwards, seeking out friction.

“Fucking Christ.” Johnny moans, releasing your underwear only to grab the waistband and pull until the fabric snaps into pieces.

“Johnny!” You complain, releasing your thighs to push yourself up onto your elbows.

“I’ll buy ye a new pair.” Is all he says, his hands parting your thighs again, forcing you flat on your back once more.

His hands push your thighs apart until they can’t go any further, tense against the strain on your muscles and ligaments. He stares down at your pussy, spread open for him. He licks his lips, hands firm against the backs of your thighs as he lowers himself down, hot breath fanning against your slick folds.

He mumbles out a curse as he presses his face against your pussy, uninhibited by the fabric of your panties this time. He hums, his tongue darting out to press into you just slightly. You let out a quiet sound, lifting your head to stare at him.

He lets out a sigh before lifting his face, pressing his tongue into you as far as it can you. You whine at the sensation, legs pressing against his hands in an attempt to close them around his head. He’s stronger than you though, his hands keeping you spread open wide for him.

His tongue continues to dip into you, drinking your slick straight from the source. The sounds he’s making are obscene, slurping at your pussy like he’s parched. In a way he is, having been denied this opportunity for days, at least until he buried his face in your pussy on the table. Your toes curl at the memory, your hand dropping to grip his mohawk. He groans as you tug at the short strands, pressing your hips up against his face. You’re the one trying to drown him now, but it feels too good for you to care much about his own safety.

You doubt he cares either, not from the way he’s thrusting his tongue into you.

It’s not quite enough, though. You need more, your pulsing clit feeling neglected. You reach a hand down, fingers brushing over the sensitive bud in an attempt to finally ease some of the pressure, but his hand darts out, grabbing your wrist.

He tsks, squeezing your wrist in his hand. “Naughty little kitten. What am I gonnae do with you.”

He stares at you for a moment, letting out a contemplative hum before he’s standing, his hands falling to your waist to flip you over. He grabs your wrists in his hand, the other unbuckling his belt. Excitement and nerves flush through you as you feel the leather against your skin, Johnny tying your hands behind your back with his belt. He slips a finger under the leather to make sure it’s not too tight before he’s forcing you forward, your cheek pressed against the mattress as he hikes your ass up into the air.

“Maybe this’ll teach ye.” He says, patting your ass before he kneels down behind you.

He buries his face in your pussy once more, a muffled moan leaving your lips as he drags his tongue through your folds, finally reaching your clit. He wraps his lips around it, suckling it like he did your nipples. Pleasure courses through your body, your hands tugging at the belt instinctively.

He drags his tongue through your folds again before swirling his tongue around your clit. Your legs jerk, the neglected bud finally getting the attention she deserves. You’re soaked, dripping slick and coating his face in it, not that he really cares. He’s probably enjoying it. You can tell by the way he’s moaning into your pussy, eating it like a man starved.

Your legs are already shaking, knees trembling where they’re holding you up. Johnny’s hands are on your ass, keeping you spread open for his tongue. Pleasure is pooling in your stomach, your sensitive body quickly hurtling towards another orgasm.

Johnny sucks hard on your clit, his teeth scraping against the sensitive bud. You’re moaning into the mattress, hips pressing back against his face as your orgasm rapidly approaches you.

It slams into you like a truck, your legs nearly giving out as pleasure courses through you. Johnny’s hands hold you up, his tongue dipping into you as you cum on his face. He thrusts his tongue into you, lapping up every last drop as you gush around him, shaking and moaning in pleasure.

Johnny moans into you, his fingers dimpling your skin as he holds onto you, still lapping at your pussy.

You’re quickly approaching overstimulation, hips pushing back against Johnny’s face. “Johnny,” you gasp, trying to wiggle out of his hold.

He holds you there, his thumb dropping to rub tight circles around your clit. You whine, writhing against his hold as more pleasure burns from your clit straight through your veins. You can’t stop shaking, sweat beading on your skin as you’re pushed more and more towards another orgasm.

Johnny is moaning like a whore, still fucking you with his tongue as you cum again. His hands hold you up as your knees slip over the edge of the bed, your body unable to function after another orgasm.

He finally relents as you start begging for mercy, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before he legs your body drop onto the bed on your stomach.

“Screamin’ Jesus.” He breathes, his hand resting on your ass. “’Bout did me in.”

His hips press against your ass, rutting just slightly. The drag of his jeans against your bare skin offers a delicious friction, not enough to hurt but just enough to leave your skin burning.

You turn your head, neck straining as you try to look at him out of the corner of your eye. “Gonna fuck me or just rut against me like a teenager?”

Johnny’s movements pause as he stands there for a moment, hands indenting the mattress by your hips. Those hands move to your waist, sliding down your skin as he pushes himself up to stand. His hands land on your ass, kneading the skin before he slaps one cheek. “Got a mouth on ye. I like it.”

You hear rustling and the zipper of his jeans sliding down as he takes a step back from you. There’s a soft thud as the fabric gets tossed to the floor along with his boxers. He steps back up to you, legs framing yours as he pushes you further up the bed until your clit rests against the edge of the mattress. You let out a quiet sound as his fingers drag up your folds, two of them dipping into you.

“So fuckin’ tight.” He groans, pressing those fingers as deep as he can. Your pussy is still fluttering from your orgasm, squeezing around his fingers.

He slowly begins to thrust them into you, pushing your clit against the comforter with every press of his hand. You whimper, the overstimulated bud pulsing from the pressure. It almost hurts, the overwhelming sensation of the stretch of Johnny’s fingers and the pressure against your clit.

Johnny pushes his fingers downward as he thrusts them into you, brushing up against that spot inside of you. You’re not sure how much more you can take, your legs already shaking from the sensitivity in your body. You’re going to cum again quickly, you know it. Your body has never felt so sensitive before, every inch of you alive with electricity. Your nipples are raw where they press into the comforter, your clit throbbing as its pushed against the edge of the mattress, your pussy clenching tight around the delicious stretch of Johnny’s fingers, the digits hitting every spot inside of you as they can.

Your head is reeling, mind foggy. Your shoulders ache but the pleasure is quickly blotting that pain out, hands pressing against the leather of the belt around your wrists as you get closer and closer to the edge. You can feel it, the building of the pressure, the warmth pooling between your thighs. You’re about to gush around Johnny’s fingers, hurtling straight towards a fourth orgasm and he hasn’t even stuck his dick inside of you yet.

Your back arches, pushing your head up as you cum, legs giving out again as another orgasm rocks through you. It’s almost painful, thighs squeezing around Johnny’s hand. His free hand rubs your back, trailing over the sweat-slick skin.

“Fuck,” he curses, pulling his fingers free from your pussy. You hear the slick sound of slapping skin for a moment before something wet hits the backs of your thighs.

You lay there for a moment, feeling the viscous fluid start to slide down your skin. “Did you just cum?” You ask, voice slightly muffled where your face is pressed into the mattress.

“Couldnae stand it anymore.” Johnny says, panting slightly.

Fuck, you think. He got so worked up just touching you he’s cum already.

What a whore.

Fabric touches the backs of your legs, Johnny wiping his cum off your skin with his boxers before tossing them to the floor again. The strain on your shoulders eases away as the leather gets pulled from your wrists. You let out a sigh, letting your arms flop to your sides.

“Easy,” Johnny mumbles, leaning over you to rub your shoulders. You can feel him, still hard and pressed against your ass. Of course he’s still hard. Johnny’s stamina is near legendary.

He massages your shoulders for a moment before his hands fall to your waist, gently easing you over. He takes your hands, pulling your arms up towards him to stretch them the opposite way. You sigh at the stretch, the joints popping after being forced in one direction for so long. He gently rubs your wrists, raw and sore from tugging on the leather.

He presses a kiss to each palm before letting your arms drop. He bends over you, hands pressing into the bed on either side of your head. He stares down at you for a long moment, and you stare right back into those bright blue eyes. “Ye ready fer more?” He asks, the corner of his lips twitching up in a smirk.

Your pussy clenches at the prospect of what’s hiding behind that playful grin.

You nod, taking a deep breath in. Your legs are still shaking, but you think they’ll be permanently stuck that way after tonight.

Johnny pushes you up the bed before crawling onto the mattress. He grabs a pillow, slipping it under your hips to prop you up before he’s kneeling between your legs. His hands slide up your thighs, blunt nails scratching at the skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Ready?” He asks, his hands sliding to your hips, his fingers wrapping around them.

You let out a breath before nodding.

“Use yer words.” He says, a shiver running down your spine.

So he’s playing dominant tonight.

“Yes, sir.” You say, your pussy clenching at the look that flashes through his eyes.

“Gonnae kill me.” He grunts, his hand releasing your hips to fist his cock.

He drags the head of his cock up along your folds, slick and wet still despite the numerous orgasms you’ve already had. You’re in for a lot more before tomorrow, you think.

Your head tilts back at the stretch as he pushes his cock into you, the thick head pushing through the slight resistance your overstimulated walls offer. You whine, hands clutching the sheets just from the feel of him stretching you open. He’s barely moved and you’re already pulsing, pussy squeezing around him as he pushes into you. He presses his hips forward, pushing more and more into you, your pussy gaping around his girthy cock.

“Fuck…” He groans, bending his body over you as he continues to push into you, fighting the slight resistance as he seeks to sink as deep as he can, until your hips are flush.

You’re panting, sweat still slicking your skin as he finally gets there, hips pressed tight against yours. He’s so deep inside of you, filling your pussy so perfectly. A perfect cock, you think. They’re all so perfect, but Johnny especially. How you’ve missed him and his ability to wield it.

You almost regret making him wait until last.

Johnny folds his body over you, shifting his position inside of you. You let out a moan as he lays himself against your chest, his lips pressing against yours. You kiss him, pressing your tongue into his mouth. You can still taste yourself a bit on his tongue, sweet and musky. He groans against your lips as you flutter around him, squeezing his cock.

“Fuckin’ love ye.” He grunts, kissing your lips sweetly.

“Love you too.” You breathe, tangling a hand in his mohawk and tugging. He lets out a groan, his hips shifting just slightly against you.

He presses one last kiss to your lips before pushing himself back up onto his knees. He looms there over you, his hands sliding down your sides until they reach your waist. He grips you tightly as he starts to rock his hips. You lay there, staring up at his face as he moves, slowly thrusting into you. You can feel him deep inside of you, his cock dragging against that spot with every thrust. You’re not going to last long, not with how sensitive you are. You don’t imagine he’ll last long either, not with the way he’s already twitching inside of you.

He keeps his pace steady, thrusts slow and even as he does as he promised, taking his time with you. He’s trying to savor every moment, almost like he thinks he’s not going to get this chance again. He certainly will. You know he’s most likely to pull you into his room and fuck the life out of you on a whim.

You think back to all those quickies before he had to go train, all those quickies before meals, those nights he’d pull you into his room in the barracks and bend you over his bed until your legs were shaking so bad you couldn’t leave if you wanted to. The amount of times he ate you out in the rec room, pants down around your ankles as he knelt on the floor.

Spontaneity is Johnny’s middle name.

Johnny starts to pick up speed, thrusting his hips faster against yours. His strokes are deep and even, cock pushing up against you over and over again. You’re already trembling, back slick with sweat and dampening the comforter under you. You can see the sweat beading on Johnny’s forehead as he continues to pick up the pace, the room hot and stinking of sex from your activities.

Neither of you last long, your legs shaking with an orgasm quickly, over-sensitive pussy fluttering around Johnny’s cock. He’s not far behind you, moaning as his body folds over yours as he spills into you. That doesn’t stop him, though, his hips still rocking into you as he fills you.

His hands press into the mattress by your shoulders, his hips grinding into you as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can already feel the burn of overstimulation approaching, the uncontrollable shaking and clenching of your limbs overtaking you.

