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misswynters · 8 days ago

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Fighting fire

vi x fighter!reader

synopsis. Reigning from the depths of noxus, you were known for your quick reflexes and heavy punches. But on the outside you were the opposite, who knew you would crumble for zauns gaunlet fighter.

warnings. heavy kissing, touching, grinding (changed by the dialogue because apparently it’s too cringey…)

Chains hung from the ceiling, and the faint scent of sweat and blood lingered. The underground fighting ring in Zaun was alive with energy, a cacophony of roaring spectators, the clinking of glasses, and the heavy bass of music vibrating through the air. The ring itself was lit harshly, casting long shadows over the surrounding stands.

You stood in the center of it all, your body practically gleaming under the lights. The crowd erupted as the announcer bellowed your name, their cheers a testament to your reputation. A fighter from Noxus, famed for your ruthless precision and surprising elegance in battle. Your crimson wraps and black leather gloves were stained with traces of past victories, your feminine features at odds with the dangerous gleam in your eyes.

Across from you, Vi leaned casually against the ropes, a grin tugging at her lips. Her vibrant pink hair was damp from her earlier match, her toned arms crossed over her chest. She looked completely at ease, like this was just another brawl in a long string of fights.

“Ready to get your ass handed to you, sweetheart?” Vi called, her voice dripping with cocky bravado.

You smirked, adjusting the wraps on your wrists. “You talk big for someone about to eat the my fist.” The crowd roared as the bell clanged, signaling the start of the match.

The fight was intense. Vi’s punches came in heavy and fast, each swing of her fists a calculated attempt to knock you off balance. But you were quicker, ducking and weaving around her attacks with a grace that belied your power.

“You’re fast,” Vi grunted as you slipped past her jab, landing a swift kick to her side.

“Oh please, you’re predictable,” you shot back, your voice edged with amusement.

Vi laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the situation. “You’ve got a mouth on you. I like it.”

The fight raged on, sweat dripping down your brow as the crowd screamed for blood. Every hit you landed made the crowd gasp; every blow Vi blocked sent cheers ringing through the arena. It was a clash of two forces, your elegant but deadly style against her raw, unrelenting power. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you saw your opening. Vi hesitated for a split second, just enough for you to sweep her legs out from under her. She hit the mat hard, and before she could recover, you pinned her down, your knee pressing into her chest. The crowd erupted into chaos as the announcer declared you the winner.

Vi groaned beneath you, her chest rising and falling heavily. “Alright, you’ve got me,” she said, a crooked grin spreading across her face. “Didn’t think a pretty thing like you could take me down.”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against her ear as you whispered, “You've underestimated me, big mistake.” Not even five minutes later, you and Vi were in the back corridor, away from the prying eyes of the crowd. The adrenaline from the fight still thrummed through your veins, making every touch, every glance feel electric.

Vi leaned against the cold, metal wall, her gaze fixed on you. There was something primal in her eyes, a hunger that mirrored the heat coursing through your body. “You are truly something else,” she murmured, her voice low and rough.

You stepped closer, your fingers brushing against her jawline. “You’re not too bad yourself.” Before you could say anything more, Vi grabbed your wrist, pulling you flush against her. Her lips crashed against yours, the kiss bruising and desperate. You responded in kind, your fingers threading through her hair as your bodies pressed together. Her hands found your waist, gripping tightly as if she was afraid you’d slip away.

“Vi,” you whispered agaisnt her lips, your hands trailing down her chest. You could feel her ab muscles beneath her shirt. She growled softly, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “You’re gonna drive me insane, you know that?”

You smirked, pulling her back up to meet your gaze. “Good.”

The corridor felt too small, the air too thick as the two of you lost yourselves in each other. Vi’s hands were everywhere—on your hips, your back, the curve of your thighs. She kissed you like she was trying to devour you, her touch rough but careful, like she couldn’t get enough.

“You’re trouble,” she muttered against your lips, her hands slipping under your shirt to brush against your bare skin.

“And you love it,” you shot back, your voice a mix of teasing and desire.

Vi chuckled, the sound low and vibrating through your chest. “Damn right I do.”

Her lips curved into a slight smirk, her hands drifting down your sides, pulling you closer. Her touch was like fire against your skin, sending shivers through you. As you kissed again, slow this time, you could feel the walls around both of you begin to crumble. There was no more hesitation, no more fighting the connection that had always been there.

She took your hand and led you towards the bathroom, her touch still fierce and demanding, but there was something else there, something softer now. When the door clicked shut behind you, the world outside seemed to disappear. All that existed was the two of you in that tiny, dimly lit space. Its only light coming from a small overhead fixture that cast long shadows across the tiled walls. The air was thick with the scent of your shared adrenaline from the fight just moments ago, and the sound of your hurried breaths was the only noise that filled the room. The world outside the bathroom felt miles away, as if you and Vi were in your own little bubble, cocooned from everything else.

Vi stood before you, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her face flushed with exertion, her blue eyes darkened with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. She wasn't the type to show weakness, but in the silence between you both, you could feel her yearning, the hunger in the way she looked at you.

Her hands moved slowly at first, cautiously as if unsure of how to proceed. Then, without warning, she pressed herself into you, her body flush against yours as she kissed you with an urgency that made your heart race. There was nothing tentative about it— her lips were fierce, demanding, yet soft as they moved against yours. You gasped, feeling the heat of her body seeping through your clothes, her hands sliding around your waist to pull you closer, the contact sending a spark through every inch of your body.

Her breath was hot against your lips as she pulled away just enough to speak. "You're driving me insane," she muttered, her voice rough but filled with an undeniable tenderness. "You're so damn beautiful."

You could hardly breathe, the way she was looking at you, the way her touch was both possessive and gentle, it was enough to leave you trembling. You didn't know if it was the heat of the moment, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, or the way Vi had always made you feel so alive, but every inch of you was drawn to her like a magnet.

"I-Vi..." you barely managed to say, but before you could finish, she was kissing you again, her lips moving with desperation as she pressed you harder into the sink behind you. The cool porcelain of the sink contrasted sharply with the warmth of her body, and you let out a shaky breath as she deepened the kiss, her hand moving to cradle the back of your neck, her fingers threading through your hair to hold you firmly in place. Her other hand slid to your waist, gripping it tightly, almost as if she were trying to hold you together as she kissed you breathless.

When she finally pulled away again, it was only to speak, her voice hushed but commanding. "Turn around," she murmured, the soft command making your pulse quicken. There was something in her tone that left no room for argument, and you obeyed without hesitation, turning towards the dirty bathroom mirror.

Vi's hands were on your waist again, her fingertips tracing the curve of your hips before pulling you back against her with a gentle force. Her chest pressed against your back, the heat of her body surrounding you. She kissed the back of your neck slowly, savoring the way your skin shivered beneath her touch, before her lips moved to your earlobe, biting it softly. You gasped at the sensation, your body already burning with desire, and you could feel Vi's smirk against your skin.

She kissed her way down your neck, her lips leaving a trail of warmth that sent jolts of pleasure straight through you. Her hands moved, pulling you tighter against her, her body solid and unyielding behind you, trapping you against the sink. The feeling of her hips pressed flush against yours made your breath catch in your throat, your hands gripping the cold edge of the sink, your knuckles turning white from the pleasure as you fought to keep yourself steady.

"Oh, the things you do to me," Vi muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, but the raw hunger in her tone sent a ripple through you. You could barely think straight, her kisses driving you wild. Each soft press of her lips, each subtle movement of her hands against your body, pushed you further into a haze of longing. She started to grind her hips against yours pushing you deeper towards the sink. You bit your lip to suppress the whimpers that wanted to escape, but Vi seemed to sense your restraint, her hand moving to your waist, urging you to relax, to give in. Thinking that this might leave bruises on your hips after this.

"You don't have to hold back," she whispered against your skin, her voice like velvet but laced with a demand. "Let go."

The command in her voice was enough to break the final threads of resistance you had left. You let your body lean back into hers, your fingers slipping from the sink to grip her arm as she continued her slow, heated assault on your neck. The connection between you both felt electric, undeniable. "I've wanted this y’know," you whispered, barely able to form the words between the heat of her kisses. "I've wanted you."

Vi's lips paused for just a moment, her breath hot against your skin. She pulled back just enough to look at you in the mirror, her eyes intense, the soft flicker of vulnerability shining through her usual tough demeanor. "Yeah?" she said, her voice quiet, but the sincerity in it made your heart skip.

"You have no idea how much l've wanted you too." The two of you stood there, breaths mingling, bodies pressed together in a delicate, fragile moment that was almost too perfect to be real. It was raw, it was real, and it was all-consuming. Vi, with her usual bravado, was suddenly laid bare before you, and it only made you want her more.

Later, as the two of you finally stepped out of the bathroom and back into the lively chaos of the fighting ring, the crowd seemed to part around you. Some people stared, their gazes lingering on the two of you. Others smirked knowingly, exchanging whispers.

Vi slipped her arm around your waist, pulling you close. “You’re gonna get me into trouble,” she said, though there was no trace of regret in her voice.

“Good,” you replied, resting your head against her shoulder.

The night stretched on, the fight long forgotten in the wake of what had come after. You’d never imagined finding someone like Vi—a woman who could match your strength, your fire. Someone who made you feel seen, wanted, loved.

And as you walked through the ring together, the roar of the crowd fading into the background, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something extraordinary.

banner: @anitalenia

#arcane #vi x reader #vi smut #vi season 2 #vi x you #vi x y/n #arcane fanfic #arcane masterlist #arcane fic #arcane smut #arcane spoilers #arcane x reader #arcane s2 #reader insert #bisexual #lesbian #queer #vi arcane #emo vi

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just-a-creep-babe · 4 years ago

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Captive

(Habit x Reader)

Commissioned by @selfshippinglover thank youuu bby <333

Requests are closed

Masterlist: x

Habit wipes the blade of his hatchet on his pants, smearing blotchy crimson on his washed-out jeans

He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck

Finally home

A grin replaces the sneer on his face as he thinks of his little rabbit waiting for him inside

The thought of seeing your face light up as you rush into his arms is more than enough to coax his sore muscles forwards

He hasn’t been gone for too long, but he knows you‘re always elated to see him—and it goes without saying that the feeling is always mutual, of course

The few steps leading up to the door are speckled with brownish dried blood, almost welcoming him in as he twists the doorknob and steps through the threshold

“I’m back, little rabbit~” he croons into the entrance

His voice is a hint scratchier than it usually is because of his recent… activities, but he knows you’ll be happy to hear the sound regardless

He sets his weapons down on the entrance floor and takes his shoes off as he awaits your reply

He previously never really cared for clean floors and would shamelessly track caked dirt and blood into the house just because he was too lazy to remove his shoes

But after you’d admonished him for giving you even more cleaning to do, he’d been more careful with keeping things somewhat tidy

And, at this point, after living with you for so long, it’s become a sort of habit on its own

He pauses for a moment as he finishes wiping the filthy dried crimson on his arms with the towel you keep for him by the coat rack

Why didn’t you come to greet him? Did you not hear him come in?

He grunts

He thought he’d taught you better than that

You had to pay attention to your surroundings and stay on guard when he wasn’t there in case anything happened

“Bunny?” he calls out for you again, now making his way into the living room where you should be

But instead of being met with your adorable face, there’s… nothing—no one

His smile drops

Are you sleeping? Did you feel sick and needed to rest?

No, something’s not right—he knows it

He can feel it

His instincts flare up, alarm bells ringing in his mind as he pushes through the empty hallway

“Bunny? You in here? Don’t try to hide from me—“

He rushes to your room, the door slamming open to reveal yet another significant lack of you

The bed’s undone, sheets thrown haphazardly across the mattress, and the curtains are still drawn, like you didn’t have time to properly wake up this morning

His brows furrow

Trepidation spirals through his body, the fear and confusion of you not being there reawakening his overworked muscles like a pure shot of adrenaline

You know better than this

You know to stay put in the house until he comes back—it isn’t like you to just up and leave with no explanation, not even a warning or a note or anything of the sort

A note

He tries to calm himself down, tries to slow his frantic breaths and relax the tension in his jaw

He tells himself that maybe he’s just overreacting

He hasn’t checked the fridge or the counter for any indication of why you might’ve left

Maybe he’s forgetting something, and just needs to think things through before assuming the worst

But then, just as he’s about to turn back for the kitchen, he freezes in his tracks

A note is too optimistic, too hopeful

He has to face the facts; someone‘s taken you

His eyes close shut and he hones in on his superior senses

He sniffs the air once, twice, and a third time

There’s no mistaking the traces of something foul lingering behind

Cold dread licks up his spine

Fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders tense, white hot rage seething through his system at the realization

How could the fucker dare?

He breaths in the scent again, trying to picture its owner, trying to pick it apart from the familiarity of your smell to see what fucking idiot would take you away from him

What imbecile would steal his mate?

The intruding scent is a mix of smoldering charcoals, cinnamon, an expensive cologne and something... husky—definitely masculine

A malignant smile crosses his features as he pinpoints the exact asshole that took you

He lets out a low whistle to himself in the emptiness of the room

“Alright, you wanna play dirty, lapdog? I’ll fucking show you playing dirty”

•••

It doesn’t take long for him to wind up in the middle of the forest where the eldritch prick and most of his lackeys reside

The air is still and stagnant, the musk of rot permeating every direction

Fingers wrapped firmly around the wooden handle of his axe, he moves quietly but quickly—and with steeled purpose—through the withered trees

He knows that walking right into the center of Stick-in-the-Mud’s domain is dangerous

Not to mention that the whole situation reeks of it being a trap

But what other choice does he have?

For you, his one and only beloved mate, he would risk anything

Habit twists his weapon of choice in his hands, maneuvering it through his fingers in an impressive display of skill and control

Besides, he wants to make them pay—he wants to make them regret ever laying a finger on your pretty little head

His lust for revenge churning in the pit of his stomach overpowers any other competing sense

He could picture it in now; how the blade would cut through the entity’s skin like butter, spraying crimson in a beautiful fountain-like gush of his life-force pouring across the dirt

He knows, of course, that he can’t actually kill the bastard so easily, but still, it keeps him content as he weaves through the broken shambles of the path

He has to distract himself, anyways

He doesn’t want his rage to overtake his common-sense, or, at least, whatever’s left of it at this point

Eventually, he finally reaches a clearing where pale, faint traces of sunlight barely peak through the dense thicket of foliage overhead

You’re close, he can feel it

He pauses for a second, closing his eyes and trying to visualize which direction he should head in

Still keeping up with your scent, he lets it guide him between two rotting oak trees until, after a few more paces ahead, he reaches a dilapidated building standing all on its own

From the looks of it, he guesses it was once a hospital, though the windows and doors have long since been removed, and where they once were affixed now lie slits of darkness—the abyss inside peering out into the woods

White chips of paint peel from the exterior, with gnarled twisted vines creeping up the side like fingers caging the structure in place

He can smell your fear and distress from somewhere deep inside of it

The scent overtakes his instincts and he finds himself charging through the entrance without so much as a backup plan

God help whatever stands between him and his mate

The interior of the abandoned hospital still lingers with traces of blood and medicine, coupled with a couple of forgotten operating tables, wheelchairs and other surgical devices

He rushes through every room, every dead-end and vacant hallway—all of them lacking a crucial component; you

Finally, he stumbles across a heavy door reinforced with metal plating, and this time, there’s no mistaking your scent coming through the other side of it

He almost scoffs at the barrier

As if that would be enough to stop him from reaching you

He tugs at the handle and gives it a good pull with all his might, but it doesn’t budge

“Fucking piece of—“ he snarls a few curses under his breath, shifting positions so that he can bash it open with his shoulder

Whap! Smack!

Blow after blow, despite him using all his weight and straining his muscles as hard as he can, the door doesn’t give

He huffs, snarling in frustration

His sight lands on the rusted hinges where the door attaches to the wall

He tugs the axe from the loops in his jeans, twirls it in his hold and smashes it down against the latches

Clang!

The metal bends much more easily than it would’ve if it wasn’t rusted over

One strike after the next, he pictures the hinges as Stick-in-the-Mud’s face, and with only a couple of hits, he manages to tear them off completely

He sheathes his axe back into his jeans, and with one last blow of his shoulder against the door, it flies off into the next room over

The sound of it hitting the ceramic flooring resonates throughout the empty building

He steps over it, and as he walks into this new room, he knows he’s hit the jackpot

A dark silhouetted form is crouched over a figure chained to the floor by their wrists and ankles

A soft, flickering glow emanates from dozens of candles scattered across the room

Before Habit can lunge at the crouched fucker and tear his throat out, he stands up and straightens himself

Slowly, the figure turns, revealing themselves

Candlelight glints off his signature glasses

His expression, as usual, is cloaked in shadow and impossible to read, were it not for the sly smile curling at his lips

“Ah, Habit. I must say, I didn’t expect you so soon. What a shame, really, I was just getting to know your dearest (y/n)~”

He steps to the side—giving just barely enough space to reveal you, eyes wide with a smear of grime on your cheeks, but otherwise apparently unharmed

“H-habit, I—“

“Ah, ah, ah~” the entity cuts you off, playfully wagging his finger in your direction. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, little one. I’m sure you have much to say, but I think Habit and I have a lot more… pressing issues to discuss”

He wants to hurt the bastard more than anything else—for stealing you away, chaining you to the damn floor of all things, and now for talking down to you like you’re below him

He wants to kill him

Painfully

Brutally

But he knows he can’t just blindly charge at him

There’s no way in hell the Observer doesn’t have some kind of fail-safe, and he really doesn’t wanna risk having him teleport away with you

So he forces himself to bide his time and play nice... for now

“Fucking spit it out already,” he urges through gritted teeth

The shadow entity smirks, reveling in his opponent’s lack of control

“It’s about Firebrand,” he begins, “though I’m sure you’re already more than aware of the little situation you’ve put him through”

The Observer absent-mindedly strokes your hair, toying with a strand between his fingers much too comfortably

It has Habit seething from where he’s standing

If looks could kill

"The Operator is none too pleased with your meddling,” he continues, and when you shift, trying to retreat from him touch, he lets your hair fall back down before returning his gaze to the infuriated male in front of him

“He demands a trade,” he finally finishes

Habit folds his arms over his chest, muscles nearly bulging as he tries to keep it together

“What’s done with Firebrand is done—it’s over. Trying to meddle with shit by stealing my fucking mate isn’t gonna fix your unfortunate situation”

Despite his mind-numbing infuriation, Habit can’t help the faint smile as he thinks about how desperate Stick-in-the-Mud must be to resort to this

“It won’t,” the Observer agrees, “but you found a way to get leverage over us, and now, we have leverage over you. I’m sure we can find some way to balance this predicament we’re in, wouldn’t you agree?”

The candles to the left of the room flicker, then dim out, leaving half of the room completely drenched in shadows

From the corner of his eyes, he catches something moving next to you in the darkness, followed by your startled cry

He jerks forwards, hands reaching for his weapon, but then he stops short as the entity tuts, and your panicked gasps turn into muffled whimpers

He can just barely make out the shape of a tentacle as it curls around your mouth, your eyes looking up at him, big and watery and pleading and dear God, it’s damn near impossible to resist smashing the lapdog’s face in and saving you from that freak

“I don’t have the fucking journal,” his voice splits as he snarls the words out, a special kind of hatred and animosity seeping through at the sight of what he’s doing to you

Hell, just the scent of your fear is unbearable

The Observer smiles, and the tentacles stop moving, stop withering and tightening around your form, leaving you just enough air to breath

“Oh? Then where is it?”

"Fuck if I know”

“Hmm… that so?” dissatisfied with his answer, the tentacles start tightening around you once more

You whimper, crying out, trying to twist and turn as the growing darkness continues to consume you, slowly crushing your windpipes and suffocating your vulnerable form

“Listen, I’ll bring it to you when I get it. Hand delivered by yours truly with a pretty pink fucking bow on it”

Empty promises tumble from his mouth—anything to make him stop, anything to make him release you

Your fear and panic is worse than any kind of torture

He needs it to stop

And, thankfully, it does

Your breathing goes from frantic gasps and whimpers to short breaths—still erratic but at least without the panicked edge of pain

He can hear your heart beating like a drum in your chest and he wishes he could comfort you

He’d do anything it takes right now to have you unharmed—no matter the cost

The Observer, no doubt sensing Habit’s urgency, chuckles

He turns his attention back to you, this time tilting your chin up to break the eye contact between you and Habit

“There, see? I told you there was nothing to worry about, little one~”

He strokes your cheek, and you whimper in response, still twisting in his tentacles’ grasps

Without looking away from you, he addresses Habit

“You should watch out for your mate, you know. She’s such an easy little thing to pluck out. And how could you blame me for taking her—she’s such a compelling creature, isn’t she?~”

His smile, admittedly, dazzles you for a moment before you snap yourself out of it

You try to tug your head free but his hold on you is much too strong, so you have to look off to the side—anywhere but at his face

“I told you what you wanted. Now let. Her. Go.”

Habit’s tone is enough to bring shivers down your own spine, even knowing he’s on your side

But the entity, however, seems more or less phased by him

His gaze lingers on your face longer than you’d like, studying you, trying to perceive something within you

Then finally, he breaks the trance, glancing back towards Habit and releasing your face

“Your mate isn’t as impervious as you’d like. I suggest keeping that in mind if ever you get the urge to attempt any silly little tricks you might have”

With those final words, the remaining candles in the room flicker

Shadows crawl up the entity’s form, then everything goes pitch dark for a moment

In that instance, Habit almost fears the worse

The few seconds it lasts stretch into what feels like an eternity

But then relief like no other surges through him when the candles slowly come back to life, and there, sitting against the far back of the room, is you

You’re still chained, but the tentacles have vanished and you share an equally relieved look in your eyes

He’s by your side in an instant

He scoops you up in his arms, holding you up to his strong, firm chest to cradle you and feel your warmth pressing against him

You wrap your arms around him, overwhelmed at everything that happened in such a short amount of time

Your heart beats frantically against his, and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt safer than you do right now in his arms

You let him hold you tightly for a while, until he finally manages to calm your hammering heart and your body relaxes in his hold

“Are you alright, little rabbit? Did he hurt you?”

He cups your jaw and tilts you face to look up at him, eyes filled with concern

You can tell he has more questions to ask, but for the moment, he holds back

“I’m fine,” you release a shaky breath, laughing nervously, “it’s ok, he didn’t do anything when you weren’t here. I’m alright”

He has to hold back a scowl at the idea of you being trapped with the entity—completely helpless to whatever he wants to do to you

“I’ll fucking rip his throat out if I ever see him again. Bastard’s gonna fucking pay”

You bring your hand up to place it over his chest, wanting to feel his heart beneath your touch

Your chains rattling against the ceramic flooring as you shift, and the sound is enough to snap his attention to them

He growls a few choice words under his breath, and then he’s hugging you closer still, like he wants to make sure you’re real and solid and well and alive

“You wanna head home, little rabbit?”

His tone is gentle and soothing

You nod, shutting your eyes and nuzzling deeply into his neck

There’s a shift in your center of gravity, one that’s barely noticeable, almost like you’re swinging up on a swing set, and then the air gets warmer and the harsh ceramic flooring is replaced with something soft beneath you

He strokes your head, murmuring quiet little nothings into your hair

“It’s alright, little rabbit. I won’t let that happen again. You’re all mine. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you. You’re alright, baby. It’s ok, you’re alright…”

You let yourself be consumed by his embrace

His warmth, his scent, the pulse of his heart beneath his skin—you never want him to let you go

But your perfect moment is shattered by a sudden realization

You pull away, and his concern is immediately evident

“Wait… does that mean… did you trade the journal to get me back?”

He gives a wary smile

“You’re worried about some journal after everything you’ve been through?”

Your brows furrow, and you hesitate, chewing your lip

“Isn’t it important?”

Your voice is quiet and uncertain

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with that kind of stuff, bunny. There’s more than one journal. And I promised to give it if I ever got my hands on it. As long as someone else on my side gets it, it’ll be fine”

He playfully boops your nose, a mischievously wild grin on his face

“Stick-in-the-Mud’s lapdogs aren’t as clever as they like to think”

Your shoulders relax again, the guilt immediately melting away

“Oh, that’s good then,” you breathe out, give a small smile

“I love you, little rabbit. You know that, right?”

You nod, a content smile twitching at your lips

“I know. I love you too”

#habit #everymanhybrid #emh #emh habit x reader #habit x reader

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deathlandsxreaper · 2 years ago

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I can always see the moment when love dies.

It’s part of what I am.

That click which feels enormous and heavy and so goddamn silent; a one-sided decision that will bring one individual peace while the other is oblivious to what’s actually going on.

Then comes the cruelty.

My cruelty is sitting across from me, clearing his eyes from whatever my brother shot into his neck earlier.

It takes a full eight seconds of looking at our surroundings before his arctic gaze travels the length of my frame, drinking me in like poison.

The feeling is mutual for very different reasons.

Where he looks like he could kill you with one hit, his mind games are his real art.

And while I appear as lovely as a daisy, I can also tear this imposing man in two physically and mentally.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Not even close.”

He narrows an eye on me, not appreciating the nonexistent bite to my words.

He always did prefer passion over comedy; mix in his favorite amount of angst and we have the walking poster child for a self-obsessed man with little time for anything more than a fuck doll.

“What is it now, Gracey?”

Red.

It’s painfully hot, burning tears behind smeared lashes. That name latches like an inescapable twitch in the base of my neck. A tunnel of breathing, heartbeat thump, thump, thumping, something drips down my fist.

I’m vaguely aware of him yelling, tensing thigh muscles around a blade that has crucified him through the steel chair. There’s an attempt to buck off the metal, cursing my name while he attempts to wrench free.

“You stupid FUCKING BITCH!” He screams without venom. Dragging breaths, broken and furious, yet all I can pay attention to is the steady drizzle of blood coursing from blade to floor.

Plip.. plip…

A yank, tugging free with a squirt that stains my wrist crimson. The knife clatters to the concrete, my gaze moving to the way his veins protrude in such a thick neck while he hurls insults at me.

“What did I ever do to you?” like I hadn’t just stabbed him. My voice is devoid of the same emotion he has; the shell cast over me slowly cracking to give way to a monster I keep locked away.

“Are you fucking– really?! I don’t owe you shit, Lena! You deserved it all, honestly, and don’t try to say you didn’t. Couldn’t even listen for one goddamn-”

My boot slams into his chest, cracking the sternum viciously. A grunt when he hits the wall opposite me, rolling eyes to fight off the concussion beginning to flood his consciousness.

Baby blues close, head tilted back with a deep inhale. Drowning darkness relaxing into my pores, settling at home in my bones. Fury oozes from within, sharp and scented with gunpowder. When my peripheral finally finds him, he’s ringed in the same blistering color as I saw when he used that fucking nickname.

Gracey..

A cool wash of air, the familiar handle of another blade I’ve sparingly used for the demise of humanity. This one is readily sharp and forged from Annihilation’s ambition. He winces away, struggling to keep his composure.

I am rarely the Reaper to anyone.

Until now.

“I could be kind and give you a merciful death, but where is my justice in that? When do I get your repentance for degrading and debasing me needlessly until I was broken down? Nothing was good enough. I can’t be silent anymore; I can’t let you fucking win! Not after everything.”

His hands jolt at the sing of my scythe ripping a hole from one realm to the next. I don’t even turn for the clatter of nails against the stone floor. My fingers twist in grisly fur, petting the creature absentmindedly.

“Eat.”

“What the h-”

He doesn’t get to finish his final thought, her hellish maw clamping and yanking his lower mandible free from his face. Blood rains onto his cheeks like tears, the hole where a handsome jaw used to be quivering in a nervous system memory of how much he liked to run his mouth.

I ignore the blood spatter sticking to my skin and hair, watching grimly as the bones and tendons are torn from this once strong man.

The sounds of a gory feast follow me until they’re a distant slurp; the door open with a dark figure at the opening, silently watching my handiwork.

I would know Death anywhere.

It must be a proud father moment I’ve read about in books.

The air outside is smothered by the scent of hot rain. It’s the thing that calms my senses back to technicolor; the rage I look so pretty in swallowed deep and caged for another day.

#Spotify

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fanfics-of-marvel · 4 years ago

Note

Tony dies and Natasha is devastating by her boyfriend’s death until he comes back as an angel with beautiful wings. I keep things simple so your creativity isn’t withheld. Love your work!