“Johnny, Johnny,” You whimper his name like a prayer, his hips rhythmically snapping against yours. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even falter as he continues to fuck you. “Please…” You whine, reaching up for him.

He bends his body down, letting your arms wrap around his neck as he continues to snap his hips against yours. “C’mon.” He groans, his teeth scraping your jaw. “One more.”

Another orgasm slams into you, your legs shaking and squeezing around his sides as your entire body writhes under him. He groans loudly in your ear, his hips finally stuttering before he cums again, filling you up until his cum is leaking out around his cock.

His hips still, his body resting against yours. He presses his face into your neck, your head tilting to give him more space. Both of you are slicked with sweat, breathing heavily. You lay there still for a moment, your body still trembling

“Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, kitten.” He breathes, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

You giggle, squeezing your arms around him. “That good, huh?”

“And more.” He says, letting his weight pin you down for another moment before he pushes himself up to his knees again.

His cock slips out of you, his cum following as it drips onto the pillow under your hips. His fingers gather it before he’s pushing them inside you, pushing his cum back into your pussy.

He chuckles as your mouth drops open, his fingers pushing against your still fluttering walls. “What, thought ye were done?”

You gulp, staring up at that playful grin and those shining eyes. Of course you’re not done. You’re just getting started.

There’s a slickness between your thighs when you wake. You press your legs together but find resistance. Something vibrates through you, your body shuddering on instinct. It takes a moment, but your brain begins to wake up, becoming aware of your surroundings, and what’s happening to your body.

Your hand drifts down, sinking into the short-cropped mohawk. Your legs squeeze against Johnny’s head again, his mouth suckling at your clit lazily. “Johnny?” You breathe sleepily.

“Mornin’ kitten.” He murmurs against your pussy, wrapping his lips around your clit again.

You moan, tugging at his hair. How long has he been down there? A while, you think, judging by how wet you are already. Your pussy is sore after last night, but still pleasure blooms in your core. It’s nearly overstimulating, bordering on that painful edge that’s loomed since last night. Johnny has pushed your body beyond what you thought it could handle, making every inch of you sensitive to every little stimulation.

“Gonna cum,” you whine, stomach tensing in anticipation of the pleasure building inside of you.

“Cum fer me.” Johnny almost commands, biting down softly on your clit.

Your hips jerk at the near painful sensation, your legs squeezing so hard around Johnny’s head you’re almost worried you’re hurting him. He offers no complaint, though, sucking hard enough on your clit you almost see stars.

Your hips lift off the bed, pressing your pussy against his face as you cum. Your hands tug at the sheets, heels digging into his back. Johnny sinks his teeth into your inner thigh, grinding against the bed. You yelp as his teeth sink into the sensitive skin, your body jerking from the pinch of pain.

He soothes the spot with a kiss, trailing kisses down your thigh back to your pussy. He offers you no respite, no break longer than he’s already given you, his tongue immediately back to your clit. Your legs jerk as his tongue drags across the overly-sensitive bud, the sensation almost painful after so long.

“Johnny,” You whine, tugging at his hair but he doesn’t let up, starting to suckle at your clit again. “Please…” You whimper against the almost painful sensation.

Your head turns as the door opens, Simon’s big form looming in the doorway. His eyes narrow as he stares at your position, Johnny ignoring him as he continues to suck on your clit.

Simon steps forward, moving towards the bed. “Going to let the bird eat breakfast?” He asks, pausing at the edge of the mattress.

“When I’m done.” Johnny murmurs from between your thighs, sucking hard on your clit.

You yelp, legs shaking from the painful pleasure. Simon’s hand brushes yours away, taking its spot in Johnny’s hair, forcing his head up. Johnny’s eyes glaze over as he stares up at Simon, lips parted, face shiny with your slick.

“Ease up.” Simon says, forcing Johnny back onto his knees. Your legs drop from around his shoulders, falling limp on the bed. “’S time for breakfast.”

Johnny whines, tilting his head back to stare at Simon. “But she hasnae cum again.”

Simon glances down at you before pulling Johnny off the bed. He climbs up onto his knees, the mattress sinking beside you. You get no moment of relief before Simon is stuffing two of his fingers into you, the other hand pressing down on your belly. Johnny stands at the end of the bed, breathing out a curse as his hand drops to his cock.

Simon’s fingers are fast and rough as they thrust into you, curled upward to hit that spot over and over. You know where this is going as hot pleasure burns through you, your legs already shaking. You can’t even try to protest as your back arches off the bed, hands tugging at the sheets as your brain starts to go numb.

You let out a long, loud moan as white hot pleasure shoots through you, Simon’s fingers pistoning in and up inside of you. Your entire body shakes, hips lifting as you squirt all over Simon’s hand and the sheets.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Johnny groans, his own body shuddering.

Simon pulls his fingers out of you as you try to breathe, your head spinning. He pats your pussy before pushing off the bed. “There. She came.” He looks at Johnny and the mess he’s made on the sheets. “Clean yourself up then come out for breakfast.”

All you can do is lay there and try to breathe as you watch his back retreating out of the room.

You’re definitely not going to cry.

Well, not cry again.

You cried packing up the room, making the bed fresh like it had been when you first arrived. You cried double checking every inch of the room to ensure every trace of you was gone.

You didn’t cry loading up the two cars with boxes and suitcases. You didn’t cry standing out on the deck one last time to stare out at the sea. You wanted to go down to the beach one last time, but as usual, it was pouring rain and John said no. You’d get to see the beach again soon, he said. The weather will be clearer by then and warmer. Spring is approaching which means more rain.

You’ve come to hate the rain.

“Holding up back there?” Kyle’s voice cuts the quiet in the car.

It’s a four hour drive from the cottage back to Hereford. There would be no flying this time. You almost wish you were. It would have made this torture go by faster.

“Yep.” You say, head leaned against the glass as you watch the green hills pass by outside. You’re too warm, tucked in under a blanket, but you don’t have it in you to fight it off your body.

Your big bear is buckled in the middle seat next to you, and next to it a few bags and suitcases. The two cars were packed almost full of things you accumulated during your months at the cottage. Stuff bought to make it seem more like home. Home. The barracks. The place you wish you’d never have to see again. Now you’re going back to that cold, sterile world surrounded by alphas and betas you don’t know.

Tears are pooling in your eyes again.

“It’ll only be for a couple weeks.” John says, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror. “I’ve already filed the paperwork.”

Despite the warmth you huddle deeper under the blanket, looking away from the rolling green hills to lean against your big bear. You almost made it ride with Simon and Johnny in the car behind you, but instead you’re glad you stuffed it into the backseat with you.

Kyle turns on the radio, breaking the tense silence that’s settled over the car. You ignore it, closing your eyes. You won’t sleep, but at least you can pretend for a while that you’re not going back to the place you want to see least in this world.

You’re silently glad John somehow had your ID with him as you roll up to the gates of the base. It hasn’t changed at all in the months you’ve been away, still so unwelcoming and cheerless. You forgot how plain their world is, how boring and cold as John drives through the base back to the barracks. It feels like so long ago this had been your normal. You’d walked this base over and over, back and forth to the mess hall, the gym, the training areas. Nothing’s changed here, but everything has changed with you and your pack.

You don’t want to get out of the car as John pulls to a stop outside the familiar white building. It looks just like it did months ago, looming and plain. You sit there for a moment, still bundled under the blanket, leaning against your bear. You don’t want to get out. You want to run back to the cottage, back to the warm, small space that had been your home. It feels more like home than this place ever will.

Just a couple weeks.

That’s what John said. A couple weeks then you’d be leaving for good, never having to step foot on this base again. You, John, and Kyle would be leaving for Scotland to find a permanent home, one that actually felt like home.

Your door opens, John leaning down. “Come on. I know you don’t want to, but we have no choice.”

You have no choice.

You really don’t.

You sigh, undoing your seatbelt before finally pulling the blanket off. The cold air outside makes you shiver, your hands sinking into the sleeves of the oversized sweater you’re wearing. One of Simon’s, you think. You’ve stolen so many of their clothes over the last couple weeks it’s hard to tell what used to belong to who.

Nerves start to twist in your stomach as you move towards the door, propped open by a box as Simon and Johnny start to move your belongings back in. You don’t want to pass over that threshold, step back into the world you so desperately were trying to avoid going back to.

The doorway hangs open like the maw of some hideous beast, some monstrous being waiting to devour you. That mouth will close and swallow you whole down into some nightmarish realm.

There is no escape. It seems to taunt you, lashing out, playing to your greatest fears. Once you step over that threshold, there’s no going back. You’ll be stuck in there forever.

“Come on.” Kyle’s hand presses against your back to nudge you forward. The temptation to dig your heels in, throw a tantrum like a child is strong, but you won’t. There are others around you now, watching, assessing. You’re no longer safe to do as you want, the freedoms you had at the cottage have been rescinded and now you have to play their game again.

Despite your hesitance, despite your unwillingness you force your feet to move, dragging yourself closer and closer to the gaping maw waiting to swallow you. The soles of your shoes seem to sink into the asphalt, every step like wading through quicksand as you force yourself closer and closer to the place you want to be least in the world.

You’d take Texas over this.

You’re shaking as you take the final step, aware of Johnny behind you with a box in his hands, but you can’t make yourself move faster than you are. Just one step and you’ll be through the door, back into the world you left behind, and had hoped would be behind you for the rest of your life.

Foot meets tile and you’re inside. The lights are bright, burning your eyes as they adjust from the cloudy grey outside. It’s only noon but the world seems dark outside. Rain, you think. It’s going to rain.

Johnny nudges you forward gently, feet stumbling to the side as you move out of his way. You’re shaking, knees almost knocking together as you stand there in the barracks for the first time in months.

You’re not glad to be back.

The hallway seems to go on forever, stretching on and on like a hallway in a horror movie. If you ran down it, it might seem to stretch on forever. A five-and-a-half minute hallway.

“Hey,”

You jump as a hand lands on your shoulder. Your head snaps to the side, heart racing at the thought of some random solider entering the barracks, approaching you so openly while your pack is distracted. That’s a hypervigilance you’ll have to return to. They’re all threats, every one of them. You’re surrounded by unfriendly betas and alphas, ones who would jump at any chance to go after an unguarded omega.

They have before.

Kyle’s the one behind you, his hand on your shoulder. You only recognize him through scent, the soft smell of salty air and the gentle scent of beta fills your nose. Your eyes are blurry with tears you didn’t even realize were gathering there.

“I know it’s not ideal,” Kyle says, his hand heavy on your shoulder, trying to ground you in your panic. “But we have to. Let’s go, yeah?” He nods his head down the hallway.

You don’t want to. Spending the next few weeks in the car feels like a better compromise than having to be back inside here.

Instead you let him guide you forward, feet scuffing on the tile as you make your way down that clinically white hallway. It’s all so sterile and unwelcoming, unlike the soft warmth of the cottage. It’s nearly giving you whiplash, the change to the harsh cold of the barracks. There’s no changing it, no making it gentler, more easy to bear. This world is harsh and cold and they’re shifting back into it so easily.

You suppose they’re used to it. Their entire adult lives have been in this. You adjust to where you are because you have no choice. Even sleeping outside in the cold would be welcoming to them. Not ideal, but they’d do it.

You’re not like them.

Kyle squeezes your shoulder before stepping ahead of you, making his way to his door. It squeaks quietly as it opens and he disappears into the darkness, leaving you behind. The world starts to contort, your vision tunneling as you pause outside your own door.

It’s closed as best it can be. The door jam is splintered, the wood cracked from where it had been kicked in. There’s still a boot print imprinted into the wood. You remember the shoving against the door, the jiggling of the handle. It’s cold as you press your hand against it, pushing it open. It only opens a couple feet before it hits something. Your dresser. You’d pushed it against the door to try and buy as much time as you could.