Hello @chuckshurleyfucks

Remember me? You sent me this really great prompt so long ago and I am really sorry this comes after so much time! :( I don’t have much time to write and often I’m away from tumblr for some time. But I told myself that I’ll finish each and every request in my inbox NO MATTER WHAT and I fianlly had the chance to write yours. :)

I really hope it resembles what you desired to read and I can only hope it was worth the wait!

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REQUESTS ARE CLOSED

Release date: 21/04/21

Pairing: Tony Stark x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Tony dies in an accident and Natasha is devastated. After the funeral, however, she has an unexpected meeting with him.

Words count: 3 139

A/N: I guess I could call it a magical AU :)

Warnings: None, maybe a little bit of angst

Requests | Masterlist

I’m not a native English speaker, so there might be spelling or grammatical mistakes.

This fic is my own work, it is not to be re-posted on this site or posted anywhere else without my knowledge and consent!

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

“Tony Stark was a great man,” Rhody’s voice echoed in the capacious room in the Avengers Headquarters. “Despite being Tony Stark”.

Laughter rose among the attendants. Natasha smiled, too. For the first smile since the accident.

A picture of Tony himself filled the giant screen behind Rhody. He turned around and looked at his best friend. Nobody could see but his eyes were watery. Rhody turned back to the crowd.

“Is it me or was his head actually this size?” he said as he pointed at the enormous photo of Tony projected on the wall.

Everyone laughed again. Even louder than before. Natasha’s smile was even bigger.

‘Oh, it was,’ she thought to herself.

After the ceremony was over Natasha retired to their room. She closed the door behind her and leaned upon its massive structure. She stared at the empty bed with an even emptier gaze. It looked bigger now.

Natasha waddled to the wardrobe. She pushed the door and walked inside an even bigger room. The lights turned on automatically. It was Tony and Natasha’s private wardrobe. She walked to the hangers holding Tony’s suits. Natasha slowly slid her hand upon one of them and closed her eyes. She pictured her loved one in it on Wanda and Vision’s wedding. He was smiling, he was laughing, life was flowing through his veins.

‘Congratulations,’ he had said hugging the newlywed couple.

‘Thank you, Mr. Stark’, Vision had replied. ‘Perhaps, sir, now it is your turn,’ he had added nodding towards Natasha.

Tony had looked at his girlfriend across the garden with twinkling eyes. ‘Perhaps, it is,’ he had whispered heard only by the bride and groom.

Natasha opened her eyes and a tear slid down her face. Her skin was still moist from all the preceding crying. She let the tear flow down freely. Its final destination was on her bosoms.

Natasha walked towards another suit. She held it with both her hands and shove her face at it. She took a deep breath and breathed in the leftover aroma from Tony’s perfume. He wore this suit just a week ago. As Natasha sniffed the fabrics she could hear Tony speaking.

“All just for you, my love,” he said while unfolding the blindfold upon Natasha’s eyes.

“Tony,” she gasped at the view of the beautifully decorated gazebo in the garden surrounded by flowers and burning candles.

It was a hot summer night. The air was filled with the sweet scent of the flowers. The discreet light of the candles provided perfect view of the stars above them. Crickets played a lovely concerto.

“Tonight it’s just you and me,” Tony said with tenderness and he literally meant it for the waiters were a few droids from his Iron Legion.

The night was going as planned and Tony knew there was only one final thing missing to make it perfect.

“Nat,” he said holding Natasha’s hands. “There is something I want to ask you. But you need to close your eyes.”

Natasha curved her lips in a smile and closed her eyes. She suspected what was to follow but it still took her by surprise.

“You can open them now,” Tony said with noticeable nervousness in his voice.

Natasha opened her eyes and a specific reflected light crossed her eyes. She looked down and saw the most beautiful diamond upon a ring. Her eyes met with Tony’s. They were sparkling even brighter than the diamond.

“Nat, will you marry me?”

Natasha sobbed. She had taken the ring box out of the internal pocket of the suit jacket. She opened it and looked at the ring. It seemed even more beautiful now. Out of fear not to lose it she kept it there safe during their final mission.

Natasha let it all out. The most gruesome sound exited her. Tears were falling down her face. She leaned towards the wall and slowly slid down. She was panting. The memory was too strong, too vibrant. She laid down completely squeezing the ring box at her chest. She closed her eyes and heard the bombarding again.

Two days ago Tony and Natasha were on what seemed to be nothing more than a routine mission. There was a minor terrorist attack just outside the city in which a small group of people threw grenades and shot at the nearby houses, stores, and cars. Agents of Tony and Natasha’s class weren’t needed at all but Tony had a thing against terrorists, so he couldn’t miss destroying some more. Natasha had joined him in the last moment. She always said he needed her back up, especially on the ground. Besides, she loved watching her future husband kicking ass in his latest Iron Man suit.

Natasha was smiling playfully as she observed Tony far up in the sky threatening the puny terrorists on the ground. His voice could be heard loud and clear even down there thanks to a special technology which he had recently developed. The three men seemed terrified and were yelling some words in Arabic, their arms were in the air and they dropped their weapons.

‘Easy peasy’, everyone thought at this view. The S.H.E.I.L.D. agents were looking at Tony with admiration wishing they had what he had and hoping that someday they’d possess at least half of Tony’s authority.

Natasha was smiling smugly and was already packing her ‘toys’ which she obviously wouldn’t need during this mission when she heard it. Loud thundering sounds coming from very near. She quickly looked around trying to figure out where did the sound come from. But before she managed to make a full turn the wave from the explosions threw her few meters behind. For a moment sand and dirt fell all over her face. A high-pitched noise rang in her ears. Her head felt heavy and dizzy, the world around her was spinning.

An impenetrable fog of sand and dust surrounded Natasha. The only thing she could perceive was the distant thunders of bombing and shooting. Except that it wasn’t distant. It was right there, so very close to her but her hearing was impaired. So when she heard that raw gruesome sound of metal hitting the ground hard she hadn’t whatsoever realized it was Tony himself. Natasha closed her eyes and felt completely senseless.

When she finally opened her eyes the world was still spinning but the high-pitched sound was getting weaker. Natasha couldn’t know how long she’d been on the ground unconscious.

‘Ambush,’ she thought to herself as she groaned trying to get up. Her legs were really unstable but somehow she managed to remain standing.

“Tony,” she tried to speak but barely any sound came out of her lips.

The sound of the bombing had seized. Now she could hear some distant noise of people screaming and could distinguish silhouettes running around.

“Tony!” Natasha shouted as loud as she could. The sound was still very quiet but she started to regain her senses.

The more Natasha walked towards those people, the better she could hear and see. The fog was clearing up and everything hitherto shapeless started to fall into pieces.

“Agent Romanoff, are you alright?” Natasha noticed a fellow S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in front of her.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. What happened? Where’s Tony?”

“There was an ambush, ma’am,” the man continued speaking. “After those three terrorists seemed to be surrendering there was whole artillery that appeared out of the blue hiding underneath enormous canvases that had perfectly blended with the landscape. They hit us unexpectedly, ma’am. They threw bombs, grenades and every hellish explosive you can think of,” the man stopped talking as if there was something more which he just didn’t want to say.

“Well, where’s Tony, then?” Natasha was persistent. There was no getting out of this.

The man sighed. The dust had almost completely settled, so Natasha could see his face quite clearly. There was something bad written in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, agent Romanoff,” the man finally said pointing away in a direction to her right.

Natasha followed his finger and with terror noticed the Iron Man suit lying on the ground in a little crater.

“Tony!” Natasha shouted and ran towards him.

Due to the shock from the explosions her legs and balance were still compromised, so she tripped and fell two times until she managed to get to Tony. He was lying on his back but from the traces of the impact it was clear that he hadn’t fallen that way and had been moved from the agents.

A paramedic was examining him as Natasha walked near. Her facial expression and eyes showed fear. The strongest fear she had ever felt in her entire life. Abruptly, her whole body started trembling, she couldn’t catch breath and tears flew down her face.

Tony was lying in his forcefully opened Iron Man suit covered in blood and bruises. She could barely recognize his face which seemed twisted now. The suit had absorbed part of the impact but he had fallen from a great height.

The paramedic was looking down shaking his head. A defibrillator lied near him obviously recently used. His colleague took a deep breath and then Natasha heard the worst words in her entire life.

“Time of death,” said the second paramedic and looked at his watch. “1:03 p.m.”

“No!” Natasha screeched so loudly that the two paramedics jumped startled. They hadn’t noticed her presence beforehand.

She gathered a whole lot of looks from other agents, as well. Some of which were also still unaware of the tragedy.

“Tony,” Natasha barely made a sound as she fell on her knees next to his dead body. Tears were falling down her face and she could barely breathe.

The two paramedics discreetly recoiled. They had to take care of the body but also knew they had to give Natasha a moment.

She gently placed her hands upon his distorted face. His blood was already drying but his skin was still warm. So warm as if he was still alive. Could it be that the paramedics were wrong? Natasha slowly slid her right hand and felt his carotid. No pulse.

Why had they given up? Natasha examined more of Tony’s body. There were noticeable fractures on his chest and abdomen. He definitely had broken ribs and most likely suffered from a punctured lung for his chest was purple and bloody. Some of the blood upon his face had surely flowed from his mouth.

There was no doubt. Tony Stark was dead and the tries of the paramedics had been unsuccessful.

“Agent Romanoff,” the paramedic spoke. “I’m really sorry but we need to take the body. It’s the protocol,” he paused for a moment. “You can see his body again at the mortuary.”

Natasha knew the protocol very well. She had followed it a little too many times with fellow agents. And she always kept in mind she might have to follow it with Tony, as well. Or he with her. She had always hoped for the latter one. As cruel as it sounded to prefer to cause Tony such pain she hoped she’d never have to live it herself because she would be the dead one.

“Goodbye, Tony,” Natasha quietly said and kissed his forehead.

Then she got up and walked away. She heard the team preparing to take his body. She kept on walking and never looked back.

Natasha looked at the ring. It dispersed the light from the ceiling so beautifully that the entire wardrobe was shining bright. She hadn’t put it on ever since she took it off for their final mission together.

With trembling hands Natasha took the ring out of the box and put it on her finger. She was much calmer now. The tears upon her face had started drying. She remembered about the dinner on which he proposed to her. A smile appeared on her face. It was sad that Tony was gone but it was a virtue to have had him in her life.

“Natasha,” a barely perceptible sound.

Natasha looked up and around her. She thought she heard a noise but assumed it was nothing.

“Natasha,” there was it again. This time a little louder.

“Who’s in there?” she asked confused and a little concerned. Nobody else had access to their bedroom. “Rhody, is that you?” she got up and walked towards the wardrobe’s door. The sound seemed to be coming from the bedroom.

“Natasha,” this time she heard it more clearly.

She stopped sharply right at the door. The voice sounded like Tony’s. Her eyes got watery and her breathing stopped for a moment. Could it be?

“Nat,” he said again this time very clearly. “It’s me.”

There was a very bright white light coming from the bedroom. Natasha slowly walked out of the wardrobe. She gasped and dropped the ring box.

Tony was floating in the air just above their bed bathed with beautiful heavenly light. He was dressed in all white and behind him there were big beautiful angel wings. Even though Tony was being Tony Natasha had always known that he was just like this on the inside – a beautiful angel.

“Tony?” she said with trembling voice.

“Hello, my love.” Tony spoke with a tender and soothing voice.

Natasha’s lower lip trembled. She never thought she’d see him again.

“Tony? Is that really you?” she asked with a hoarse voice.

“Yes, my love. It’s me,” Tony replied with a gentle smile.

Natasha shook her head. This all must have been an illusion. She assumed it was the shock and all of the emotions from the past week which were playing with her mind. Or perhaps she had fallen asleep in the wardrobe.

“Come here,” Tony said as he floated down and stepped on the floor facing her. He outstretched his hands and gently placed them at the sides of her face.

Natasha shuddered at the touch. It felt so real. She lifted her hands as well. Tony’s face was warm again.

He leaned down and gently kissed her lips. Natasha’s knees felt weaker.

“How is this possible?” Natasha asked after Tony moved away.

“The ring,” Tony said as he took her hand in his. “It’s a very special stone. It’s connected to my soul.”

Natasha gasped. How?

“More magical things than Doctor Strange exist on this world,” Tony said wittily. “And I got my hands on this,” he pointed at the stone upon the ring. “As long as you wear it I will always know where you are, I will always feel you, and I will always be your guardian angel.”

“I want you back, Tony,” Natasha said with hope.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Nat,” a bitter smile.

Not the reply she wanted to hear.

“But I will always be with you,” Tony said gently fondling her cheek. “I will be a barely perceptible presence. Always there next to you, just one breath away. You might sometimes spot me with the corner of your eye. But you will never be able to see me,” tears fell down Natasha’s face. “You will always be showered in my heavenly light. And you will always be protected by my angel wings,” Tony held her left hand. “As long as you wear the ring,” he smiled softly.

Natasha looked down at her hand gently placed in Tony’s. His skin was so warm, so alive. She had to check. Her right hand slid upon his wrist. Her fingers found the spot.

Nothing.

Tony had no pulse.

“Oh, my love,” Tony whispered softly.

Natasha’s whole body was trembling. Her hand did another check-up.

Strong lively heart rate. Slightly accelerated.

“If I take my pulse away will I be able to be with you?” she stammered in tears.

“Oh, Nat,” Tony sighed. “Great things await you. The world needs your protection.”

“The world needs your protection.”

Tony fondled her face again. “The only one who needs my protection is you.”

“But I want you here with me,” Natasha burst into tears. “Next to me, all of the time. Fighting beside me, kissing me, loving me,” she was falling apart. “Please, Tony,” Natasha wrapped her arms around him and shove her face at his chest weeping.

Tony placed his hands on Natasha’s head as his wings surrounded her. Natasha calmed down in an instant. She felt completely relaxed and balanced. There was warmness and peace.

Natasha placed her ear next to Tony’s chest. But it was an empty chest. There was no treasure for her in there.

“Nat, stop searching for my heart here,” Tony said. “You know it’s there,” he placed his fingers upon her chest. “I gave it to you long time ago. And it’s where it will always be.”

Natasha felt warmness in her chest. For a moment it seemed like there were two hearts beating as one. She smiled gazing into Tony’s eyes. She didn’t want this moment to end.

“Now you need some sleep,” Tony said and holding Natasha’s hand he pulled her towards the bed.

“I don’t want to go to sleep. That means time not spent with you,” Natasha objected.

“Shhh, my love,” Tony gently placed his finger upon her lips. “I’ll be right next to you.”

He laid down on one side and his angel wing was spread on the bed. Natasha joined him and lied upon it. He embraced her with his arms and then with his wings. It took her seconds to fall asleep perfectly calm and relaxed feeling completely protected for the first time in her life.

When Natasha woke up the next morning she was alone on the bed. There was no trace of Tony. She looked at her left hand. The ring was there reflecting the light just as beautifully. She wondered about last night. Did it all happen or was it a dream? She assumed it was the latter and got out of bed. She had fallen asleep with clothes on and smutched make-up. She needed a shower.

Just as Natasha was about to walk in the bathroom she spotted a barely perceptible presence with the corner of her eye. She turned around startled but didn’t see anybody. Her breathing quickened. She rubbed her eyes assuming it was sleepiness and tiredness.

When Natasha calmed down she could swore she felt somebody else’s breath at the side of her face. She felt calm and relaxed. There was a warm feeling surrounding her. She slid her hands at the sides of her arms sinking in the feeling and closed her eyes. Her right hand touched her chest. Two hearts beating as one.

Natasha smiled. She opened her eyes and stared into the nothingness in front of her. There was something she could spot with the corner of her eye. A barely perceptible presence watching over her as her guardian angel.

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Thank you for reading! If you liked it please react - reply/like/reblog! Your support is appreciated!

This fic is my own work, it is not to be re-posted on this site or posted anywhere else without my knowledge and consent!

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jasonndeans · 4 years ago

Text

strange love - shane “dio” morrissey x reader

word count: 3,986

chapters: one shot

summary: porn with plot...barely. dio is feeling moody, reader is feeling needy. sexy shenanigans ensue.

warnings: knife/blood play, slight degradation, worship, blowjobs, vaginal fingering. if i missed any, let me know!

Dio’s signature trench coat consumed you in its cracked leather leaving you drowning in it -- the pungent scent of cigarettes seemed to be sewn into the fabric, though you didn’t mind; the sleeves hanging well past your fingers and its length causing some nearly fatal falls. That is, only to your dignity. You had to hike the hem of it up like a ballgown to walk around. Usually, Dio got a kick out of this. He’d snicker to himself, allow his softer side to peek through the cracks as he muttered into your hair: “Looks better on you than it does on me, birdie.” It always made your heart flutter.

Tonight, however, he’s not sparing you a passing glance. No, his eyes and mind are someplace else entirely, brooding away under a proverbial thunder cloud beside you on the couch. He gets like this at times, lost in his own world of grandeur. Any other time you’d leave him be, pry a penny for his thoughts. But as of right now...you’d rather his attention be squarely on you.

“Dio,” you call to your zombified boyfriend. Turning to face him, you gauge no reaction and pout to yourself. You try nudging his foot with yours, perching your chin atop his shoulder and whip out the puppy dog eyes. “C’mon, baby, talk to me.”

Finally, he stirs with a sigh, near obsidian eyes catching yours. “Not right now, birdie, ‘m preoccupied.” The hand he rests on your knee as comfort isn’t enough, though. It places an ache in the hollow of your chest when he gets like this, always so engulfed in these dangerous thoughts and ideas about a fresh, new world free of so-called “drones” and their robotic habits. He means well, in his own skewed way. Hell, part of you almost admires it, finds it attractive to see this power hungry leader in him…

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you eye his open palm at your thigh. You won’t be quitting so easily.

Lips stretch into an impish grin when you lean in further to brush them against the exposed skin of Dio’s neck. “Need a distraction, hm?” His pulse speeds up a little at your gentle ministrations, lined eyes slipping shut. Ah-ha. More kisses slowly meet the warmth of his throat. A soft groan of defeat meets your ears, stirring something deep inside you.

“Mmm, not tonight.” He says at last. The rasp in his voice would make you weak at the knees if you were standing. His thumb begins to trace circles onto your thigh in spite of himself and it causes your heart to mimic the stuttered beat of his own.

Victorious, you smile into the curve where his shoulder meets his neck, moving your lips to his ear. “Shane…” you whine.

Dio brings his thumb to a stop, fingers clamping down around your lower thigh. For a moment, your heartbeat pauses, too. You’re met with those piercing eyes that bore into yours, tanned features stony.

“The fuck did you just call me?”

He heard you just fine, you know that. It’s a challenge; you’ve prodded a little too hard. He wants an answer and he wants one now.

Thickly, you swallow the anticipation building in your throat and breathe: “Shane.”

All is quiet then except for your now heavy breathing. Dio’s gone still as a statue for a moment or two. You don’t dare to move, even when he does; rising from his seat your gazes remain locked. His touch has left you but even so you feel a phantom grip...or is that just future bruising?

Raven black hair casts a shadow over his eyes in the dim lighting of your apartment. It makes him look that much more intimidating as he towers over you. “Stand up.” He orders. Your jaw goes slack and you’re a little slow in doing so, because he has to repeat himself. Louder this time. “Stand. Up.”

You jump up like a loaded spring, feeling so much smaller than you normally would when his coat swallows you whole. That won’t be a concern for long, it seems, because Dio’s next command is for you to--

“Take it off.”

No time wasted there. You hurriedly slip black leather from your shoulders and toss it aside which seems to please him. He’s smiling darkly and fuck, it’s so hot.

“Atta girl,” Praise is sweet like honey rolling off his tongue, sending your heartbeat skyrocketing. You fear he can hear its rhythmic thrum as he saunters closer to where you stand, awkwardly awaiting him. He’s mere inches from you now and the gentle graze of his hand along your neck, up to your jaw shoots shivers down each one of your vertebrae with a hissing intake of breath. From Dio, only a curt chuckle. He comes in closer still, strong nose drawing a line from your cheek all the way up to your temple as hot breath heats your face. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, birdie, y’know that?

You say nothing at all. God, you just want him to kiss you. Kiss you hard and hot with his knee between your legs and--

A soft flick slices the silence. Then comes a glint of light. He’s taken out his switchblade. Your eyes follow it much to Dio’s amusement and you swear the closer it comes, the louder your pulse becomes. Its point pokes at your jawline, eliciting a sharp gasp. Dio sneers at your reaction. The bastard. He applies pressure -- not enough to break skin but just enough to get his point across. It moves down across your neck, follows the curvature of your collarbone…

“Bet you’d be even prettier with my name carved into your skin, hm? That way you won’t forget it…” His knife stops at the neckline of your shirt. That made your breath snag in your throat, eyes growing wide. It sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time he’d suggested something so...dissenting to say the very least. You got high off of the rush of being with him; on the run, hand in hand, just the two of you in a parallel world of your own where glares and expectations didn’t mean a damn thing. You were fearless at his side, proud to be the one and only person in this world he so detested he trusted to bring it down with him.

Chest heaving, you nod. Dio flashes a wicked grin and in one swift movement, slices your shirt open one button at a time until you’re exposed to the air, raising goosebumps on your torso. A large hand at your waist, you hear your boyfriend mumble “Fuck it,” as he pockets his blade and pulls you to him, mouths colliding. His free hand dives into your hair and you groan into his hungry lips, each kiss more fervent than the last. You trail your hands down the expanse of his chest and start to tug at his shirt. His skin is hot and smooth to the touch — you want to feel him flush to you, skin to skin, sweat mingling. You revel in feeling his firm torso as he does yours, fingers slipping beneath your open shirt while the cool metal of his rings shock you with chills. Dio damn near rips it from you, and to be honest he might as well now that it’s been rendered useless. Onto the floor it goes. You’re eager for his to join it, roaming higher up and looking for permission with your tongue to deepen your kiss when your wrists are grabbed and your lip is between his teeth.

You’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon. He’s hardly done anything to you and already you feel a familiar heat begin to bloom where you need him most. He’s staring at you with such a hunger it’s hard to control yourself.

You part your lips to beg, “Di��“

He’s taken your flushed cheeks into his hands, running a thumb along your lower lip. “Shh, shh, shhh…” A laugh sounds in his chest when again, you impatiently tug at his shirt, and shakes his head. “Not yet, birdie.”

Your eyes close as he leans in, bites at your earlobe, wraps a hand around your throat. Christ, his voice alone can soak you, but this…?

“You’re gonna get on your fuckin’ knees...and youre gonna worship me.” Those words are breathed hotly into your ear and you nearly collapse then and there. He’s so close you can feel the growing bulge in his pants poking at you. Dio squeezes your neck — just a bit — and pulls you from your thoughts. “Do I gotta repeat myself?”

You hold his gaze like it’s fucking magnetic and quickly nod.

“Good.”

And he shoves you to your knees.

You busy yourself with undoing his studded belt and ridding him of his dark jeans and boxers. His cock stands tall, presenting his Prince Albert piercing proudly. You take him in your hands and feel him twitch in your grasp, working up his shaft slowly and kissing the underside, licking a stripe up to the head. He growls deliciously from above you and weaves needy fingers into your hair, a wordless hurry up. You place a kiss at the tip and rub your thumb over its opening. Suddenly, he knots his digits into your hair and tugs. You only wince and give him a squeeze at the base before taking his length into your mouth, tasting him, hot and salty against your tongue, then in your throat as he thrust in with a snap of his hips, causing you to gag. You begin to suck him off, taking your time, raking your tongue along the underside. Dio’s throaty groans fuel the fire already burning between your legs, driving your desire to drag them out of him.

“Fuck, baby, shit — you’re so good…fuckin’ suck me dry...”

Your hands grip his thighs, nails creating half moons as they dig into his skin, his grip in your hair making your scalp burn and you moan around his cock. Your tongue runs along a particular vein when you remove your lips, pulling it away and ever so slightly grazing your teeth there. Dio tugs tighter in time with a beautiful stuttered sound of approval that dampens your underwear even further. You yearn so badly for some form of contact there to ease that primal ache, hand moving downward between your legs. He’s far too lost in his own pleasure to realize, right?

Wrong.

Those fingers untangle themselves from your mess of hair and wrap around your jaw with force, jerking your attention upwards, lips and chin glistening with your own spit.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” His chiding takes a dangerous tone that makes your blood icy and your growing need hotter. “Make me cum with that mouth of yours ‘n I’ll think about giving you what you want.” A light slap lands on your cheek as your cue to continue.

Again, you take him right down to the hilt, nose nestled in dark curls as you moan around the most sensitive part of him. Dio rolls his hips deliciously into the heat of your mouth, giving you hardly any time to relax your throat. You’re given no choice but to find your rhythm and find it fast while your throat is fucked with such a vigor. Your nipples are growing harder and your pussy wetter by the minute, breathing raggedly through your nose and it doesn’t help with the filthy obscurities spilling from your boyfriend’s mouth:

“Ah, shit, baby, that’s it — that’s it...fuck! Pretty little mouth feels so fuckin’ good…! Mm—“ He rambles on like that for a few minutes more, you don’t think you can take the persistent urge in your abdomen much longer.

Dio takes another painful fistful of your hair, thrusts becoming erratic until coming to a sudden stop as relief finds him and shoots down your throat, flooding your tongue with the taste of him. “Fuuuuck,” rumbles from his chest, fingers loosening. “Good…that’s my good girl.”

You swallow what you can, though stray drops leave your lips and dribble down your chin when you pull away. Your hand raises to wipe it clean when it’s caught by a larger one adorned with rings. Dio pulls you from your knees and tugs you into him with a satisfied smirk and swipes his thumb across your chin, collecting his cum and pushing it past your swollen lips. You get the message and wrap them around it, swirl your tongue to clean it all.

Gently, he cups your face with that same hand as though he hadn’t just fucked your face breathless and holds your stare. His eyes have taken on a much warmer hue, one that reminds you of molten dark chocolate. “Hey,” he murmurs. You feel the hand at the small of your back travel up your spine and unclasp your bra. The straps fall from your shoulders and Dio tosses it behind him carelessly. It’s not the first time you’ve been exposed to him this way, but you can’t help but feel heat in your cheeks (among other areas) with the way those attentive eyes devour your half naked frame. His lips press firmly against yours, tongue delving into your mouth to taste himself. You mewl against him and reach to tug him closer still but to your dismay, he’s retreated. “Go ahead ‘n lay down for me, birdie.”

What choice do you have other than to oblige?

Still dressed in your jeans and underwear, you find your way to your couch and lay back longways, feeling bashful as you awkwardly strike what’s meant to be a sexy pose. Dio chuckles at this, clearly endeared, but even clearer are his intentions for you. He hasn’t forgotten the promise he’d made, retrieving his switch. You swallow to see him towering over you and moisten your cotton-filled throat at the sight of him now tugging off his thread-worn shirt. God, he was pretty. The many scars strewn about his torso always did remind you of incomplete constellations, waiting to be connected by your tender touch, dotted with kisses. You’re about to complain about your current state of dress when he leans over you, chains dangling, to do away with your pants with a rough tug, taking your underwear down with them. You’re embarrassed at the gasp this causes until you’re face to face with Dio again, his weight on his palms resting beside your arms, knees on either side of your leg with one in between.

“Now, let’s see…” He drawls, knife glinting in low light as it’s brought down to the tendons in your neck. No pressure, but the touch of it alone in your skin is enough to send a current racing through you. His eyes admire the view of you as they search, tongue swiping across his lips and settles on a spot above your left breast. “…Here?” A kiss lands there and you’re sure he felt your heart leap. You make a small noise in your throat. “What was that?”

The way he looks up at you through dark lashes makes you melt. You can only nod. His smile in return is wicked.

Dio adds pressure to the point of the blade and drags it down, creating a crisp line of crimson. You suck in a breath when the pain hits, dragging his gaze up to you to confirm you’re alright. You give yourself a moment and nod again, toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck to prod him along. So he continues, completing the first letter and allowing you a break after each one. It stings, but it hurts so good and goddammit you love the idea of being marked by him as much as he does. His tongue laps at the drops of blood flowing down your breast, his cock erect and twitching as he relishes in the metallic taste. He then circles your nipple, flicks it with the tip of his tongue and takes it between skilled lips and sucks lightly. You whine and press your head back against the arm of the couch, slicker still in your sensitive folds as he expertly teases you. He massages the one left unattended with warm fingers, tweaking the bud between his index finger and thumb. Your fingernails scratch behind his neck and he hums at the sensation, drawing one from you, too, in harmony.