Your hand shakes as you reach through, fingers fumbling until you find the light switch. The overhead light flickers on, shining ugly and yellow from above. You slip through the gap in the door, stepping into your old room.

It smells like dust, all hints of any scents being gone after months of being empty. The window is closed. Someone came in and closed it. Your desk is still in disarray, items knocked over and on the floor from your scramble to get out of the room.

There’s a band tied around your chest, squeezing and squeezing tighter and tighter. Your breaths come in ragged inhales and shaky exhales, faster and faster until your fingers are starting to go numb. You can’t look away from the window, your brain starting to go fuzzy. There’s a pit in your stomach, a violent twisting and dropping sensation. It makes you sick, nausea starting to crawl up your esophagus.

Blood pounds in your ears, no...something is slamming against the door. Panic seizes you, freezing your body in place, stiffening your muscles.

You need to get out. You need to go.

Someone is coming.

You scream as arms wrap around you, tugging you out of the room. You’re flailing, panicking, fists swinging blindly.

“Stop.” A firm voice commands, hands closing around your wrists, tugging you closer. “Stop.”

You’re pushed up against a chest, firm and solid against you. A strong scent floods your nose. Leather, something soft and fresh.

“Breathe.” A voice cuts through the blood pounding in your ears.

You can’t. Every inhale and exhale hurts, your hands curling into fists from the adrenaline coursing through you.

“Come on.” Something wraps around you, squeezing you tightly.

You’re crying. The tears are falling, burning paths down your face as you’re pinned against the solid warmth in front of you. Your lips are shaking, snot sliding down your lip as you cry.

There’s a steady pounding against your ear, thumping evenly. Your mind focuses on that, listening to the rhythmic thump, thump against the side of your face. It clings to that rhythm, your breaths starting to slow. Your hands curl into the t-shirt pressed against your face, the soft fabric wet from your tears.

That steady thumping continues to beat against your ear as the world begins to take shape around you again. You’re pressed up tight against something solid, your body trembling against it. Your fingers are numb, trembling as they grip the fabric of a t-shirt tightly. Your whole body aches, muscles tense, joints locked in place. Your own heart is pounding hard, racing so fast it’s almost painful.

The scent of leather and eucalyptus seeps into your nose, the steady scent of alpha mingling with something else in the air. It’s clouding your brain, soothing its way through your synapses down into the very atoms of your being. It’s easing away that fear, the cloudy haze that’s settled over your mind as you lose yourself to panic.

You’ve had a panic attack, a flashback. Your room hasn’t changed since that day, but why would it? No one has been back to the barracks since that day. Of course it would still look the way you left it months ago. That day you escaped out the window in fear for your life.

No one thought about that.

There’s a pair of arms wrapped around you, holding you against a solid chest. The steady thumping against your ear is a heartbeat, strong and slow, calm. It’s comforting, easing you back into your mind and your body and the present.

It’s Simon you’re being held against. Simon pulled you out of the room in the midst of your panic. He’s holding you tightly, arms nearly painful around you as he keeps you pinned to his chest, trying to pull you out of your panic attack and back into reality. You don’t want to get back into reality, into the situation you know you’re in. You want to float away, stay ignorant of everything for the next few weeks. What you wouldn’t give to be sedated right now.

But you can’t. You have to exist in this world again, this world that put you in danger, threatened your life, nearly killed you.

You shift in Simon’s arms, wrapping them around his waist, clinging to him. He keeps his arms tight around you, trying to ground you, trying to keep you calm and make you feel safe. You wish it would work. You wish he could keep you there, safe and secure in his arms for the next few weeks while you’re stuck here. He won’t let anything happen to you, none of them will, but it’s not enough. Their promise, their word isn’t enough, not while you’re stuck in this nightmare.

There’s nothing anyone could do to make these next few weeks any easier.

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #poly 141 #task force 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

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studiogrimm810 · 2 months ago

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It Ends With Him

// Jackson!Joel Miller x you

summary: you’re alone. you’ve lost everything and you don’t even know how you can continue to go on without your son anymore. just as you accept your inevitable fate, an old companion finds you and and gives you a new purpose // 1.4k // base content: grief, child loss, thoughts of giving up, hypothermia, you and joel are more than friends, you knew joel from before the outbreak.

A/N: hello!! this is my first ‘joel x’ fic and i reeeeally wanna do more!! feel free to send in requests. you can check out some of my other fandom work on my page :]

The shelves were picked clean long before your arrival, you knew not to expect much, but you were really starting to lose hope of finding anything at this point.

You had been on your own for too long now, starting to see things in the shadows that weren’t clickers and hearing his voice just as you closed your eyes to rest.

Hope was fleeting fast from your veins.

The icy winter air raked over your exposed skin like shards of glass and you were honestly surprised at one point when you found no blood in its wake. Your joints ache from constant trek through the ocean of snow coating the dense skeleton of once flourishing flora.

Just a few more steps…

The words echoed around your skull, the same things you told him when all hell broke loose at the QZ all those years ago. It didn’t work for him so how could you be selfish enough to think it would work for you now?

You don’t know what fueled your mindless footsteps as you continued to hike through the snow, it’s not like you had anything to live for at this point, but whatever it was it wasn’t patient.

It ignored your feet that felt on fire and it belittled the edge you were about to leap off of in your own consciousness.

You were ready. Ready for the snow to drown you and ready to leave behind the planet the fell victim to its own mother. Ironic.

Ice seeped through your jeans and kissed your knees, running along your legs that gave out and settled you in the plush snow. It was time. You smiled.

Falling back to sit between your own swollen heels, snow devoured more of your body, sinking you deeper into the icy coffin you knew to always be yours.

Nothing on this Earth was for you now and the supplies you’ve yet to stumble on during your weeks alone was obvious proof.

The snow froze your skin, inking up your limbs and over your torso. Freezing claws pulling you deeper as you relaxed fully, letting your eyes laze shut.

You heard his voice calling for you again, but this time it was a greeting and not a bloody goodbye. You couldn’t tell if you were smiling anymore because the freezing blanket suffocated your own muscles.

It’s time.

———

Your muscles felt cemented, heavy and stiff. It was different than sleep paralysis, you could move, but it felt like you were buried under mounds of sand.

When you tried to take a full breath, your lungs only stretched so far and the burn in your throat made you cough.

Whatever room you were in was small and warm. Your body trembled, toes and fingers like ice, but you could feel your core thawing.

This isn’t Heaven, you knew it immediately because if it were, your son would already be wrapped around your neck. Whatever is left of your heart shatters and you mentally curse whatever cosmic being fucked you over so hard to keep fighting for no fucking reason.

This Earth had no right to hold you prisoner. It’s been long enough and you’re starting to think that you should’ve just done the job yourself.

Your name is called, but not your mother-given legal name that you stuck to because the only one that mattered after the outbreak was ‘mom’, no it was.. it was your name. A simple spin on your legal name, sure, but a name that only those from the old world knew.

Only people like…

“Here, drink some water.” Thick like molasses and sweet like syrup, a dampened southern drawl that you thought died with the rest of Austin. “C’mon, stay with me here, ya’ gotta open those eyes.” Aged like wine and pained by time, you know him.

Opening your eyes against the scratchy sand blanketing you 20 feet deep is hell but you have to be sure. A chill runs through your body and you convulse forward, squinting in the, honestly not so harsh, light of the room you’re in.

Cloudy vision blurs the face you already know it to be, and as he speaks again you’re convinced that it really is him.

“Hey, darlin’, you gave me quite the scare there,” he breathes out in a nervous scoff. His voice is lighter than it was a few moments ago. “Thought I found ya’ just to lose you again,” his voice is somber, a gateway to his deeper and more complex feelings of your sudden appearance, you don’t think either of you care to sit aside and assess the situation.

“Joel.?” Your voice is raspy and not your own, frozen and shattered from the bitter cold of whatever hellscape Joel has been holed up in all this time.

“It’s me,” he assures, following with your name again. A word that sounds like poetry in your eyes and ecstasy off his own tongue.

“Where am I? What is this?” You grumble out, trying to push yourself up, but the stiffness of your sore, overused and freezer burnt, muscles mock you and push you back into the cot beneath you with a heft.

“Jackson, Wyoming,” his voice is followed by the scratch of a chair that he must be pulling up to sit beside you. “It’s a settlement my brother Tommy helps run. You remember Tommy, donchya?” His warm hand grips your own lithe fingers and he feels like fire. You hum in contentment, closing your eyes to settle the spinning room.

“Yeah, Tommy and Sarah, could never forget them,” you look over to him, no longer struggling with blinking the blur out of your vision. You see him clearly now. Aged, warm skin lined with wrinkles, salt and peppered hair, a scar on his temple and the same glassy eyes that held so much love for you and his family.

You separated yourself from his family for the same reason you separated Joel from your son. Neither of you wanted to complicate your children’s lives so to them, you and Joel were barely neighbors who helped babysit, that’s all.

But behind closed doors, on nights when you could manage to sneak away without suspicion, you were something beyond lovers. Something that defied traditional laws of love and settled deep into your gut with unwavering support in the background. You were each other's rocks.

His eyes softened, though. They dropped down to your interlocked fingers, anchoring back to old habits and quick glances, and he nods only once before speaking again.

“Just Tommy, hon,” he brings his face back up but his eyes go to your hairline where he pushes some defiant strands back. Your heart breaks, echoing the grief of a lost child.

It’s quiet as the news settles and his grip tightens slightly, almost unnoticeable by the state of your frozen limbs.

“Me too, Joel,” you choke out, trying to caress a soothing thumb along the back of his hand but your muscles are still so useless that it’s more jerky than calming.

“I’m so sorry,” his eyes meet yours again, somehow holding every emotion he’s wished to bless you with the past 20-some years you’ve been separated.

You didn’t understand why you were forced to keep going after losing your boy all those years ago. For a while, you were numb and would fend for yourself. Then you manipulated your way into some groups to pick up the slack of traveling alone, but inevitably you always ended up alone. And after each departure from another era in your life, you swore that one day the Earth would swallow you up and your time would come soon, but it never did.

Maybe that’s because there was never a scale deciding what you must go through to earn rewards.

Maybe it was because you fucked up so badly in ways you didn’t recognize that solitude was your penance.

Or maybe, it was the love of your life waiting for you in a safe haven where you could live the rest of your lives together and relearn each other.

Maybe, in all of this soul-rotting madness of the world, there was still a chance to patch together what was broken and build a better outcome for each other.

Maybe it was to supply the loud-mouthed moody teenager that Joel took on a chance at a life that was hard to come by these days.

And maybe it was to watch her grow into her own person, being there for her and finding bits of your lost children in her.

Nothing could pave the cavern of grief carved into your very being, but there had to be a reason it didn’t swallow you whole.

And maybe Joel Miller was the reason.

thank you so much for reading <3

#the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller comfort

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kabuki-writes · 7 months ago

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An Entertainment For The Gods

chapter: 2 chapter 1 | 3 | 4

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: Through an invitation from the Emperors themselves General Acacius and his daughter attend one of the bloody Gladiator fights at the Colosseum. But this time it is not only the brutality of the arena that encaptures Geta and Caralla.

Note: -

word count: 2.5k

There was no bigger temple in Rome than the Colosseum. A monument to the Roman Empire, an architectural masterpiece as well as a slaughterhouse for humans and animals. They had to die for the amusement of the masses in the pale white sand and under the eyes of the Roman citizens as well as the Emperor's. You've never visited the arena before, it just wasn't the entertainment you usually seeked as you fancied the amphitheater and stage plays of comedies or tragedies. No one really died from a well-spoken dialogue and the stages weren't drown in blood afterwords. Your father was a similar soul with this. As someone who had seen war and death countless of times, Acacius developed a distaste for the useless killing, which he argued was the mere core of the collosseum's existence.