He pulls back, kissing your lips this time, accepting your tongue when you offer it. The taste of your blood still resides and it turns you on even more (as if that were possible). Your arms encircle him, locked lips and lingering blood making your mind hazy, calves hooking around his waist. You want him as close as humanly possible. You need him. He knows what he does to you and he fucking loves it. No matter how much you whine, so do you.

“Aw,” huffs Dio, his fringe tickling your forehead. “You a little needy, sweetheart?”

You push your lip out at him, deflating and he laughs. The rare sound of it makes your stomach flip. In response, you move your hips against him, desperate for any kind of friction there.

Dio flips his switchblade closed and with it still in hand, lowers it, pressing the handle into your clit in tiny circles.

Surprised, you cry out with eyes screwed shut, your back creating an arch, breasts pressing against the firmness of your boyfriend’s chest. “Ohh…” you whimper pathetically. “Dio.” To which he chuckles and cruelly stops the movement to do away with the weapon. You want to beg him again, you know damn well that’s what he wants to hear, but his fingers dip back down and one sinks into you. “Oh!” You could cry at how good that felt, grabbing his shoulder blades and burying your face into his neck.

“Oh, birdie,” he croons, moving his finger out and then back in, then again. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you?” In contrast with the tone he’s taken, Dio’s hand moves harsher now, his palm coming into contact with your clit every time he enters you knuckle-deep, slow but shallow. He groans appreciatively as his hand becomes slick and nips at your neck. You swear your grip on him could draw blood; you nearly sob as he fingers you so fucking good, feeding what’s been stirring inside you for what feels like ages now. “I know, baby, I know…” There’s a pause, but only for a moment, so he can add a second and curls the two; the pads of his fingers strike a spot inside you akin to lighting a fuse. He picks up the pace now, sharp jaw of his taut in focus. Until now, you’ve been so deprived, that red hot ball of pressure has gone white — you’re going to snap, you’re going to…

He stops. That bastard, he stops. Right when you’re at the edge. You whimper up at him to see the same fingers in his mouth, tasting you as you had him.

“Mmm…” He hums, making your cheeks heat up, moving to hover above you. Your noses brush, broad hands once again exploring your body — soon to be scars of his name — and he kisses you again. And again. And again.

“Baby,” you manage between kisses, pulling him nearer behind his neck. “Please.”

Dio stops at your throat, wrapping fingers around it with a harsh squeeze. “Say it.” It’s a demand, not a request. He lowers his tone to a low whisper, “I want…to hear how you want me to fuck you. Tell me.”

Your breaths have gone uneven again, shallow with his hand around your neck. “Dio—I-I want you to…please make me cum.” Dizzy. Your vision’s a blur of red and pure lust.

He only grips harder. “You want me to fuck you so fuckin’ hard you remember my name like the slut you are, hm? That what you wanted all along?”

You squeak out your response, practically writing: “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

His lips quirk and he takes a moment to properly align himself, pressing the head in slowly, sweetly in a hiss of breath when he’s fully sheathed.

The noise you make is shameless, only to be cut off when Dio enters you again with his fingers around your windpipe, free hand tangled with yours. His movements are rough and quick and just what you wanted. His cock fills you perfectly, deliciously despite the crass sounds filling your small apartment.

“You look so. Fucking. Good like this for me, birdie,” His thrusts punctuate each word, hips meeting yours every time as he fills you up fully, muscles in his arm flexing. “Got my name on you so everyone can see you’re mine,” he growls. “You love my hand around your throat, sweetheart, I know you do…so pretty…so fuckin’ pretty for me…” He’s glowing with a thin layer of sweat and looking so beautiful as he fucks you into the cushions, hair in his eyes that never once leave yours. The pain etched onto your chest, the pleasure and pressure building, all for him, all because of him. You can’t get enough and you don’t know if you ever will.

“Dio, I-I want to…ah! K-kiss you…”

He leans into the pull of your hand behind his neck, abandoning your hand to haul you flush to him. You grip his shoulders and he kisses you hotly with an open mouth, swallowing your sounds as you do his; they’re addictive to taste, to hear — knowing he wants to give himself all to you, too. Rebuild a world with you. Dio turns your head to the side, hissing into your ear: “Turn around.”

So you do, him inside you as you maneuver onto your knees. Dio’s hand doesn’t leave your neck, his chest to your back and hips snapping back into motion, smacking your ass as he fucks you mercilessly. His words form between clenched teeth and animalistic growls, able to now bite and suck at your neck at this angle. Now, his cock is able to hit just where you need it to. Your mouth is agape and when his fingers again find your clit you’re unable to hide your sob.

“D-Dio—! God, I’m going to—!”

They leave that bundle of nerves as quick as they’d found it, instead cracking his open palm against your ass. “What was that, baby? Hm?” His fingers are for sure leaving bruises at your neck.

Your moan is loud though it strains from the pressure and he fucking revels in feeling the vibrations. “Ah, fuck, Dio I’m gonna c-cum! Please, please, baby…!” Roughly, he runs circles into your clit. That’s what pushes you over the edge and you scream what he’s wanted you to all along. “Dio!” Your orgasm shakes you as you come undone around him; his arms hold you up and he fucks you through it. You’re an incoherent mess, oversensitive, dazed and then Dio follows suit with a strangled groan of your name.

His hand falls and the two of you linger in the moment, breathing each other’s scent. Dio peppers your neck and shoulder with kisses and lays you down over him, couch cushions sinking beneath your combined weight. You feel languid and heavy and at peace all at once, hearing Dio’s heartbeat as you lay there perfectly content on his chest, a mess of tangled limbs and hips fitting together like a puzzle. His lips are at your forehead, fingers drawing patterns on your bare back. You’re about to fall asleep when…

“Birdie,”

“Hm…?”

“We oughta patch that up, don’t you think?”

“Huh?” Your eyes fall to where his name now sits on your breast. “Oh…” You chuckle lazily.

So does he.

“Looks good on you.”

#dio x reader #shane dio morrissey #shane dio morrissey x reader #pedro pascal

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michaelmyersmalewife · 4 years ago

Text

the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat 1/?

- sephiroth/reader

- sfw

“The hell, man?”

With a sharp jerk of your wrists, you flipped the headset above your eyes, roughly shoving your hair up at the crown that gave you the vague appearance of a hastily arranged bird’s nest. Seconds ago, you were cutting down Shinra grunts on the Midgar highway like they were nothing but flowers. And now you were standing in a dome, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. As the sim around you dissolved in a shower of 1’s and 0’s, the source of the interruption blotted out the light from the training room’s exit. Standing across from you - draped in black and wearing a grave face that would’ve made a skeleton shiver - was your mentor.

Sephiroth was an obelisk of a man, tall and lean and not unlike one of the statues you’d see guarding the churches in Sector 5’s slums.

“Least you could do is give me a warning before you pull me out like that.” you whined as you rolled your shoulders with a satisfying pop. “I was doing just fine before you rudely interrupted.”

“‘Just fine’ won’t cut it when you’re face-to-face with Wutai soldiers.” he said, crossing his arms. “You can do better. I’ve seen you do better.”

Sephiroth always spoke in a calm manner (as if he wasn’t already a pain in the ass to read), but since taking you under his wing you had come to recognize the many different flavors in which that calm manifested itself. And this was specially reserved for when he was very, very tired.

Feeling your palms prickle, you shoved your pair of shortswords back in their scabbards.

“Right.” you nodded curtly, setting the headset back in its charging port and already meaning to leave before he could cite some vaguely-worded and slightly cryptic advice. “There’s always tomorrow, right?”

Sidestepping in front of you in one fluid motion, Sephiroth peered down at you with an icy gaze. Craning your neck upward at an uncomfortable angle so that you weren’t eye-to-chest, you ground your foot into the floor.

“So we’re good tomorrow?”

He was as rigid as a glacier, and just as vocal. You sighed.

“Permission to return to quarters, sir?” you grumbled.

“Denied.”

You wheezed out a bitter laugh. Sometimes you wondered if he got off on bossing you around, but the notion of Sephiroth getting off to anything was enough to send you reeling.

“I thought you wanted to make 1st.”

A pithy breeze flashed in front of you, and it took you a second too long to realize there was a sword directed at your sternum. You stumbled backward, only barely finding your balance.

“What-“

“Don’t worry, this won’t be a fight.” he said, slowly inching Masamune forward until you had no choice but to walk backwards. “Think of it as a dialogue.”

You steadied the heavy thump of your heart as you straightened yourself, lifting your chin maybe just a little too high in a feeble attempt at hiding your nerves. The only time you had ever faced your mentor in a fight was the day he chose to train you out of a flock of other SOLDIERs. It was a punishing session, and in the end he had disarmed you in three moves. You had heard later from the other recruits that that was the longest anyone had lasted.

“Isn’t that the opposite of what you should be teaching me?”

“A SOLDIER isn’t just their kill count.”

Unsheathing your swords, you let slip a snort. “Easy for you to say.”

“I mean it.” he said, fortifying his stance as the room melted back into the sim.

“You’re getting sloppy. Good form, but no tact. When you accept those as parts of you,” he said, nodding toward your swords. “And not just a tool, everything else becomes an afterthought.”

He was awfully serious today - and he had practically cornered the market on being serious - but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you just a little nervous. You were used to aloof Sephiroth - succinct nods of approval and pointed glares of disapproval, both marked by a signature silence that could fill a room. Talking someone’s ear off wasn’t something Sephiroth was known for (or particularly good at, if you were being honest), but when he did, man was it weird.

In that time, you were back in the sim, now finding yourself standing outside a Shinra facility - a mako refinery, if the acrid odor drifting beneath the thick, briny scent of seawater gave you any indication. The two of you were standing on just one of the massive metal-plated pipes that fed into the factory. Jutting out the side of a cliff like a blossoming giant, a mess of pipes and valves, it faced a sea.

The environment around the facility was in a perpetual state of dusk, the sun sitting just above the water’s horizon, with clouds in shades of pink and gold that hovered wistfully in the sky. The last of the day’s blue disappearing into a day that would never come. The sea itself was dark, lazily churning against the face of the cliff, the sun’s light refracting into thousands of tiny gems on its surface.

Sephiroth took no time to admire the sim’s flawlessly randomized recreation - raising the hilt of his sword up to his eye level while keeping his right hand close to his body, shifting his weight on one foot while the other stayed back, ready to spring him forward at a moment’s notice. Taking his cue, you balanced yourself, holding your swords out in front of you in an x-shape.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a tiny, self assured smirk (though, to the untrained eye, resembled more an involuntary twitch of muscle than anything), blinking long and slow. Your teeth worried at the inside of your cheek. Had he made you wait any longer and you think you would’ve broken skin.

But before you could worry a hole through your cheek, 7 feet of sinewy muscle charged at you like a bullet shot from a gun. His sword clashed against yours with an ear-splitting clang, the ringing of metal running down the tips of your fingers. Grunting at the force pushing back at you, you slid one sword out from under Masamune, slashing the air between you and effectively getting him to step the fuck off.

He bounced back, landing gracefully on the tips of his toes like a dancer coming down from a leap. His eyes narrowed, but there was a twinkling in his pupils. Normally, a beaming Sephiroth would’ve been a sight to commemorate, preferably behind a neat little frame set on a desk somewhere. But it only gave you one thought: Shit.

In a very short space of time, you were standing face to face with your superior once again, his sword slamming into the broad, flat side of your right hand’s blade. You had barely raised it in time, and he had only given you a moment to prepare yourself against a barrage of attacks, somehow managing to parry each one.

“You block too much. You’re a sword, not a shield.” he said, almost sounding bored.

You would’ve responded with any number of pieces of crude backchat that you’d accumulated since training under him, but the man hardly gave you time to breathe let alone think.

Each twitch of his sword was a masterpiece of technique. He fought like a well-oiled machine, inevitable, bloodless, with absolute awareness of the power he held. It was beautiful, or, it would be if you weren’t on the receiving end of his advances. He was fast, inhumanly, unfairly fast. And with his equally unfair reach, it was a miracle if you ever came close to landing a hit on him. The man had some cruel agreement with gravity.

After your nth parry and a last minute pass back, you held Masamune in place, running your left blade down its length. His eyebrows briefly twitched upward before flicking his sword up, sending your blades down and away. But in a flash, you lunged forward, cutting just beneath his chin and hacking away thin slivers of his bangs. You were about to allow yourself a smirk, maybe even a ‘hmph’ born from pride and amusement.

What happened instead was something so irritating it didn’t register with you until you were slammed to the floor. Pivoting away from an overhead slash, he - very gently - tucked his blade underneath yours, sending another bone-ringing clang through you like a bell. And (incredibly obnoxiously) he used your weight against you, forcing you backward. But, in a last-ditch effort to not look like a fool, you stuck one leg out - effectively killing any chance of recovery but by Gaia were you gonna take him down with you.

You staggered backward like a flimsy piece of rubber, hitting the ground with a thump as your swords clattered on either side of you. Of course, Sephiroth landed with grace - hardly falling at all so much as shifting himself in tune with your otherwise graceless tumble. And yet - despite being perfectly fine, actually - he wore an uncharacteristically poleaxed expression, his lips hanging slightly open like a man caught mid-practical joke.

The sim had already disappeared, the panel next to your head flickering off and on before completely shuttering off a few seconds behind the rest.

That was when the sound of cracks splitting across the floor met your ears. His sword had pierced the tile mere centimeters away from where your forehead was, drowning out the sound of blood rushing to your ears. Sephiroth stood hunched over you like a gargoyle, one knee drawn up to his abdomen while the other pressed hard into the floor, effectively caging you in black leather and silver hair. Tucked between cold tile and an even colder man, you couldn’t get back up if you wanted to.

“Was that good enough for you?” you wheezed, feeling like a pair of bricks had been shoved in your rib cage.

He studied you with close scrutiny and a blank expression, hardly winded but breathing quietly, evenly. You could never tell what he was thinking, even this close. You had resigned yourself with the thought that you never will.

“Dismissed.” he ordered, finally.

Pulling himself up, he tugged Masamune out from where it had wedged itself, stepping over you without so much as a look back.

You tried to sit up, only managing to lift your head before a singular phlegm-raddled cough sent you thudding back to the floor, dazed and hot - uncomfortably so, like you had been tossed in a furnace. Feeling the muscles in your arms and legs cry for mercy, you decided to lay there. Just for a few minutes more.

#sephiroth #sephiroth x reader #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #crisis core #ff7 crisis core #my fics

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chaseatinydream · 4 years ago

Text

pirate king (53) || atz

You’re standing at the bulwarks as you watch the crew preparing to storm the island.

The main deck is in a flurry of activity, the pirates gathering weapons and priming muskets. Even you aren’t spared from the hard work, you’re helping the men pack gunpowder into tiny bags for them to bring when they head ashore. There’s a sense of unease hanging heavily in the air, a prickling feeling creeping across everyone’s skin as they all take turns to glance worriedly at the approaching island, the ominous shape of it looming against the night sky like a harrowing nightmare.

Something uncomfortable lingers, tangible paranoia slithering over you.

“Are you worried?”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Your master appears at your elbow, one arm slipping around your shoulders to pull you close. A sigh leaves your lips and you lean into his embrace, taking comfort in his warmth, inhaling the scent of wildflowers and herbs lingering on his skin. The familiar smell calms you down, if only a little.

“Yeah.” You answer honestly as Mingi commands a group of men to lower the anchor. The Treasure is set to be moored just off the eastern coast of the island, the only place where the waters are deep enough for the ship to be anchored without being beached. The plan, carefully laid out by Hongjoong, is for majority of the crew to disembark the ship and split into two teams. The first group is to ascend the hill located in the centre of the island as fast as possible, find Commander Kang or Jeong Gunho, get the antidote and bring it to Yunho as fast as possible. This team would be led by Jongho.

The role of the second team is to sweep through the forested area of the hill and take out any… unpleasant surprises there and keep the first team safe. This group would be under by Mingi and… Wooyoung.

You glance behind your shoulder to see Wooyoung sitting against the bulwarks alone, purple hair falling into eyes dark and silent as he focuses on lacing up his boots, primed muskets and small blades strapped all over his body, completely unaware of your gaze on him.

Something sinks in your chest when you look at him.

Wooyoung hasn’t spoken to you since that day on the mast and it’s been weighing on your mind almost as heavily as Yunho’s plight. You know, you know that you shouldn’t be so selfish, that you shouldn’t be thinking of the problems in your friendship with Wooyoung at a time like this, but you can’t help it. Over these last few days, there’s been a sinking feeling in your chest as you hope that maybe he’ll just speak to you, just look at you in the eye, but all your hopes have been for naught.

You sigh, and it’s at this moment that someone else steps up behind your shoulder.

“You alright, Chin Hae?” Hongjoong’s voice is steady, but you can see the genuine concern in his eye. You nod awkwardly as San’s arm tightens around your shoulder, trying to provide you with some comfort, but at this point, you don’t think anyone could give you any semblance of relief. You’re too worried, too tense, and even though you’re not the one physically going onto the island, you’re just as worried as any of the boarding party.

What if the antidote isn’t there?

What if the boarding party is overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the Royal Navy’s crew? From what Hongjoong had told you, a Royal Navy frigate like the Black Crow carries large numbers on board.

What if… what if they die?

“I have a bad feeling that I missed out something in the plan…” Hongjoong mumbles under his breath and San clips his captain over the head, causing the older man to yelp in pain, scowling at his crew member.

“San! What in the depths of hell was that for?” Your master groans in exasperation and buries his face in his hands.

“You’re not helping things, you know!” San scolds his captain and Hongjoong looks like he’s just been smacked across the face, nearly shrinking into himself at San’s chastising. You’d find the sight hilarious had it not been for the circumstances you are in, the nerves weighing in your gut too heavy for you to even force out an amused smile.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…” Hongjoong’s voice trails off as his hand hovers awkwardly at your shoulder before it clasps down, warm and gentle, soothing, almost. You attempt to give him a reassuring smile, nodding at your captain. You know he must be going crazy at being forced to stay behind on the ship while the rest of his crew puts themselves in danger, that he can’t be part of the boarding party like the rest of the crew, but he’s reining in his own frustration to comfort you.

He’s truly selfless.

You bite your lower lip. “Yeah… I’m fine, captain.” The words leave your mouth more naturally this time, not as forced as they were before, as if some part of you now truly believes that. San lets out a sigh of relief and pulls you closer for one last hug, before releasing you, patting your head reassuringly. Shaking your head in response, you turn to glance at Wooyoung’s silent form one last time before they disembark the ship.

Then you stumble.

The vertigo comes out of nowhere, sweeping through you and you nearly lurch to the side as the nausea and pain washes over your entire body, threatening to swallow you whole. It throbs, agony radiating from your chest right where your heart lies, outwards and throughout your form and you somehow register, through the haze of pain and panic, a sickening feeling building up in your throat.

Something metallic and warm.

Blood.

Your body rejects it immediately, trying to expel it from within you with a forceful cough. You’re used to this, it’s been happening more and more constantly over the last few weeks ever since you’d left that sea witch’s island. It’s been a pain to hide it from the rest of the crew, to keep it under wraps from Seonghwa’s watchful eyes and San’s keen intuition, but never impossible.

But this? The pain has never been this tormenting before, like white hot flames searing your very flesh, reducing your body to nothing more than ash. Your hands rush to cover your mouth, warring a battle against your own body as you desperately fight to hide the state that your body is in from your master and captain. You can’t let them find out that you’re ill, not at a time like this, at least!

“Chin Hae? Chin Hae! What’s wrong?” Warm hands come to hold you by the shoulders, voice edged with worry and concern. Even though you’re near blinded by the pain, your fingers somehow find his as scorching fire licks at your very bones, and you find yourself pulled into his chest as his arms wrap around you to keep you upright.

“Chin Hae!” San’s voice, alarmed and panicked, rings in your ears as if you’ve been struck over the head hard with a hammer, tears pricking at your lashes as you try to keep your balance. Your captain is strong and sturdy for one so lithe, you can feel the hidden, coiled strength in his chest and arms when you’re in his embrace, and for a moment, you just want to close your eyes and collapse so that all this pain can just finally end-

“What’s happening? San!” Your captain’s voice is laced with worry, sharp as a whip as he seeks his healer for an answer. But you know that San has no idea what is happening either, this secret yours to keep, buried deep in your chest.

“I don’t know!” Your master yelps, his voice unnaturally high pitched and trembling. You haven’t heard him this worried since the time Yeosang got shot in the back… and that was a matter of life and death. Your hand tries to lift itself of its own accord, wanting to find your master and tell him that you’ll be fine, that this is nowhere as serious as Yeosang dying…

As if in response to your thoughts, the pain leaves your body all at once like an ebbing tide, fading like a wraith in the morning daylight. You’re left trembling against your captain, his words fading in and out of your ears as he catches you before you fall to your knees in front of him, strangely exhausted.

“Chin Hae! Are you alright?” Hongjoong’s words nearly crack with fear as he pulls you upwards, so that your chin is resting against his shoulder and his arms are supporting your weight. San hovers behind anxiously and studies the sickly pallor of your face, as concerned as you’ve ever seen him.

Your heart softens at their genuine worry.

“Yeah…” You manage to croak out, trying your best to return to standing on your own two feet so you can show them that you’re perfectly fine. You don’t want them to look at you like that, anxious and worried out of their minds. You want them to keep smiling, keep staying safe and happy, even if something does happen to you… “I’m just tired and got dizzy for a moment… Master, can I go and lie down for a while?”

“Of course! I’ll bring you there… you need to take care of yourself!” San slips into a long ramble of the necessity of self care and getting enough rest as his arms wrap around your shoulders and pull you away from your captain, carefully leading you down the stairs of the forecastle deck to the sickbay so you can get some rest.

Your captain is left alone on the forecastle deck, watching with a silent, narrowed eye as the sounds of the crew preparing to disembark without him fade to nothing but white noise in his ears. His single green eye darkens as his eyes follow your form, crossing the main deck with San at your side, the healer carefully ushering you into the gloom of the sickbay.

Something is wrong.

Night has fallen.

The forest is eerily quiet, the only sounds in the still night air being the bell-like chirps of the crickets and the hushed murmuring of the men beneath as they discuss their next move. But Wooyoung tends not to concern himself with battle strategies and plans.

That’s Mingi’s job.

Instead, he rests on the boughs of one of the many trees scattered across the hillside, eyes shut as he concentrates on slowing his breathing, practicing what Seonghwa had taught him so many years ago.

Breathe in, count to five, breathe out, count to five, breathe in...

Wooyoung has always hated the still and silence of the night, the promises that the darkness brings, but this night, he hides away in the shadows away from prying eyes. He knows on the other side of the island, floating just a few feet offshore, is the Treasure, with you on it. Then he desperately tries to force every thought that involves your name from his mind.

No.

The memory surfaces in his mind before he can stop it.

“Have you been to Grand Iguana before, oppa?”

Your smile is so vibrant, so genuine as you lounge back against the main mast, eyes shining. The outline of the island of the Grand Iguana is reflected in your gaze, bright and alive. He’s exhausted with worry, hasn’t slept much for the last three days helping San tend to Yunho, every bone aching with weariness, but when he sees you smile like this, everything seems to fall away in an instant.

Wooyoung doesn’t believe that he’s capable of loving romantically. The wounds that criss cross his heart like claw marks are still too raw, still too fresh, he can’t risk having himself torn apart again, be played by women who only use him as an object to fulfil their own sick desires. But you’re a friend. One of the crew. Important to him, yes, but nothing more than that.

If you’re nothing more than that, then he can let his guard down around you.

If you’re nothing more than that, you can’t use him that way.

If you’re nothing more than a friend, he’s safe with you.

Stifling a groan that threatens to fall from his lips, his fingers clench and unclench around the grip of the musket hanging from his side, as his other hand comes up to rub fiercely at his temples, trying to fight off the phantom pains echoing in his mind.

“Yeah.” Wooyoung manages to answer, his fingers closing around yours. He’s realised that he does it often, his hands searching for yours every time you’re close to him, as if magnets exist in him that draw him to your side instinctively.

Your hand is warm in his.

He tries to joke a little to brighten up your mood, aware that you’ve been driving yourself crazy with worry over Yunho’s plight. “Not a lot of pretty ladies here.”

The words surprise him the moment they pass his lips. He realises, with something resembling incredulous shock, that he hasn’t thought about women since… he can’t remember. Hasn’t felt the urge to remind himself that he’s the one who is in power now, hasn’t felt the need to search out a female body to satisfy his needs, hasn’t felt the desire to paint over those terrible memories with new, sexual ones…

You elbow him in the side and it startles him out of his momentary stupor, and when he sees the awkward, blushing smile on your face from his words, his heart constricts tightly.

It’s almost painful.

He doesn’t understand.

“It’s not nice to say that in front of me.” You tease lightly, looking a little downcast. His eyes are simply drawn to your features, admiring the slant of your nose, the softness of your cheeks, the gentle curve of your smile, the affection in your eyes.

You’re beautiful to him, he thinks to himself with a sigh. And you should know it.

Wooyoung’s hands raise to grip his hair by the roots tightly with a muffled scream, the shackles scraping roughly against his wrists. He was such a fool, such a fool, such a gigantic, massive fool-

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s taken both your hands in his, fingers running over yours. His lips descend to touch them with feather like kisses, wanting for you to know how much you mean to him, how you’re nothing like the women in his life before, how you’re an irreplaceable friend to him.

It’s just a few simple words.

His mouth opens to speak.

“I-”

Then his words falter and die on his lips, every warning bell in his mind screaming at him to stop right now before he says something he can never take back.

A sob rips itself from his chest. What did he want to say? Why… why had those three words, words he had sworn to never speak in his entire life ever again, come to mind so easily, so naturally, as if it were truly his own desire?

He couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t bear it.

Couldn’t face it.

So he had fled before you like a coward.

He couldn’t forget the look of utter hurt on your face. Guilt and regret had sunk in a few days after, but he didn’t know how to look at you in the eye again without feeling those phantom pains across his body all over again.

They were scars, physically, and he knew that more than anyone else. They weren’t able to hurt him any longer, shouldn’t be able hurt him any longer, but it was as his captain had cautioned him years back, when he’d first joined the crew.

“I might have broken your chains, but only you can free yourself. What I can do is be here for you. I promise.”

He can feel them.

The poisonous hands on his body, sliding up his bare legs and around his neck, yanking hard on his collar as he struggled for breath, tears slipping from his eyes as he fought to keep in his sobs.

The claws leaving crimson indents on his skin, the lips dancing across his skin, leaving a trail of bright red bruises in their wake, each one stinging painfully as blood trickled from them, leaving a mess of scarlet on the sheets.

The cold weight of the shackles around his wrists, seemingly weighing him down even though his hands were no longer bound-

“Wooyoung!”

Luckily, before he can descend into a full blown panic attack, Mingi calls from him from below. Wiping the tears from his eyes as quickly as he can, he ignores the weight of the shackles around his wrists and leaps down from the tree, landing nimbly on his feet.

“What do you need me for?” He clears his throat, but his voice is hoarse. Mingi doesn’t seem to realise the state his friend is in, eyes too preoccupied with scanning the area around them. Then he bends down to whisper into Wooyoung’s ear.

“Something… something seems off.”

At those words, Wooyoung frowns. Something is off?

“I don’t know… It’s just a nagging feeling in my chest.” Mingi curses and shakes his head, running his hands anxiously through his hair. “I can’t figure it out… it’s probably just paranoia or whatever, but it just...”

But Wooyoung’s no longer listening to him.

His mind suddenly runs through every conversation he’s had with Hongjoong, all the time spent poring over the maps with Yeosang, planning for this raid. It doesn’t make sense to him at first, the thought coming together slowly in his mind until the horrifying, stark answer spells itself out for him.

If the area the Treasure is now at the only place deep enough for a ship to drop anchor without getting beached and General Kang is already on the island…

His eyes widen in terror and he whips around to stare at the sea, barely visible if not for the slight moonlight rippling off the waves of the ocean.

“Wooyoung? Wooyoung, what is it?” Mingi grabs him by the arm and he merely spills the words that are at the forefront of his mind, his body numb with shock.

“Where is the Black Crow?”

He can see the exact moment Mingi understands what this means as well, his mouth falling open in shock as he whips around to scream orders at the men.

“It’s an ambush! They’re targeting the Treasure!”

Just as he says those words, the night sky lights up in a brief flash of light, followed by a sound Wooyoung is only too familiar with. His heart sinks in his chest.

The sound of a cannon shot.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho

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crystalirises · 3 years ago

Text

Of Spies and Electricity

The one-shot in which I proceed to have two breakdowns while writing.