But while one would despise this form of humanity at its core brutality, other's simply loved it. First under Commodus the fights in the arena became more frequent, while Septimius Severus after him didn't change anything in that matter. Under Geta and Caracalla however Gladiator fights reached an all time high, especially those 'special' spectacles with exotic animals or ships. They themselves had an own Gladiator school under their wings, which was due to their wealth filled with the most skillful warriors and the best equipment, that it was almost unfair.

Given the fact that both twins enjoyed the performance in the arena and the bloody outcome, it wasn't surprising that they were frequent visitors. For the Emperor the colosseum had an own arena box with the best view over the inner pit and with two throne like chairs for each one of them to sit comfortably. It wasn't unusual for them to have guests here either and this time it was a special one. The moment Geta and Caracalla stepped out, the masses greeted and cheered for their Emperors, who - at least in Rome - offered them bread and games to forget the common sorrows of life. Both of them were dressed in the finest, colorful fabrics, while their golden laurel crowns throned on their heads. They waited for General Acacius at the balustrade to come forward, join them and speak to the people. He was still their celebrated hero, their triumph card, so to speak. It was an easy way to win the hearts of the people through a figure like Acacius, who was the ideal Roman.

After your father held a small, yet powerful speech about the braveness of the Gladiators they'll see today, a slave went forward to place a cushioned chair between the thrones of the Emperors. You hesitated a second, since usually you would be seated at the side of your father. "Since we've heard that you had never witnessed a fight in the arena befoe, we thought you might like a good view", Geta suddenly explained to you, before he sank into his own chair. "Please, sit down."

Your eyes went to your father for a quick exchange and you saw in them how he displeased this way of treatment, yet he nodded and you sat down. More and more you understood that the situation had a differnt tone in it. It wasn't mere courtesy why the Emperors treated you like that and given the way you'd read their eyes, it was more than clear that you've captured their interest. Usually any woman of the realm would fight for that privilege, but you had seen how your father acted in front of them, how worried he was when you first made your way to the palace - something was off. You knew you needed to pay attention and be cautious.

"Citizens of Rome, the arena welcomes you! Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla, we the people bow to your greatness and the mighty of our beloved Empire! Under the eyes of the sun the colosseum presents to you a spectacle like no other!", the high-toned, yet thunderous voice of the richly decorated announcer set the beginning of the show and drew all eyes on the white sand down in the arena pit, where a group of men in armor but with a limited equipment of weapons entered through a door from the Colosseum's catacombs. "First we present to you the brave Gladiators that will be our Theseus' today! They may not need to save their Ariadne, but they'll still have to face horde of Minotaurs today in an attempt to safe their own lives!" With those words a couple of other doors opened and six wild bulls entered the arena. Their massive and strong bodies stirred up the sands with every step of their big hooves. They may've been animals, but they had terrible weapons on their head with sharp horns that grew out of their heads.

Caracalla clapped with a joyful laugh. "Oh i love mythological pieces, even though they forgot the labyrinth!"

Your fingers nestled with the fabric of your dress in nervousness as you watched the men prepare themselves for the attack of the angry bulls, which were already pawing with their hooves. More than one set off to ran towards the Gladiators and given the fast but powerful movements of those animals, it didn't take long until the first fighter got overrun by them and another one faced the horns that drilled themselves like spikes into his torso, where blood spilled like a waterfall. The other fighters tried their best to ran or face the bulls with the few weapons they'd been given. One of them even striked down a beast by pressing his sword into its neck, when it was running towards him. You watched the spectacle with a neutral, yet pale face, while the Emperors seemingly enjoyed the show. Geta quickly noticed the way you followed the happenings down in the arena and leaned towards you.

"Are you not entertained, y/n ?", he asked you in a low voice, still loud enough to overcome the cheerings of the crowd. Your eyes went to him, facing the deep blue of his own, while you tried to put on a mask of apathy. "It is hard for me to understand, why useless killing is viewed as entertainment, I'm afraid," you answered, but it just got you an amused smirk in return.

"Oh it is not useless. You see, nothing is as entertaining as humanity itself. What lies more in our human nature than violence, power and the survival of the strongest? Without that, your father wouldn't be able to win all his great victories and our father would not have been able to secure the Roman Empire after the weak reign of the senate."

"And yet Emperor Marcus Aurelius believed that true strength isn't born in violence, but in mindfulness and kindness. The ability to speak, think and therefore to thrive for something higher than mere survival, is what distinguishes us from animals," you responded in a clear, settled tone. This sudden response surprised Geta clearly as his eyes widened and his fingers tensed up. Even Caracalla's eyes had left the arena for a moment and were locked at you. Even though he followed the fight down there, one of his ears had catched every word you'd said. What a sweet, naive woman you were... it made this whole moment even more interesting.

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched and at first you weren't able to tell if he found your words disrespectful or not. In fact, he'd not expected such a bold answer from a woman, especially not against an Emperor. And even though he wouldn't agree with you, it proved him right, that you were not a simple-minded girl. Naive maybe, but not dull.

"Interesting thought, my dear. But would you recite the words to one of these brave warriors down there too? Who will ll earn their freedom, if violence keeps them alive long enough? We offer them a precious gift, and in return they entertain us."

Your eyes went to the pit again, which was mottled in deep red blood now with only one man and one bull remaining. The moment was intense as both animal and human watched each other with intensity, before the bull stormed forward and the speer of the Gladiator, who waited for the perfect moment, hit his opponent. The massive body fell to the ground and the people cheered in Ecstasy. Geta and Caracalla clapped with admiration for the celebrated Gladiator, as he sunk to his knee and bowed to them.

The next round began after the exhausted and wounded 'hero' stumbled through one of the doors, back into the darkness of the catacombs, before he was replaced by a bigger group of Gladiators, who now had to face armed chariots. Their opponents wore the armory of old Sparta while they teared down one after one with their arrows. You leaned back in silence, watched by Caracalla, whose eyes were taking in her side profile for quite a while now. Even though he loved the fights down there, the blood, the violence... you encaptured him more right now. Your stern face, which carried a deep displeasure for this, while you tried so hard to hide it, it was captivating.

Everyone, even his own twin tend to underestimate Caracalla. Even though he was born a couple of minutes earlier than Geta and was therefore technically older than him, his stature was smaller and he wasn't as tall as his brother. This was accompanied by the fact that he enjoyed the pleasantries the god Bacchus had to offer him: wine, music, arts and sex - even more than Geta did. Together with his rather impulsive way of acting, it often led to the false thought that the more capable brother of them was Geta. Oh, Caracalla hated this, it was a misinterpretation weaved like a thread through his whole life. Because he had a gift, he could read people and together with his extensive web of information sources and spies within the city of Rome and beyond, he had a power that lied in the dark. And it was a preparation he did on purpose after he'd learned about the plot that was once set against Emperor Commodus. Some would've said it was paranoia, maybe it was, but he would call it 'preparation'. Nonetheless it came with the pleasant side effect of knowing a lot about the people around him.

"I've heard that you rather choose the theater over the arena", he said with a soft, yet unreadable smile on his lips. "You're a dreamer, aren't you?"

As you heard his voice next to you, your eyes quickly turned to him. "There is nothing wrong with dreaming, my Emperor...", you answered and he nodded quickly as if he'd hoped for that answer. Caracalla even grinned, his golden tooth gleaming in the light. "No, not at all." My Emperor. The way you've said it with your eyes looking at him. It electrified him, so much so that the cheers of the crowd almost faded in the background. You'd faced the pit and the fighters again, but he was still staring at you.

"Which play?"

"Octavia," the name almost shot from you mouth.

"And you consider yourself to be?"

"Octavia. And you?" You didn't even expected him to give you an answer on that, but meanwhile Caracalla's grin grew wider.

"Nero," he said just as fast as you'd answered before.

Your eyes instantly went back to the Emperor, whose eyes were now focused on the deadly fight between a Gladiator and a chariot rider. He couldn't hold back a chuckle, while he watched how the man pushed his sword through the neck of his opponent, ripping off his head.

Nero.

"Why?", you suddenly asked, this time it were your eyes, that watched him.

"I cannot blame him for setting himself free." His answer was almost like a whisper, yet you heard every word. It was a very unconventional way of interpreting the mad Emperor, one she herself would even despise, if he wouldn't seem to be so certain of it. It meant something more.

The arena fight slowly came to an end, when only to oppontents were fighting for the right to claim the victory. Nearly all of the Gladiators and chariot riders were dead, their bodys laying in the pale sand and drowining it with their blood, a weird composition of death that accompanied your questions about Caracalla's answer.

After a final hit, one of the men went down on his knees. He was wounded, severely, and he now felt the tip of a sword against his neck. He surrendered and the gods had to decide what will happen with him. One of the Gods was Geta, who stood up from his chair and approached the balustrade, while the crowd called for a decision. The Gods need to decide, yet Geta suddenly turned his head to you. "What do we say,...? y/n, should he live or die?"

Your face grew even paler than it already was, your fingers were almost digging themselves into the armrests of your chair. You felt a thousand eyes on you, even though it was only Geta and Caracalla watching you, as well as the eyes of your father from behind. The Gladiator waited, while his opponent's arm was cut off and his head was bowed down as if he awaited death. And the crowd screamed and screamend. Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

It rang in your ears, you didn't want to make this decision. But the moment you faced the Emperor, just as you opened your mouth, Geta simply bowed his thumb down - Death.

And the sword went down. Death.

The head dropped in the sand followed by the body, the cheers errupted in the arena, screaming the name of the victorious Gladiator. But you just stared into the nothingness that was in front of you, while you bit your tongue to the point of pain. "Don't pain yourself about this, my dear. There was only one answer anyways," Geta said while he suddenly reached out for your hand and kissed your knuckles, before he took his glass of wine. You didn't move, you couldn't.

Caracalla stared at this scenery and his fingers were shaking as his eyes darkened. The intense urge came up his mind: To simply take his brother and throw him from this box into the pit, his neck breaking from the impact. Those thoughts sometimes came and went, but they got more intense every time he saw Geta interacting with you. And this interaction hit a new high point in him that was only interruped by your form the moment you stood up.

"My Emperors, it was a pleasure to join you, but i need to leave now...", you said in a tone that tried so hard to be polite and not carry any emotion, before you turned your back and quickly stepped out of the imperial arena box, followed by your father General Acacius, who bowed and excused himself in an equally neutral tone.

Both Geta and Caracalla watched them leaving, before the taller one of the twins took a deep sip of his wine. "She'll learn to love it sooner or later."

______________________________

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#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #general acacius #geta x reader #caracalla x reader #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #fred hechinger #gladiator ii fic #kabuki writes

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brotherblaze · 2 months ago

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doloroso —robert "bob" reynolds

—summary: Against his better judgement, Bucky calls you in to help Bob balance control while he adjusts to his mood stabilizers.

—word count: 2,1k

—warnings: mild gore

—also on AO3

Bucky’s grip around your bicep is firm.

You stand a few feet from the gaping void swallowing up the entire floor of the Watchtower. It hasn’t moved forward since you arrived. According to the docket Bucky sent over when he called, this is unusual. If this Void is truly as sentient as his information claimed, it (he?) should be advancing. You stare at the edges of the shadow, the way it laps at the glossy floor like the sea at sand and yet it doesn’t advance past a certain point.

“Look,” Bucky starts, his grip on your arm loosening, “I know… I know she had the whole ‘incapable of feeling fear’ thing going on but inside that is a maze of your worst memories. Just…” he pauses, presses his lips together, “keep moving. He’ll be in an attic-like room. Shaggy hair, baggy clothes. He’ll be the only one who interacts with you.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

In the corner of your eye, Bucky nods and releases your arm. His footsteps retreat.

You stand at the edge of the darkness. It rushes forward, just barely missing the tips of your boots and then retreats, surges forward and retreats again. You can almost imagine the sound of the ocean and the wind and the birds. Or is that a memory — someone else’s memory?

The wave of soot rushes towards you and you take a step forward to meet it.

For the longest fraction of a second in your life, there is nothing.

Then, it’s hot. The sun is sweltering down at you. There are stairs and columns and trees —

People push past you, stampede up the stairs towards — that’s the Acropolis of Athens. Tall and mighty, foundation and pillars and roof uncracked, uneroded by the passage of time. Someone trips, falls and someone else grabs them by the arm, drags their companion along up the stone steps. Someone shouts, points upwards.

You see a man standing by the pillars.

In another life he could’ve been you and you could’ve been him.

In another life, you were him.

He looks at you and he smiles.

An arrow pierces the side of his jaw and tears through the bone. He crumples like tissue paper and people are on him in a moment. A hand grabs the bloodied arrow and yanks, pulls the whole jawbone off with it. It skitters across the stone ground until it hits the nose of your shoe.

A crowd surrounds him, hands tearing and punching and feet kicking and crushing. You look away.

There’s a doorway to a balcony-like structure. Beyond it, a room of gray and metal and ice. You don’t look at the carnage, at people clawing him to pieces and turn to step onto the balcony.

It is cold. Cold and metal and frost on the steel bars separating the small room from the larger one. The floor is concrete, cracked and crumbling, a hole the size of someone’s fist lodged into it. Your breath fogs when you exhale. The crisp winter air makes your lungs sting when you inhale.

The Winter Soldier is standing in front of the bars, its back to you. A man stands on the other side, dressed in a green military uniform. His chest is adorned with medals. He speaks in a low tone, tells the Winter Soldier something. You can’t quite make out his speech, the intonation of his words.

There’s a woman standing next to the Winter Soldier. Her hair is neatly braided to the side and her outfit is crisp, clean; a white shirt tucked into a pair of black pants, a coat hanging on her shoulders. Her face is impassive but her body is turned towards the Winter Soldier, arms lax at her sides. Is she compensating for its blind spots?

Your eyes meet hers from across the room.

The Winter Soldier strikes. Its movements are quick and fluid and its human hand wraps around her throat. Her hands shoot to claw at its exposed hand and her mouth opens, face contorting in pain and — fear? Is that fear you recognize on her face? It feels wrong. It shouldn’t be there. It wouldn’t be the Winter Soldier — you’ve read her docket again and again and again to the point where you see the blocky letters on that paper even when you close your eyes — ‘claims to be incapable of feeling fear’. With how long she was appointed (self-appointed?) as its handler, The Asset should not — The Winter Soldier shoves its metal fingers into her mouth and grabs her jaw. Then, its flesh arm leaves her throat, fingers slotting into her mouth, too, and it pulls.

Her skull snaps loose from her jaw and flies across the room, hits the wall with a dull thunk and drops. It rolls towards you. Her eyes stare at you, unmoving, dull. They are your own eyes. You look away.

There’s a gap between the bars. The room on the other side has flowery wallpaper and a plush couch.

You edge past the Winter Soldier and slot your body into the gap.

It smells like smoke. The wallpaper is yellowing from the tobacco, peeling at where the wall meets the ceiling. The couch is ugly, a faded maroon with stains and cigarette burns underneath the plastic cover. The you that’s sitting on it, baby-cheeked and dull-eyed, is hunched over, feet not even meeting the floor.

The woman standing in front of you, a burning cigarette between her lips — her face is a blur. You cannot decipher any characteristics about it. The cigarette glows red hot when she inhales.

“That mouth will get you killed.”

You step past her, step over the ashtray on the floor. There’s a mirror on the wall that doesn’t reflect. In it, a man sitting cross-legged in an attic-like room. This must be Bob. You dive through the mirror.

This room is pleasant. Quiet. The air is clean, or cleaner than the cigarette smoke and smoke-stained walls, if maybe a little stuffy. Specks of dust dance around you as you approach the man.

“Hello, Bob.”

His head snaps up. “Who’re you?”

“If I said I’m a friend of The As — James, I’d be lying. But we do have history.”

“Why…?” he trails off, brows scrunching. He turns his head slowly, as if realizing where he is for the first time. “What happened?”

“You threw two supersoldiers through seven walls and then melted into the floor. I think that’s how he phrased it.”

Bob buries his face into his hands with a low groan.

“Well, anyway, that’s why I’m here.” Bob pulls back slightly, hands dropping to his lap, and tilts his head up to look at you. “I can help you keep control while you get accustomed to your new medication. ‘S why he called me.”

He nods slowly, his grin lopsided and stiff, a notch between his brows. “Yeah?” His voice wavers. He blinks rapidly and wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. “How are you going to do that?” The lilt in his voice bothers you but you can’t place why. It gnaws at you, at the very center of your being, of your very existence.

“I’m more of a concept than I am human,” you say. “Listen: I will help you take control back from the Void and the Sentry. The road ahead is arduous, but so is the road behind you.” You close the already small space between yourself and Bob, and hold a hand out towards him. He drags his glassy eyes from the floor to look at your hand. “Now, could you please show me the way out of here, Bob?”

“It’s not pretty.”

“I just watched two of my past incarnations get their head and/or jaw ripped off. I doubt what’s in your past can scare me.” You nod. “We can hold hands if you think that’ll make it easier.”

Bob stares at your outstretched hand for a long moment. Finally, he accepts it and you haul him up from the floor with ease. His hand is warm around yours. You tug on it to grab his attention. “Listen: close your eyes and I’ll handle all the ugly stuff. The first time is free.”

Bone-deep relaxation washes over him as his eyes flutter shut. He hears the thud of your boots against the wooden floor and follows the pull on his hand. He feels light.

When Bob feels like he’s back in his body again, he finds himself sitting on his bed. You’re sitting right there with him, right next to him, thigh pressed against his, your hand still clasped in his. He drops it like it burns and scoots away from you. He stutters a half-baked sorry when his brain catches up to the faux-pas he’s committed. You don’t seem to be bothered by the sudden rejection.

“May I have my tie back?”

He blinks once, twice, turns his head to look at you because you’re wearing it, you were just wearing it when you held your hand out for him to take — it’s not there. Your eyes drop to his chest for a brief moment before they meet his again. Something in his hindbrain pings as wrong and there’s this… oppressive fear constricting around his throat. His windpipe is being crushed.

“You’re wearing it.”

His hand shoots to his chest and he feels smooth fabric underneath his fingertips. He nearly tears it over his head and forces it back into your open palm.

“Thank you.” Then, you stand and step over the things strewn on his floor to make it to the mirror hanging on the wall. He watches you undo the knot on your tie and loop it around your neck, tie it and smooth it against your torso. “So, a chicken?”

“I was—” he swallows around the lump in his throat, a hand on his chest rubbing circles over his shirt to ease the rapid stutter in his ribs, “Meth. I was on meth.”

“Self-medicating isn’t uncommon,” you note. You don’t even flinch when there’s a knock at the door, metal against metal but Bob nearly jumps out of his skin. His heart is beating against his ribcage like a wild horse trying to make its getaway. It might just burst from his chest at this rate. “Come in,” you say before Bob has even had the chance to consider inviting whoever it is in.

The door slides open and Bucky steps in, Ava hot on his heels. She makes a beeline for the bathroom while Bucky stops a step or two away from Bob. His posture is stiff and wrong and the feeling of unease in Bob’s chest grows, wraps around his heart and dives between his ribs — “You okay?”

“I’m not lifting him alone,” Ava announces, halfway out of the bathroom again.

“It’s not that difficult.”

“He’s 200lbs of douchebag.”

“Just… give me a sec.” Bucky looks at Bob again, brow scrunched and does a quick once-over of him. As if he’s checking for injuries. “Bob? You okay?” He repeats, tone even, still stiff.

Bob’s mouth opens and closes, opens again, a million and one thoughts racing in his mind, avoiding each other in near-misses and colliding together like a 17-car pileup on the interstate. “I… Yeah.” He nods his head. “Yeah. Is John…?”

“He’s alive. Out cold but alive.” Ava places her hands onto her hips and looks at Bucky. “I’m not lifting him alone.”

“For the love of —” Bucky stomps across the room and pushes past Ava into the bathroom. They exchange a few not-so-heated words, more mocking and bickering than anything angry. Something thunks dully against the ceramic tub and they both hiss through their teeth, followed by a stretch of silence.

“Great, now he’s bleeding, too.”

“Eh,” Ava says after a moment, tone flippant, “he’ll be fine.”

“You have good taste,” you say. Bob nearly jumps out of his skin again. He forgot you were here in the room with them. How did he forget? You’re holding his copy of Frankenstein in your hand, finger tracing the lettering of the summary on the back. “You’d be surprised how many modern movies are so obviously inspired by Frankenstein.” You slot the book back into its place on Bob’s meager bookshelf, which is just the singular shelf with six books and a fake succulent. “If you need me, or if you have any questions, I’m just down the hall.”

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his body fatigued. So, he just nods and tries to manage a smile. If it looks more like a grimace, you don’t mention it.

part 2

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#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #sentry x y/n #sentry x reader #bob reynolds imagine #robert reynolds imagine #x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #sentry x you #thunderbolts x reader

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savage-kult-of-gorthaur · 4 months ago

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PIC INFO: Resolution at 1058x1600

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#Predator: The Bloody Sands of Time Vol. 1 #The Bloody Sands of Time #Predator: The Bloody Sands of Time #The Bloody Sands of Time Vol. 1 #World War I #World War 1 #WWI #WW1 #Yautja #Predator Comics #Comics #Dark Horse #Dark Horse Books #Yautja Predator #Predator Yautja #Predator

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loves0phelia · 8 months ago

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hi! I wanted to request a cute jj fic where they’re just being cute together and he’s overprotective (can you base it off an episode in the series?)

thanksss!

Risking

Summery: Moments JJ risked his life to protect you.

Words: 2.8k

Warnings: near death experiences, grammar mistakes.

A/N: I'm like 100% sure this is not what you meant but this is what i came up with, thank you for requesting xxx (for anyone that requested i will do them all eventually, might just take time)

JJ was always protective of his friends no matter what, whether it was in a fight, an argument or just a small altercation, he was ready to protect. But with you, it was quite different. He wasn't just protective, he was ready to kill to assure your safety. He followed behind you wherever you went like a personal guard. He would do anything to shield you from any harm.

The first time you noticed just how much he was committed to your protection, was during the Kegger at the beach. You and him had begun dating a couple of months prior and it was the first beach party of the summer, where kooks, pogues and torons met to have a good time.

“Hey, y/n! How are you doing?” Your head turns when you hear the call of your name. You notice Topper, Rafe, and Kelce approaching. Their presence quickly becomes hard to ignore. They are always looking for trouble, even when there is none.

“Oh, uhm I'm good Rafe, thank you for asking” You began looking around for the familiar head of blond hair you loved combing your fingers through but only failing.

“Looking for someone?” It was now topper's time to speak up.

“Actually yes, I'm looking for JJ-”

“Yeah I don't actually care, you want a drink?” Topper smirked, a glint of arrogance in his eye; it was in no way comforting. It was malicious.

“No thanks, I'm not drinking tonight…” You slowly start backing up feeling cornered by the trio.

“Relax, we’re just being friendly. Have a drink with us. Unless, of course, you’re too good for that. But you won't deny a free drink, right, pogue?” Topper pushed and almost shoved the red plastic Solo cup filled with beer that tasted like pee in your face.