I apologize to the prompter if this veered off to the darkside. I saw the words "spy" and "find out" and just had to make it about Fundy's spy arc.

TW: Abuse, Animal Abuse (sort of), Execution, Major Character Death, Electrical Shocks (Torture to Death, Violence, Villain Wilbur Soot (minor mention, and not the cause of the aforementioned trigger warnings), and Mentions of Blood

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886223/chapters/79168267

He felt a hand scratch the top of his head, the fingertips sticky with alcohol and stained with smoke dust. He shivered, forcing himself to purr and lean further into the touch. Schlatt chuckled, patting him in between the ears before returning his attention to the pile of papers on his desk.

He let out a small yawn, feigning sleep before jumping down the man’s lap before skittering out the open door. Schlatt wouldn’t chase after him, the man was too drunk to probably even stand. He ran past the darkening hallway, the moonlight filtering through the tall glass windows that lined the wall. Quackity and Tubbo were both stuck in their respective offices, so there would be no one to stop him from leaving the White House. He ran around, looking for an open window or an open door to the outside. He finally found an escape route in the kitchen, an open window left open to let in some fresh air. He sniffed at the air, stomach grumbling at the scent of bread.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a decent meal. Schlatt only fed him old sweet berries, and would try to make him drink alcohol when he was too lazy to get him actual water.

He shook his head, breaking himself from the stray thought of sneaking back to grab a loaf of bread. He couldn’t waste time, or risk getting caught. He jumped out the window, landing on a small flower bush that no one would really miss. He waited for a few seconds, nose sniffing at the air before racing out of his hiding spot. There were a few people milling the streets, but no one tried to stop him or give him a momentary glance. Some even darted out of his way the moment he appeared within view. Nausea curled up in his gut at the reaction, knowing that they probably recognized him as Schlatt’s pet fox. It didn’t help that the man had placed a collar around his neck, gold and easily seen underneath the shine of the sun. He wanted to burn it.

It was the first on his list of stuff to-do once Schlatt was dead and buried six feet under the ground, alongside giving his dad a hug, of course. He hurriedly made his way to the flag, growling at the dark flag that hung overhead like a shadow. He missed Niki’s flag, the real flag of L’Manburg. He sniffled, wiping his snout with his paw before racing behind the pole. He looked around, golden-flecked brown eyes scanning the area before he began to dig down.

He hoped nobody had found his little bunker. The earth seemed untouched…

With one last sniff at the air, he quickly dropped down into the small hole that he had dug into the earth. His soft paws landed against the concrete platform below, his eyes adjusting to the dark. There were only two sources of light that lit up his path, the small beam that came from his entrance way and the glowstone at the bottom of the stairs. He backed away from the entrance, taking a deep breath before shifting. He heard the snap of bones, felt the sharp pain in his chest while his body morphed into a human form. He bit back a groan, fearful in the case that someone might accidentally hear him. He bit the inside of his cheek, bitter metal blooming on his tongue.

After seconds of burning agony racing through his entire body, he collapsed in an exhausted heap against the floor, gasping into his jacket sleeve. His throat felt like it was on fire, and his bones felt like someone had taken an axe to them. Fundy crawled towards the small beam of light, reaching into his inventory for a single piece of dirt. He needed to cover up his tracks. He couldn’t afford to be caught. His hand gripped at the block, forcing himself to stand and reach up towards the hole. He blocked it up, praying that nobody had noticed. His ears stood on alert, straining to hear a single noise that could mean that his cover was blown. All was silent. He sighed, reaching up to grasp the collar that was still wrapped around his neck. His claws scratched at the surface, a low growl escaping his throat. He wanted to get it off of him so badly, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk forgetting about the collar. Schlatt would find that suspicious.

He shook his head, heading down the stairs towards the room where he’d left the diary. Schlatt seems weaker today, nearly collapsing at one point if Quackity hadn’t caught him by the arm.

Fundy reached the bottom of the steps, reaching towards the button on the wall. This far down, nobody would be able to hear the clank of metal. The scent of stale air hit him, his nose twitching for a moment before he took step into the room. His bed was unmade, the same way he had left it that morning. He headed towards the small chest in the corner, opening it to reach for the diary. He sighed in relief, his fingers grazing the leather surface. It was in the same place he’d left it. No one had discovered him. He leaned back against the wall, flipping the diary open.

A glass shard fell out from one of the pages.

He heard the distinct sound of footsteps at the top of the stairs.

Fundy tossed the diary into the chest.

He didn’t have the time to shift.

Schlatt met him at the bottom of the stairs. The man smiled. “So. You’re Wilbur’s son, huh?”

---

He sniffled, wincing when he felt a hand wrap around his ear and pull. Tubbo was doing his speech at the front of the podium while Schlatt held him tightly - enough to bruise - in his arms.

His fur bristled when he felt Schlatt stand up, a round of applause ringing through the air the moment Tubbo finished with his speech. He knew what was coming. Quackity followed after Schlatt, tossing Fundy a side-eye smirk that made him want to bite the man. With him trapped in Schlatt’s arms, the man began to make his own announcement about the festival, lacing his words with sincerity despite the clearly mocking tone in his voice. He wanted to growl, to bite down on the man’s arm and run away. But Schlatt had tampered with the collar, made it worse. Schlatt tapped on the mic, chuckling when it let out a high-pitched static noise. It was painful against Fundy’s ears “Before the festivities begin, I would like to make a very important announcement. A few weeks ago, we discovered a spy. Well we can’t have that now, can we?”

Without warning, Schlatt dropped him.

He whimpered, his head smacking against the wooden floor. His paws unable to catch him on time. A few people within the crowd cried out, the loudest being Niki. Fundy shivered, curling into himself when he saw Schlatt pull out a familiar remote. A little warning of what would happen if he tried to make a break for it. His tail curled around himself, ears pressed to the back of his head while he tried to put some semblance of distance between him and Schlatt. The man didn’t like that. Electricity coursed through his whole body, agony blooming everywhere. He let out a scream, bloodcurdling and downright terrifying to anyone who’s never heard a fox scream before. He whined, collapsing back against the ground. Schlatt had stopped the electric shock.

“Schlatt, what are you doing?!” He wanted to cry. Niki’s voice soothed him despite the pain. He forced himself to stand back up, casting Schlatt a hateful glare, which only caused the man to chuckle. The moment he got back up on all four feet, he felt a sharp kick against his side. He shrieked, falling back against the ground. The man’s shoe was pressed against him, keeping him down and unable to move. Schlatt was playing with the remote, fingers hovering mockingly over the dial. He bit back the low growl in his throat. Schlatt wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him again. He looked down, tamed. “This… This is outrageous! You can’t do that Schlatt! You’re hurting it!”

“Him,” Schlatt corrected, a sly grin on his face. “This isn’t an ordinary fox, Ms. Niki.”

Another stream of agony ran throughout his body, the pain worse than before. Schlatt had turned up the dial. He whimpered. Schlatt didn’t need to tell him what to do. He took a deep breath, shallow and tired. He wasn’t sure if he could even shift. His body was in too much pain, and the shift would be unbearable. But he had no choice. He trembled, willing himself to return back to his human form. His bones cracked, the noise breaking through the silence. He could hear screaming, or maybe that was him. He focused past the pain, trying to focus on his human form.

He finished shifting. He didn’t need to look at the audience to see their shocked gazes.

“Fundy Soot. Son of the currently exiled former president, Wilbur Soot.” Was that Quackity or Schlatt talking, Fundy wasn’t sure. His head felt heavy, like it could barely balance itself on his neck. There was a loud ringing in his ears, his whole body spasming. He was coughing, he thinks, warm blood spilling past his lips while he tried to force himself to remain lucid. Everything hurts. “He’s a fox shapeshifter and was probably sent to be a spy by his own father.”

That wasn’t true at all. He wrapped an arm around his stomach, the other grasping the bottom of the collar. He wished he was strong enough to rip it away from him. The pain would stop once he got the collar away from him. His gaze snapped towards the crowd, feeling slightly ashamed for getting caught. He thought… He thought he could do it. That he could be a spy for his dad, help save L’Manburg from Schlatt’s iron grip. He knew the last time people had seen was during his dad and Tommy’s exile. He wondered what people thought about his sudden disappearance. Did they think he ran away? He hoped they did. He didn’t want to think that they’d assume he’d… Fundy shuddered. It really didn’t matter anymore. He’d been caught. He looked up at Schlatt, shivering once the man’s golden eyes caught his stare. His fingers were on the dial. Fundy looked at the options. There were three. He had no doubt that the last option would be fatal.

“Shame, you were a great pet to have, Furball.”

Gods, that stupid pet name…

He looked up towards the sky, catching a glimpse of a familiar face on top of a nearby building.

He felt the sharp burn of pain around his neck.

Then all he saw was white.

---

There was a wet cloth pressed against his neck, phantom pain spasming through his body while he tried to push against the hand that kept the cloth in place. He heard someone shush him, a hand running gently through his hair before patting his ears. He whined, ears pressing themselves against the top of his head. A part of him was scared, terrified that those fingers would turn cruel and yank at his ears. The hand withdrew, a muttered curse following soon after. He would have laughed if it weren’t for the agony in his throat. It felt impossibly dry and like someone had raked burning coals against the skin. Someone was talking to him, their words muffled and incomprehensible. He tried to latch onto them, groaning in frustration when he couldn’t seem to understand. He wanted to hear - wanted to answer - but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

He was lying on a bed, that much he can tell. It was hard, not quite comfortable but he wasn’t sure if he was in any place to complain. Someone had placed a pillow below his head, or maybe they’d placed his head on the pillow he wasn’t sure. He clung to the cushion, feeling his claws dig into the cotton. He could only hope that his caretakers wouldn’t be angered by that action.

Someone was trying to move him up, propping the pillow so that his back was resting against it. His eyelids fluttered open, a part of him sighing contentedly at the lack of light. He wasn’t sure if his head could handle any bright lights. The person next to him was still trying to talk to him, but he could barely understand anything. There were a few words here and there that he managed to pick up, but not enough to understand the person’s full meaning. He tried to roll over on his side, wincing when a pinch of pain rose from his neck. He shuddered, nearly collapsing if it weren’t for the arms that caught him. They gently placed him back on the bed, shushing him even when all he could do was whimper. His neck hurt. He didn’t know why it hurt. The hand was back in his hair again, this time he leaned into it. The person hesitated, but they began to scratch behind his ear, soothing him into a sense of calm. He purred, letting himself fall back into kind slumber.

Wilbur sighed, honestly glad to see his son go back to sleep. Fundy had clung to the pillow, like he used to do when he was a kid and he’d misplaced his plushie somewhere. He still felt nauseous, a part of him seething with anger while the other part of him just wanted to puke. It had been an awful display, watching an execution unravel before one’s eyes. His son’s execution. He hadn’t seen Fundy in so long, and he had been so terrified of what had happened to him. He didn’t know his son was a fox shapeshifter. Fundy had always been a fox hybrid, ever since he was a little boy. Wilbur didn’t know. He’d seen Schlatt pet fox and he hadn’t known. He felt sick.

He glanced down at his bloody and scratched fingers. When Fundy had been… killed at the festival, all hell broke loose. A few people - a lot, actually - had instigated a fight, causing complete and utter mayhem. He hadn’t had the time to press the button, too busy trying to find where his son’s respawn point was. Techno had aided him, which was a surprise since he thought he would want to partake in the chaos. They managed to track him down to a hidden bunker underneath the flagpole, that damned golden collar still around his neck. Wilbur had lost it.

He had clawed at the collar, desperate to get it off Fundy. Techno had been the one to get it off, the man keeping a level-head even while Wilbur was having a breakdown. They managed to get out of Manburg after that. Wilbur raced to get Fundy to safety while Techno guarded them from anyone who might decide to chase after them. He sighed, shaking while he rested his face in his hands. He couldn’t believe that he had thought that his son had run away, when all this time…

Wilbur held onto his son’s hand, thumb gently caressing the knuckles. His manic gaze settled on his son’s neck, gritting his teeth at the clear burn marks that marred his son’s pale skin. Gods…

Fundy whimpered the whole way back to Pogtopia and during unconsciousness, sometimes he would even call out for Wilbur. Those moments were the worst in his opinion. He couldn’t stand the thought of his son being in so much pain. He should have known. He should have fucking known that his son was a shapeshifter then none of this would be fucking happening. Wilbur clawed at his hair, tugging until the pain forced him to stop. That shithole of a country needed to go. This didn’t change anything. His hands curled into tight fists, nails biting into the palms of his hands, drawing bits of blood. Schlatt needed to pay. L’Manburg, Manburg, whatever that nation was, it needed to pay. Wilbur sat up a little straighter in his seat. The whole place was still rigged with TNT. All he needed to do was go back and push that damned button. Then boom!

“Bye L’Manburg.” He sing-songed himself, tone nearly giddy. Wilbur kept himself from racing to the button. His son needed him. Wilbur shook his head, pulling the chair closer to the bed. His whole being burned at the sight of his son. One part was still screaming that Fundy had betrayed him by running against him in the first place… but now his son was injured because of him.

“D-dad…? Dad, help me… please help me… I’m scared… Dad…”

He quickly reaches for his son, wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders.

He holds him close, whispering words of comfort and assurance.

He still had a nation to destroy. But for now, he needed to care for his son, his little champion.

“I’m here, Fundy. I’m right here.”

He holds his injured son close, and swears, “He won’t hurt you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

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

Clarification: So Fundy pretended to be a regular fox to get close to Schlatt and spy on him. So as far as people know, Fundy disappeared around the time of Schlatt's win of presidency. Some people assume he was jailed (like Niki) for being Wilbur's son, while others think he ran away. Wilbur thought of both scenarios, thinking that both are possible, but he honestly preferred that Fundy had run away cause then he'd at least be safe.

#fundy #schlatt #wilbur soot #dream smp #there is a lot of pain #and I am sorry

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cptnbvcks · 5 years ago

Note

Okay but imagine Mando catching you masturbating to a fantasy of him and he leaves you to it, but later he has you cornered in the cockpit and tells you to explain what you’d been thinking about. You try to be a smart ass, but he just doesn’t react till you tell him the truth. When you do, he leans forward, grabs you by the back of the neck, and pulls you close as he says “good girl”

how the fuck does a drabble turn into a full fic i just— i’m gonna quarantine myself.

It’s been… a long fucking week.