“What the fuck is going on here” Sighing in relief, A weight was lifted off your shoulder when you heard his voice coming up behind you. You turned to see JJ striding over, eyes hard and jaw clenched. His gaze flicked from you to the three boys, warning in his stare.

“There you are, we were just offering your little bitch of a girlfriend a drink, isn't that right y/n?” Topper laughed, feigning innocence.

JJ didn’t back down, his voice low but clear. “The fuck did you just call her?.”

Topper took a step closer, his grin mocking. “I called her a bitch. What are you gonna do about it, tough guy?” He laughed and earned a slap on the back from Rafe.

Before anyone could process what was happening, JJ's fist was swinging toward Topper landing a solid punch across his jaw.

The air was thick with tension, and you instinctively took a step back—until Rafe's hand caught your arm, gripping tight.

“Let go of me!” you snapped, trying to pull free.

“Don’t. Touch. Her.” Seeing you struggle, JJ’s face darkened

JJ lunged toward Rafe as Topper troubles to stand from the sand still winded from the hit he received. Then, In a second everyone at the party began circling the fight.

Both blond boys punched and kicked around earning cheers from the crowd surrounding.

“Stop!” John B and Pope push through and quickly pull JJ off the bloodied Rafe.

“Lay a hand on her again, and you’re dead. Got it!?” He screamed at his face before getting completely pulled off.

JJ’s demeanour softened as soon as He turned to you, “Hey, you alright?” he asked, gently brushing his fingers over the red handprint on your arm.

You let out a relieved breath, meeting his concerned gaze. “I’m fine, thank you,” you whispered, slowly raising your tippy toes to press a delicate kiss on his cheek.

His hand raised to your cheeks and pulled you into a proper kiss before wrapping his arm around your shoulder and bringing you away from everyone. He couldn't wait to lay in bed close to you.

the second time you noticed was when he was ready to take a bullet for you. You and your friend hadn't expected your summer to turn into a treasure-hunting adventure but here you were with a nugget of badly melted gold in your pocket on your way to a “warehouse”.

“Is there really a warehouse out here?” Your friend, Kiara asked, confused. The route you were on only had forest and maybe a couple of cabins nearby, no place where someone could be keeping 70k in cash.

“That's what she said, hehe that's what she said” JJ smirked and you from your spot on his lap slapped his thigh and gave him a warning but playful look.

‘Shut up” Pope said unimpressed which only made JJ's smile fall into a frown.

“Sorry baby,” You said and kissed the tip of his nose and his smile was back immediately. He had already forgotten his bad joke.

“Cops? out here?” Your little make-out session was interrupted by the flashing of the red and blue lights and siren.

“Hide the gold!” All the pogues panicked and tried acting as innocent as possible, but JJ only tightened his arms across your lower stomach holding you against him.

Barry appeared, his face hidden with a skull scarf, and in his hand was a shotgun. He raised it, pointing it directly at John B. in the driver's seat. You all froze, hearts pounding.

“Why don't you get out and raise those arms in the air” Barry sneered. “Right now!”

John B stepped out of the van, hands raised high in fear.

“Come everyone get out! Let's go” Shaking you slowly got up from your place in JJ's lap and got out of the car.

“There you go pretty girl, hurry up!” He pointed the gun in your face, the barrel touching your forehead.

“Relax bro!” JJ jumped out after you and instinctively pushed you behind him. His face was dark with anger as he screamed. Your heart jumped in your throat when the gun shifted from you to him.

“Stay back bitch!” he shouted at JJ.

“Face down in the ditch, get down on your knees” He threatened with his gun and pushed down Pope's head as you all got down in the dirt.

After a short while, Barry went into the van and went looking for the gold but as he was searching John b got up and went into his car to ambush him.

Thankfully his plan worked and as soon as John B got the gun out of his hand you all rushed to help. JJ ran and punched him in the ribs, Kie punched his face, Sarah pulled the car door on his face twice and you kicked him as hard as you could where the sun dont't shine.

Barry spat, his anger mingled with a hint of fear now. “You’re dead for this. You hear me? All of you!” You all just took what he had stolen from you and left.

Later that night in bed pressed against JJ's stomach at the chateau you thought about the situation.

“You can't jump in front of me when there's a gun involved” You whispered and JJ's rubbing movement on your back stopped.

“the hell I can't” he scoffed.

“You're gonna get hurt badly if you keep protecting me.”

“It's my job to protect you, if something happens to you I will literally die, I can't live without you” His sentence made your head shoot up.

“You mean that?”

“You're the love of my life y/n, nothing matters more to me than you.” You carefully laid your head back down on his chest where you could hear his heartbeat and hugged him tight, almost wanting to crawl into his skin.

The third time you were out in open water, nowhere to turn, and adrenaline was coursing through your veins. Sarah had gotten kidnapped by her family and you and the rest of the pogues were on a mission to save her.

The boat pitched and swayed on the ocean. JJ and you stood side by side, backs pressed to the railing, as you faced off against Renfield, an employer of Ward Cameron.

The man grinned wildly, holding a machete with a terrifying confidence, the blade shining menacingly in his hands.

“JJ look out!” He lunged forward, machete raised, his eyes locked on JJ. Your heart leaped in fear, but JJ ducked, narrowly dodging the swing. The machete sliced through the air, missing by an inch.

Before he could make another move, you stepped in, launching a punch right into his nose throwing him off his balance. But he quickly got back up continuing the fight.

Before JJ could fully react, Renfield rushed forward, landing a brutal punch across his jaw. The force of the blow sent JJ stumbling backward, right up against the railing. Disoriented, he struggled to regain his balance.

His vision was blurry but he didn’t miss how The blunt end of the machete in the man's hand was making a beeline for your head.

“Y/N!” He lunged from the floor and pushed you out of the way.

Your heart dropped to the bottom of your feet as you watched JJ topple backward receiving the hit that was initially meant for you, arms flailing as he plunged into the dark, icy water below.

“JJ!” you screamed, rushing to the side, your eyes frantically scanning the water for any sign of him. The boat rocked beneath you as you leaned over, the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

Without a second thought, you kicked the man and jumped in after your boyfriend.

“JJ!” You swam closer and closer until you reached his floating body, you held him and hugged him close to your body, elevating his face above the water.

“Please! John B.” You felt yourself sink further as you frantically moved your legs beneath you.

“Please, JJ I can't, I can't” You choked on the water filling your mouth.

As you sank several pairs of hands grabbed onto you and JJ pulled you onto a smaller boat when you realized your friends had saved you you rushed to JJ's side, begging, and shaking his shoulder attempting to bring him back.

“Please get up!” suddenly he began coughing up water and slowly opening his eyes.

“Oh my God” You sobbed and held his face gently with your hands.

“Sup” Everyone around you erupted in laughter and you laid your forehead on his chest giggling. “Don’t… ever do that again,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

JJ chuckled weakly. “Can't promise anything”

You rolled your eyes, a smile breaking through despite the panic that still lingered.

“I'm coming with you,” you argued.

“No you're not,” JJ said as he was putting his diving gear on.

“Yes, I am” You take the second wetsuit and start unzipping it.

“Hey, no” he takes it from your hands and puts it aside.

“Yes, JJ. I am going down with you whether you like it or not” Your tone hardens which took him aback, JJ rarely saw this bossy side of you, you were always soft-spoken and gentle or at least with him you were.

After pulling on the suit and oxygen gear both you and JJ were ready to go down.

“Okay guys remember the safety stops, or else you get the bends” Pope warned and you both nodded.

The water was calm and clear. Underwater, everything was peaceful and quiet, the only sounds coming from the rhythmic hiss of your breathing through the scuba gear and the faint echo of distant waves above. It felt like a different isolated world.

He gestured to you, pointing toward a dark shape partially buried under a rocky overhang. You nodded, eyes bright under the goggles as you swam toward it, fins propelling you through the water.

But before either of you could examine the wreckage further, a shadow passed over you, casting a sudden darkness across the sandy floor.

Just as you looked up, the unknown diver was on you. The stranger grabbed you by the shoulder, yanking you backward, forcing you to drop the small underwater flashlight you had been holding.

“y/n!” JJ’s eyes widened as he took the spear he had brought down with him and stabbed the attacker without mercy. But that angered him. Quickly he turned and punched JJ, with his skills he swam quickly and locked JJ up in a room inside the wreck while he was disoriented, leaving you alone with the man.

“NO!” he yelled but it was muffled by the oxygen tube.

The stranger’s hands reached for you again, trying to get hold of your air tank, and when he did he cut off your oxygen supply. Your lungs burned instantly from the lack of oxygen and panic. As soon as JJ managed his way out of the trap he was in, he shoved his regulator into your mouth, completely uncaring about his need for oxygen. He took your hand while you were taking desperate breaths and he kicked himself forward, rushing to the surface and escaping from the attacker.

As you broke through the water, you both gasped for breath and clung to each other, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

“Are you okay!” His hands reached for your face, and you only weakly nodded.

“Talk to me please, baby”

“I'm okay” You swam closer to him and he held you without daring to let go until John B was near.

When you finally reached the safety of the boat you and your boyfriend sat close. You were still panting, your chest heaving but as you took another breath, you felt a sudden, sharp pain twist through your chest.

"Guys, are you okay?" Kiara asked, noticing the pained expression on your face.

You tried to respond, but winced, feeling an intense, stabbing ache radiate from your joints to his abdomen. Your head spun, and you suddenly felt nauseous as though your blood had turned to acid. Panic flashed in Pope's eyes as he watched you and his best friend struggle, the realization hitting him hard.

"They have the bends, we need to get them to the hospital" Pope and Cleo slid their arms around JJ's back lifting him up and John B. and Sarah did the same to you.

JJ panicked at the sudden disconnection between you too, You were so close now so far apart because of your friends separating you.

“y/n” JJ moaned as pain shot through his side.

“We're getting you both to the hospital!” pope shouted. The ride felt like thousands of hours, the pain was unbearable.

"Almost there, guys, just hold on," Sarah encouraged, as she tried making you both take deep breaths.

The van rattled down the dirt road, jostling you and JJ in the back as you leaned against each other, pale and clammy, both fighting the building pressure in your heads and chests.

“go, go, go” one of your friends screamed and tore the van door open pulling you out of the car. You struggled through the hospital door and in a second you were shoved into a small, cramped hyperbaric chamber that was barely big enough to fit one person, let alone two.

After a couple of minutes of groaning, heavy breathing and twitching you both cooled down shoulders pressed against one another, his breath shallow and quick, matching your own in the tightness of the space. His fingers slid into yours sneakily.

JJ glanced over, a spark of guilt in his eyes as he shifted uncomfortably now tracing his fingers on your face. “I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from all this” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You met his gaze, his face so close you could see every freckle on his sun-kissed skin. You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his hand brushed your cheek as he reached to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I'm glad you didn't,” you said. JJ’s hand lingered, his fingers warm against your skin, and you felt yourself leaning in, just slightly, as though pulled by a force.

“I'm glad you didn't because if you did I wouldn't be here with you ” you whispered, unable to look away. Before you could stop yourself, you closed the gap, kissing him with a fierceness you didn’t know you had.

JJ’s lips met yours, soft and warm, and his hands found their way to your waist, pulling closer. The hum of the machine, the aching in your muscles, even the fear — all of it fell away, leaving only the two of you, tangled together in this moment.

“It’s the first and last time I ever let something happen to you, got it?” You grinned and rolled your eyes. You shifted, grabbed a pillow and quickly pushed it directly in front of the circular window before climbing on his lap pressing a deep kiss to his plumped pink lips.

Only the two of you know what happened in that chamber in the minutes that followed.

#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank #jj maybank fluff #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank angst #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank x pogue!reader #outer banks fanfiction #outerbanks #jj outerbanks

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clarafell · 2 years ago

Note

⭐️ talk to me about homura and sora i need to plot these two like i need air

HEADCANON MEME FOR OUR MUSES : Accepting!!!

@madeimpact

Sora traveling across worlds lands him in right in Japan. Don't ask how, but Sora ends up getting lost. Surprisingly, he doesn't get that many weird looks with his weapon because some of fashionistas on the street are totally rocking his look. His key-shaped weapon looks like a cool handmade prop, so it works in his favor. Sora notices a couple of people with weird marks on their body acting a bit suspicious, so he decides to try to stop them before harm could happen to anyone. He ends up in wandering into labyrinth belonging to a rather relentless witch.

No stranger to fighting, he handles himself pretty well... at first. But trying to worry about the manipulated victims while also fighting the relentless witch without any of assistance proves to be a hard move. He tries an offensive stance since the witch looks rather similar to his enemies, but he realizes that he has more on his plate. He changes his stance to a defensive route, but the victims only want to help the enemy. Stuck, he is running out of options. Sora has plenty of energy to try to reach a stalemate, but the witch has too many forces on their side.

He blinks—

Then a girl appears from out of nowhere.

His silent plea for help has been answered, but he's confused by her abrupt appearance. Where did she come from? Who is she? Where did all these entranced victims go? Are they okay? Will this fragile-looking girl be alright in this weird monster's world—

Oh.

Oh, she is more than alright.

She made quick work of the monster, barely paying him any mind. He tries to call out in order to try to form some kind of support system since he wanted to help too, but... She kept on disappearing. Something good, he noticed, always happened whenever she reappeared. Then the bizarre world dissolves right before his eyes. The monster has disappeared, but it dropped something.

The girl picks the object up before he had a chance to examine it. She clinks it against something purple on her hand. Sora notices that all the people are carefully laid down on the ground, but they are all unconscious. Their marks are all gone, Sora noticed. That means the marks are connected to the monsters. Sora is really confused at this point, but the girl is quietly eyeing him up with a bit of wariness.

She looks like she wants to ask something. Then why isn't she talking? She frowns, almost as if someone else answered one of her questions. She looks down at the victims then back at Sora. Her frown deepens, almost as if she is being given even more disappointing news.

❝ Please... Please don't tell anyone that you saw me. These people will wake up with no memory of what happened. Let them continue their normal lives. Thank you for trying to be their knight in shining armor, but... But stay far away from the witches if you can't successfully defeat them. ❞

The muttered remark leaves her lips, timidly so.

The voice is meek while her tone is a bit cold, but the words sound sincere to him. She is eyeing up his weapon before slowly looking over his body all over again. Sora suspect that she is looking for the same mark that were on the victims, but he can't read her mind. She takes a step back as soon as Sora takes a step forward. She suddenly appearing more like a scared animal than the experienced fighter that he saw in that odd realm. He tries to get more information by opening his mouth.

He blinks—

Sadly, the girl is gone as fast as she appeared.

While he still wants answers, all he wants in the moment is to thank her for the help.

Sora is still lost, but this will not be the last time he sees her.

#❛ ✧ ┊ the fairy tale gets a little darker after midnight. answered.#❛ ✧ ┊ dead melodies in the bone. headcanon.#❛ ✧ ┊ lost to the sands of time. drabble.#❛ ✧ ┊ beware of those bloody thorns. ic.#(This???)#(This decided to just evolve into something more)#(Someone give Sora some info please)#madeimpact #tw: long post

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fuiru · 10 months ago

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A 44 year old man goes to a K-Pop Concert

I promised you a report on the K-pop concert that I, a 44-year-old accountant, went to a couple of weeks ago with my wife and daughter in Toronto. So here it is.

The band we saw were Ateez. They're my daughter's favourite band and my wife's second favourite. I know most of my mutuals are similarly aged like me and may not be familiar with them so let me give you a brief primer on Ateez.

Imagine the most attractive eight men you can think of, just unfathomably beautiful specimens of aesthetic perfection, and make them sing songs that somehow combine the subjects of 'dancing like nobody is watching' with 'we live in a dystopian hellscape that we must all work together to overthrow'. Give them an ongoing music video story lore that literally nobody - not even the band themselves - understand, so that online discussion of their visual motifs looks more like the fevered rantings of a conspiracy theorist, complete with speculation about alternate realities and time being a Moebius strip. There is also a giant sand timer, for some reason.

That's Ateez. That's what you need to know.

Now, K-pop concerts are very different to the gigs I've been going to for the last 28 (!) years. There's no support act, for a start. Also the band perform for like, three hours, with breaks for costume changes and interpretive dance. Furthermore, hanging above everything is the constant looming threat of mandatory military service.

So this being my first such concert, I wasn't sure what to expect. What happened was difficult to explain, but I will try as I am already six paragraphs into this write-up and I'm too invested to stop now. Here goes:

In his Wicked + Divine comics series, Kieron Gillen places modern pop icons as deities, feeding upon and gaining strength from the worship of their fans at the altar of musical performance. I thought I understood that metaphor. I thought I understood it AS a metaphor. I was wrong, because that night Ateez WERE Gods with a capital G and we were their worshippers, a crowd emanating adoration (in the religious and non-religious senses), bestowing strength upon them and gaining their strength in return.

If that sounds weird, it probably is. But as pointed out above, I have lived over four decades and never yet experienced anything like the overwhelming passion of that crowd, the utter abandon with which they conveyed their love for the band.

"But Fuiru, what of the actual music?" you ask. Thinking back, there was a moment in one of their songs - I can't remember which - where I watched the stage, and the people around me, taking it in, and I thought, "Man, I just love Music". But that doesn't answer your question, sorry.

Ateez's music is bloody great. As a tiresome indie/rock/metal kid I'm resisting the urge to add the usual tiresome indie/rock/metal caveat of "...for pop music" because honestly that does it a disservice. They have some genuinely amazing songs. Halazia is an absolute fucking masterpiece that descends into furious hardcore breakbeat. Bouncy is a big, brash racket that somehow is also a perfect pop song. Utopia, Wonderland, and Guerrilla are similarly superb. The obligatory boy band slow number is represented by Dancing Like Butterfly Wings which will make you cry because you will forever associate it with your twelve year old daughter being pointed to and waved at by her favourite Ateez member (Seonghwa) because of her Seonghwa-branded lightstick.

That might just be me, though.

So in summary: being a 44 year old dad at his first K-pop concert rules and you should endeavour to partake in the experience if the opportunity arises.

Finally, for any Atiny reading this: my bias would be San or Seonghwa but my wife and daughter said they were taken so it’s Mingi. My concert outfit (designed and created by my offspring) reflects this.

#ateez #atiny #mingi #song mingi #k-pop #the oldest bloke at the dance #kieron gillen

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humaling · 2 months ago

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Nothing's Ever Gonna Hurt You, Baby.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: it's supposed to be another normal day with your husband—but it takes a turn when you wake up to eerie silence.

warnings: anxiety attack

word count: 3.8k

author's note: based on a req! i tried my best to write an anxiety attack. i got a bit lazy w the ending heh

When the war ended, you and Finnick moved back to District 4. It was a heartbreaking sight—the town lay in ruins, everything you once knew and loved buried beneath the rubble. But not all was lost. Some homes near the shore or deeper into the outskirts had been spared the worst of the destruction. A few were falling apart, some had been looted, but they were still standing.

Like the old family beach house you grew up in. Tucked away at the far edge of District 4, hidden behind thick jungle, it had always been out of reach—too remote for Snow’s influence to ever fully touch.

You hated living there as a kid. The jungle terrified you at night—the shadows, the sounds, the way the wind moved through the trees like whispers. You begged your parents to move closer to town, to where life felt brighter, safer.

Now, decades later, you and Finnick—your husband—have made that same beach house your home. It's the only thing that still feels familiar, untouched by the Capitol’s hand. Even with its isolation, or maybe because of it, you both prefer it here. It offers a kind of peace, a quiet freedom neither of you ever had before.

For a while, you both tried to believe that peace was enough. That the quiet meant safety. That the crashing of the waves and the rustling of the jungle could lull you into something like normal. You planted herbs in the garden. Finnick fixed the broken shutters. You spent long afternoons sitting in the sand, your feet buried in the warmth, watching the tide come in. There were even moments—brief, fleeting—when it almost felt like healing.

But peace is a strange thing when you've lived without it for so long. It starts to feel unfamiliar, almost threatening. You wait for it to be broken, because it always was before. Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget.

But freedom, you’ve learned, comes with a price. Snow may be gone, but the scars he left on both of you remain.

They linger in the quiet moments, in the in-between spaces—when the chores are done, when the sun dips behind the trees, when the fire crackles low and there’s nothing left to distract you. That’s when it creeps in. The past. The memories. The ache you’ve tucked so carefully behind smiles and routines.

That’s when the silence changes.

Some nights, it’s too quiet.

That kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and settles in your bones. The kind that isn’t peaceful at all—it’s heavy, still, like something’s waiting to happen. You’ve come to hate that silence. Because that was what it sounded like the morning you were reaped. No birdsong. No waves crashing. Just this eerie, unnatural calm. The air so still, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

It was the same during the Quarter Quell. That silence before they called your name again. Before they dragged you back.

Now, even here—years later, with the war over, with Finnick beside you—you can still feel it. That weight. That pause before the storm. It comes without warning. You’ll be chopping vegetables or brushing your hair or just standing on the porch watching the sea, and then… silence.

Your hands start to tremble. Your breath gets shallow. And for a moment, you’re not in the beach house anymore. You’re sixteen again, standing on that stage, eyes fixed on the Capitol seal. Or you’re in the arena, cold and bloodied, waiting for a cannon.

Finnick notices every time. He doesn’t say much—he just comes close, presses his hand over yours, or pulls you into his arms, grounding you with his presence. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it isn’t. But he never leaves you in it.

You wake to the sound of nothing.

No gulls. No wind through the trees. No boards creaking under Finnick’s footsteps. Just stillness.

The kind that wraps around the house like fog, thick and quiet and wrong.

You sit up slowly, the sheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. The sun’s already risen—soft light spills in through the window, casting long, golden bars across the floor. Finnick’s side of the bed is cold.

You already know he’s gone to the market. He mentioned it last night, just before falling asleep with his hand resting on your back. “Won’t be long,” he’d said. “Back before lunch.”

Still, knowing and feeling aren’t the same.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s oppressive. Heavy. Your chest tightens before your brain can catch up, before you can remind yourself that you’re safe, that this is your home now, that there are no cameras, no Games, no Capitol.

It doesn’t matter.

Because this is the kind of quiet that used to come before something awful. The kind of quiet that filled the square before a name was read out loud. The kind that settled over the jungle before a trap snapped shut.

You throw the blankets off and plant your feet on the wooden floor, grounding yourself with the texture, the temperature, the reality. You breathe in through your nose, slow, steady. Just air. Just the smell of salt and sun and old pinewood.

You tell yourself to move.

You go through the motions like it’s all fine—open the shutters, wash your face, tie your hair back. Pretend the pounding in your chest is just leftover from a dream. Pretend your fingers don’t shake when you reach for a cup. Pretend the silence is just silence.

You don’t let yourself cry. Not today. Not over nothing.

By the time Finnick returns, basket in hand, salt in his hair, humming something low under his breath, you’re sitting at the table slicing fruit with a steady hand.

He leans down to kiss the top of your head like he always does.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice soft.

And you lie with a smile. “Yeah. Just a little too quiet this morning.”

You don’t look up when you say it. Just keep slicing the fruit—steady, even strokes, the way you were taught back in the Capitol when everything had to be perfect.

Finnick pauses.

It’s just a moment, barely more than a breath, but you feel it. The way his hand stills on the back of the chair. The way his body goes quiet, not tense, just still. He’s watching you—reading more into your voice than the words you gave him.

You don’t have to explain. You never really have with him.

Still, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just slides the basket onto the counter and starts unpacking it like nothing’s wrong. Fish, bread, a jar of honey. A few apples, bruised but fresh. His movements are easy, casual—but his eyes flick to you now and then, like he’s keeping track of your breathing, your shoulders, the way your hand tightens just slightly on the knife.

“You know,” he says after a minute, like it’s just a passing thought, “the gulls were making a racket near the dock this morning. Could barely hear myself think.”

You glance up, and he’s got that look—half-grin, half-concern. The kind he wears when he’s trying to make you smile without calling attention to why you’re not. It’s light, but it’s there: the worry, tucked behind his lashes.

“They must’ve all flown off the moment I got back,” he adds, turning to rinse a piece of fruit in the sink. “Didn’t want to compete with your mood.”

It’s not a joke, not really, but the way he says it—soft, teasing, careful—it makes something inside you loosen. Not all the way. Not enough to stop the thrum of anxiety under your skin. But enough to let you breathe a little deeper.

You set the knife down, wipe your hands on a towel, and lean against the counter next to him.

“They’re cowards,” you say quietly.

He huffs a laugh. “That’s what I’ve always said.”

You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t need it. He just bumps your shoulder with his and starts slicing the bread, like the silence never touched either of you at all.

The kitchen settles into a soft rhythm. Finnick slices the bread while you arrange the fruit. The air smells like salt and citrus, and for a little while, it feels almost normal. The silence no longer presses—it breathes. Shared, it’s lighter.

You’re halfway through whisking eggs when the old telephone in the hallway buzzes. It’s a low, crackling ring—the kind that always startles you, even though you’ve lived with it for years.

Finnick wipes his hands on a towel and glances toward the doorway.

“I’ve got it,” he says, already moving.

You nod, not looking up.

The moment he steps out of the kitchen, the room changes.

It’s subtle. No footsteps. No hum under his breath. No weight in the air beside you. Just the eggs, the sound of your whisk scraping the bowl, and the sharp scent of rosemary from the sprig he’d dropped onto the cutting board.

And that’s what does it.

The rosemary.

The Capitol had used it in everything—on meats, in oils, in perfumes they gave to the stylists. That crisp, herbal scent that once meant luxury now coils in your chest like smoke. It clings to your skin, to the walls, and suddenly you’re not in the kitchen anymore. You’re in a room too clean, too white, too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums just beneath your ears. The kind of quiet that always came before someone screamed.

Your grip tightens on the whisk. You blink. You try to breathe, but your lungs don’t seem to want it. The light from the window feels too bright. The bowl is too loud. The silence is back—but it’s not empty this time. It’s waiting.

You tell yourself you’re here. That the war is over. That you’re home.

But your chest keeps rising too fast. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to stir again, but the motion turns frantic. The whisk hits the side of the bowl too hard. The sound is sharp—like metal clashing—and it yanks you deeper into the memory.

Your vision blurs. You press your palms flat against the counter, the wood solid beneath your skin, grounding—but barely. Your knees threaten to buckle. You think about calling out to Finnick, but your throat’s too tight. You can’t make a sound.

Your palms are flat against the counter, your breath shallow and ragged, but it’s not helping. You’re still not in your body. You're still not here.

You're there.

The scent of rosemary thickens, warping into something else—metallic, sterile, suffocating. The kitchen tilts just slightly, enough to make your stomach twist. The light in the window shifts too fast, too bright—like the artificial sun in the training center, never rising, never setting. Just watching.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Hard. Fast. Like it’s trying to outrun something. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too quiet. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw clenches.

And then—your elbow bumps the bowl.

It clatters off the edge of the counter and crashes to the floor. The sound shatters through the silence. Eggs spill across the wood in a yellow bloom, splattering up your legs. The metal whisk bounces once, then rolls, slow and mocking.

You fall to your knees in the mess, your hands trembling uncontrollably. Your chest tightens until there's no air, no space to breathe. Your vision blurs as your mind races, latching onto one terrible, impossible thought:

They’re sending you back.

You don’t know how or why or when, but it’s happening. The Capitol found a way. They always do. You can already hear your name echoing through the square again, see the seal flashing in the sky, feel the grip of peacekeepers dragging you toward that same metal door. You’re sixteen again. You’re twenty again. You’re never free.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Please—I can’t do it again—”

Your hands are over your ears, trying to drown out a sound that isn't there. Your body curls in, trying to disappear, but the panic swells bigger than your skin. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

Then you hear it—footsteps. Fast. Familiar.

Finnick bursts through the doorway, breath catching at the sight of you on the floor.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he says immediately, voice low but firm, already dropping to his knees beside you. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

His hands don’t grab, don’t rush. He’s careful—always careful. He slides one arm around your shoulders, the other gently covering your trembling hands, coaxing them down. He presses his forehead lightly to yours, anchoring you.

“You’re not going back,” he murmurs. “You’re never going back.”

Finnick’s voice seems distant, muffled—like it’s coming from a far-off dream. You can see his lips moving, but you can’t hear him. The world around you is too loud, too chaotic. Your mind is racing, drowning in the fear, in the terror, in the impossible thought that this will never end—that you will always be herded, always be a tool for their games. Always.

His hands are on your arms, his voice in your ear, but it’s not enough. You’re still trapped. Still choking on the panic that rises up like a wall around you.

Finnick tries again, sliding his arms around you, holding you close. His warmth is solid—his touch soft but urgent. You feel him against you, but you can’t seem to grab onto the reality of it. The world is spinning too fast. You’re suffocating in it.

His thumb gently presses against your wrist, soothing, steady, but your breathing is still ragged, too fast. You can’t catch it. Can’t catch anything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, a calm insistence, but it feels like your eyes are stuck behind glass. “I need you to look at me, sweetheart.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t pull your face toward his. Instead, he leans in, just enough to let his breath brush against your ear. His words are a quiet hum, just soft enough to slip under your skin. He knows you’re listening, even if you can’t hear him all the way.

“Focus on me,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

But your mind can’t stop spinning, and all you can feel is the pressure—the terrible pressure—in your chest.

You feel him adjust his hold, and before you can process what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist, gently pulling it toward his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat fills your senses—strong, steady, frantic with worry, but there. You press your palm flat against the warm, firm skin under his shirt, the thump of his pulse grounding you.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches you with his warm, quiet eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest work through the shaking of your body.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby. "I’m here, honey. I’m right here, and you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone."

You press your palm harder against him, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart in time with the panic still swirling inside you, and for the first time, it anchors you. His heartbeat, frantic but real, becomes your lifeline. Something solid. Something constant.

He continues to breathe deeply, slowly, and as his chest rises and falls under your hand, your own breath starts to find its rhythm too. You can hear his voice again, soft and soothing, cooing gently at you.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. In and out. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s as though his heartbeat is guiding you, leading you back to yourself. You press your face against his shirt, taking another shuddering breath, then another. The panic still clings to the edges of your mind, but Finnick doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away. He simply holds you, holds you together, as the storm inside you starts to quiet.

With every beat of his heart against your palm, you begin to feel the ground under your feet again. Solid. Real. Safe.

You cling to him, your hands still trembling, but now they’re locked onto the front of his shirt, holding on like he’s your lifeline, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. Your fingers dig into the fabric, needing to feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him, beneath your touch.

You press your face into his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat the only thing that makes any sense. The terror still lingers at the edges of your thoughts, but Finnick is here. He’s always been here.

And that thought—he’s here—becomes the anchor you need.

He’s murmuring softly into your hair, his voice smooth and quiet, like he's speaking only for you, only to you. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, his hand running up and down your back in soothing strokes. His warmth seeps into you, calming the tremors that still shake your body.

“They won’t bring you back,” he says, his voice firm but gentle, a promise etched in every syllable. “No one is ever going to send you back into those arenas. Not again.”

You try to breathe, to pull in the air that’s been so elusive, and the simple truth in his words begins to seep through the fog of fear. But the panic is still raw, still sharp. You squeeze him tighter.

He presses his lips gently to the top of your head, a soft kiss, as if that kiss could chase the darkness from your mind. “It’s just me and you now. Always. You’re safe here, sweetheart. I’m right here, and I always will be.”

Your hands move to his back, desperate to feel every inch of him, like you need to make sure he’s real. That this—this life, this peace—is real. You try to nod, but your body doesn’t quite follow.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer, his voice low, rhythmic, like a lullaby. “No one can take you from me. Not ever. It’s just us, okay?”

You breathe again—slow, even this time, like you can finally draw the air deep into your lungs. The crushing weight of it all lightens just a little. You feel him there, solid and unmovable, his warmth wrapping around you like a shield. The fear begins to loosen its grip, just a little, but the feeling of him—his strength, his presence—grounds you more than you ever thought possible.

You press yourself closer, clinging to him like you’re afraid of letting go, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold on. Lets you take the time you need to breathe through it, to feel the trembling ease.

“It’s just us,” he whispers again, voice soft, so tender. “And we’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

The words feel like the only truth in the world right now, and slowly, the storm inside of you begins to quiet. With every breath you take, with every beat of his heart under your hand, you start to feel yourself coming back. More grounded. More here. More safe.

The panic still lingers at the edges, but Finnick’s presence is a steady reminder that it won’t take you again. That this is your life now, and he’s right beside you in it.

You slowly lift your head from his chest, meeting his eyes, still clinging to him as though you never want to let go.

“I’m here,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. “And I always will be.”

The world starts to shift back into focus, but you stay in his arms. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break this fragile moment just yet. His warmth is like a shield, keeping you safe from the echoes of fear that still try to creep up from the depths of your mind.

For a while, you simply breathe. Slow, steady, in and out, matching the rise and fall of Finnick’s chest beneath your palm. It’s like he’s breathing for you, keeping the rhythm until you can catch it yourself.

His arms are still wrapped around you, one hand resting gently against the back of your head, the other at your waist, keeping you close to him. You don’t say anything, neither of you do, but there’s a quiet, unspoken agreement in the stillness between you.

You’re safe here. Safe with him.

Every time the panic tries to sneak back in, Finnick seems to sense it. His thumb continues to stroke up and down your back, the motion comforting, calming. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push you to speak or explain. He knows. He understands.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you don’t need to explain. You don’t need to hide the fear. He knows it, just like he knows the quiet spaces inside of you—the ones no one else could ever touch.

“Whenever you need to,” he says softly after a while, his voice steady now, without the urgent tone from before. “You can hold me like this. You don’t have to face it alone. Not ever.”

The sincerity in his words settles over you like a blanket, the warmth of them seeping into your bones. You nod slightly, still curled into his chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. Your hands are still gripping him, but not in panic anymore.

The silence between you now feels different. Not like the heavy, oppressive quiet you felt earlier, but something softer. Like a shared space where nothing is expected—just two people breathing together, letting time stretch out around them.

Minutes pass, maybe even an hour. You lose track of time, caught in the comfort of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your palm. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to ease, the sharp edges of fear softening, melting away. You can still feel the residue of it, just a faint echo, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight it had before.

You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs. And then another.

“Thank you,” you murmur against him, the words thick with emotion, but they feel right. You’re not sure you’ve ever said them with more honesty.

Finnick presses his lips into your hair, the lightest kiss, and you feel the soft smile in the movement. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his hold. Instead, he just stays there, holding you as you settle back into yourself, as you piece together the fragments of calm you can finally feel.

“I told you,” he whispers softly, voice laced with that quiet confidence that’s always been a part of him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

You don’t have the words to respond. All you can do is hold onto him, close your eyes, and allow yourself to let the fear fade into the background. The world outside can wait. For now, it’s just you and Finnick, and the peace of this moment, fragile but real.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader

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