The air of the Razor Crest is thick with the metallic scent of fresh blood and there’s a wad of bandages collecting on the ship’s floor that you really need to get rid of before the little one can get into them.

You slump back against the ship’s steel wall with a quiet grunt, sinking down to the floor as the exhaustion finally began to creep into the corners of your vision in hazy pulses.

On the floor, clothes half ripped to hell and deeply unconscious, is the Mandalorian. The proof of your medical work is all over him; messy bandages that crisscross over golden skin and an ugly patch of bruised skin from a shoddily delivered emergency bacta shot.

You stare at his chest and you feel your own breath slowly fall in rhythm with the gentle rise and fall of it. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this… exposed before. His bareness had hardly registered in your head when he came staggering in, shoved the quarry into the carbonite chamber, and all but fell into your arms — his beskar hanging half-unclasped and his shirt torn and burnt where blaster fire had managed to hit skin. There had only been the acrid taste of fear on your tongue as you tore off the heavy armor and got to work cutting away his shirt to assess the damage.

The adrenaline high is crashing at your feet and even though you’re exhausted, you can’t help but stare.

His stomach rises and falls slow and your gaze is transfixed on the firm ripple of muscles that felt so firm under your shaking fingers. Scars overlapped, ugly and jagged from all the times he had patched himself back together again in the loneliness of the ship.

Your fingers twitch slightly around your knee at the memory of his skin; soft everywhere, warm when you pressed against it, rough where the soft dusking of hair trailed up from his hem of his pants.

You dropped your head back against the ship’s wall and almost moaned when you let your eyes slip closed, exhaustion creeping at the edge of your consciousness.

Behind your eyes, your imagination eagerly pulled the image of his broad chest back to the forefront, demanding you finish your meandering thoughts.

He had grabbed your arm when you first began taking off the beskar, his grip frighteningly unsteady as he reminded you, as urgently as he could manage, “Not the helmet.”

Your fingers flexed into a fist, dropping lightly into your lap at the memory of his touch. The Mandalorian never touched you, not once since you stumbled into his life on the Razor Crest and failed to leave.

“Don— Don’t remove my helmet.” He grunted softly, the noises pained and tight through the modulator as you got to work.

He had grunted and groaned and grimaced through all of it, his breaths falling hard and ragged, and the sounds had been scary granted the context. But now, in the quiet calm of your own imagination, the context was much less terrifying.

Slowly, you peaked an eyelid open.

His helmet was turned upwards, visor to the ship’s ceiling. The side of the helmet reflected an obscure version of your sitting form and you granted yourself one last peak at his stomach, still rising and falling with easy breaths.

Yep, still sleeping.

The emergency shot must have kicked in harder than you expected and you secretly thank the Maker for the small mercy of the Mandalorian’s deep sleep because you really don’t think you have the energy to crawl up into the cockpit to do what you’re about to do.

Besides, you really shouldn’t leave him alone in this state. Not when the child could easily open the bunk hatch and stumble upon his caretaker like this.

Your cheeks flush slightly as you let your eyes fall shut again, loosening your knees slightly as your fingers quickly tug open your belt.

You promise yourself you won’t take long. It’s been a long week and you can’t even remember the last time you had a moment to yourself. Between the little green bundle of trouble and his ever so stoic caretaker (Or was father more appropriate?) — the Razor Crest is always at full capacity. You couldn’t turn around without the little one peering up at you from your ankles with those big brown eyes and making uppy hands in a quiet plea to be lifted.

Yeah, you think to yourself, I won’t take long.

—

The Mandalorian’s chest hesitates in its usual rhythm but your eyes are wrenched shut and you don’t notice when the beskar helmet turns, eyes fixing on you through the dark tint of the visor.

For a moment, he thinks he might be hallucinating.

Your hand is clasped over your mouth, holding hard and digging into your cheek in a desperate attempt to muffle the soft noises you’re making.

He can smell his own blood in the humid air and the punchy sterility of antibacterials, but what he smells most prominently is the heady scent of arousal. His eyes follow the tense length of your arm to where your hand disappears down the front of your pants.

The Mandalorian feels his mouth go unbearably dry at the urgent shift of your wrist beneath the material — the way your head falls back and your knees tremble when you touch something undoubtably soft and sensitive and so so wet.

He can hear it through the sensitive registers of the helmet’s earpiece and he struggles to keep his breathing as even as he can while the soft wet sound of your fingers on your cunt slinks right down his body and straight to his cock.

“M-mando—”

Every thought in his head crashes to a screeching halt and his heart all but leaps into his throat at the thought that he’s been caught watching you pleasure yourself.

Your eyes are open and they’re half-lidded, unseeing, though Mando knows you’re looking dead at him.

For a split second, the wonders if you wanted him to catch you. Were you carrying on in this way, so close yet just out of his reach, in the hopes that he would see?

Your fingers pick up their pace, failing to register the change of his helmet’s angle, and you’re struggling to keep the noises in but the bounty hunter hears you loud and clear — the sweet voice that always welcomes him back and teases him mercilessly — moaning his name.

“M-maker, Man-mando— mmf!”

The Mandalorian stares in awe as you cry for him, his nickname never once having sounded like that in your mouth. It rings in his ear like gun fire — loud and devastating to its recipient.

His gaze eats up the way your body suddenly tenses and shudders as you sink your teeth into the back of your hand to muffle yourself. The fingers between your thighs don’t still but their fervour slows to a sluggish pace that keeps pulling soft trembling noises from your throat; ones he’s never heard you make before, and ones he doesn’t think he’d soon forget.

Your eyes fall shut again as you slump back, spent and exhausted, and the Mandalorian finally realizes that you still think he’s fast asleep.

Slowly, you slip your hand out of your pants and the Mandalorian dare not blink when you lazily press your own cum coated fingers between your lips and moan his name again.

The Mandalorian closes his eyes and tries not to imagine your mouth around something a little more substantial.

—

You really don’t remember falling asleep, but you wake up to the soft warmth of a blanket and the gentle jostle of the ship. Your eyes fall to the space on the floor where Mando had once been; a body-shaped pile of torn clothes and bandages the only hint that he had even been laying there. A blush threatens to creep up your cheeks and a shiver trills up your spine as you try your best not to remember what you did last night. Or better, who you thought of while doing it.

Both of those options are hard to do when there’s a soft wetness that still clings to the seat of your panties, which you also try hard to ignore.

Your body is heavy and sluggish and there’s a ghost of a tremor in your thighs as you drag yourself across the main galley to the cockpit hatch, taking one heavy foot to each rung.

“Hey,” you announce yourself, the word coming out husky and drawling as you scoot your butt across the corridor’s floor and swinging your legs up into the space. The sliding doors open and you make out the shiny beskar helmet tilted over the ship’s controls. The child’s pram sits behind him and to his right, the doors of it sealed against the glare of hyperspace. He must have moved him from the bunk while you slept.

The Mandalorian tilts his head over his shoulder slightly as you step towards him. Your gaze involuntarily drops to the fresh shirt and the fixed armor that obscures the body that you know exists beneath.

You don’t mean to stutter, but your mind is pulling the images out of storage and playing them on a slideshow in your head before you can stop it. He shifts back in the chair and your gaze drops to his thighs and oh, maker, you’re thinking about the soft trail of dark hair that’s hidden under his new shirt and—

“I don’t – I don’t think you’re supposed to be up so soon, after the shot—”

“Thank you,” His words are low and his voice crackles slightly in the helmet’s modulator and it sounds like he hasn’t been awake for too long, “For taking care of me when I came in.”

The gratitude in his voice takes you by surprise and you have to double check that your chin isn’t on the floor. He’s never thanked you before, and he never really struck you personally as the ‘thank you’ type.

“I— oh, you’re welcome? You’re welcome.” Your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment and you can feel yourself grasping and failing to reach for the typical relaxed banter that usually falls between you. Something’s sitting in the air and you feel the odd pang of guilty nerves that make you feel like you’re hiding something.

“You could use some work on your shot delivery though,” he spoke and the deep scratch of his voice makes you distinctly aware of the slickness that remains between your thighs, “Not a fan of the bruises.”

It takes a second for you to register what he’s talking about, but your mind readily draws back the image of his bare chest and the hideous crimson-maroon circular bruise that sits a few measures beneath the firmness of his right ribcage.

“Well, it’s not like you dragged me halfway across the galaxy because of my advanced medical training.”

You see the small downward tilt of his helmet though he does not move the chair an inch.

“I dragged you?”

There’s a small humor in his voice and you know he’s pulling on the fact that you had practically sat on the ship with the child on your lap and refused to let him leave your home planet without you in tow. But there’s something in the inflection of his voice when he hits the word ‘dragged’ and you always hated it when he served your words back to you and you really, really need to take a shower right about now. A cold one, preferably.

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response, Mando.”

You’re already stepping away and you don’t notice that the careless toss of his name on your tongue has drawn the bounty hunter’s muscles taut in his pilot’s chair. You hear the soft click of a switch or two and don’t think anything of it as you turn on your heel to head to the hatch doors.

You pause in front of it when the doors don’t automatically reopen at your presence.

Raising a hand, you wave it around to trigger the sensor. It stays shut.

“Hey, Mando— I think the door’s broken.”

“Not broken,” he corrects and his tone lazes slow through the helmet’s modulator, “Locked.”

His voice and his words sear you to that spot and you try real hard to ignore the low hum that’s starting to grow like incessant static between your thighs. You know the sound of his voice when he’s up to something. You’ve heard it far too many times when he hauls his quarries onto the Razor Crest — that quiet conspiratorial tone that says he knows more than you in any given situation.

Right now, you felt like one of those quarries and the thought of it raked every thought clean from your mind except for that fucking static.

You look over your shoulder at the sound of the pilot’s chair shifting with the familiar swoosh noise as its occupant rotates forty-five degrees around, though he only tilts his helmet slightly over his shoulder when he addresses you. His next words are quiet but they hit you loudly, amplified by your own shameful guilt.

“Last night,” he starts and you know what he’s going to say before the words even come out of his mouth, “You called my name—”

That familiar hum returned with magnificent urgency, spiralling quickly across your limbs — from your fingertips to your toes and coiling determinedly between your thighs. The pilot’s chair creaks and a heavy footstep follows and your eyes refuse to move from the sealed doorway, your feet equally glued in place.

You open your mouth to begin reading your defence but he keeps speaking in that deep tone with the modulator-clipped vowels that sounds far too close behind you now.

“— Did you think that I was asleep? Or had you been hoping that I was watching?”

The space feels smaller when he’s standing up and you suddenly have to try really hard not to think about what you were thinking about a few hours earlier while he was passed out and you were—

Your legs feel like lead when you finally turn to face him and your mouth runs drier than a Tatooine summer.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Your cheeks burn hot as you tilt your head up to where his visor is angled. The star light glitters magnificently off of the beskar but you stand in his shadow, half blocked in. “To st-stop me, you could have—”

“Why would I want you to stop?”

Every single coherent thought dashes right out of your head and that static has finally reached your ears because there’s no way he just said that to you. His words wane playful and you really think you might vibrate out of your own skin at the anxiety-muddled revelations that’s welling inside of your belly now.

“You’ve gone quiet,” the Mandalorian hums out, “You weren’t very quiet last night.”

Your eyes must have been saucer-wide and your jaw hangs loose as he tilts his helmet slightly and you press your lips together at the small nagging feeling that he’s watching your mouth. A pair of gloved fingers touch your right elbow and the unexpected touch startles you, goosebumps immediately peppering your skin. He opens his grip around your arm and it takes a moment for you to realize that he’s lifting your arm from where it rests, fingers clenched, at your side.

“I want you to show me.”

You swallow hard and find the weak sound of your voice again as his hand lowers down to your wrist, then your hand, turning it palm-up before slowly uncoiling your fingers. “Show—show you?”

“Show me how you tasted when you came on your fingers. And—” The words strain through the helmet and you shiver again at the demanding heartbeat pulsing wetly against the seat of your panties. He drags a leather-covered thumb across the meat of your palm and across the narrow length of your middle finger, his thoughts easily returning to the sight of that hand wedged and flexing under the fabric of your pants, “—and tell me what you thought of when you called for me.”

The Mandalorian notices the small release of tension from your arm, allowing him to turn your hand in his grip and face your palm downwards. You know the path he’s guiding your hand on, yet still, you jump when he presses your palm firmly into your clothed cunt.

“And—,” you pause to swallow the sudden hitch of your words, putting some spine in your voice as you continue, “And if I don’t?”

Your tone is shy but something so eager and repressed simmers beneath, growing bolder as he coaxes you away from embarrassment and into something more welcoming, something you’ve quietly been aching for for much longer than you’re willing to admit.

His breathing drags through the modulator as his fingers flex against yours, pressing them deeper into the thick fabric until he sees a small reaction twitch across your features.

“I can always make you,” he offers and you can’t tell if his voice wanes threateningly or jestingly, but he demonstrates the strength of his insinuation when he drags his palm off of yours, over the hem of your pants, and then burying his gloved hand down beneath.

You purse your lips and try not to let your eyelids flutter when he cups his hand over your slick panties and grinds the heel of his palm right into that bundle of nerves that has been buzzing urgent static through your system from the start of this. Your knees almost buckle as he steps forward, pushing you with him until your back thumps heavily against the cockpit doors. “Is that what you want?”

“Is this—mm, how you interrogate your hostages?”

He exhales sharply and you think it might be a half-laugh, “Only the pretty ones.”

The compliment doesn’t miss you and a shudder rakes hot down your spine as he drags his middle finger across the outline of your slit. Your shoulders slump against the cold metal as you arch your hips out and into his touch against your fleeting judgement. You bite back a whimper between your teeth because even with the gloves still on, it’s still him. Every inch of the uniform— the armor, the helmet, the beskar— it’s all him.

But you can’t help but quietly think about what’s underneath. The tanned skin, scarred and bruised, and the soft dust of hair that trails up—

“I can put you in binders until you answer the question.”

The thought drags a moan from your chest as you grind yourself down into his palm.

“Is that it?” He asks, his free hand dropping onto your waist to hold your hips out against his hand, “The binders?”

Your eyes finally fall closed and your brow furrows as he picks up the pace of his minstrations and you swear he must have watched you closely last night. Slowly, you shake your head in response to his question, though the idea of him locking your arms down the way you’ve seen him do so expertly to all the unfortunate quarries certainly does hit you right in your core.

It’s not what you want. It’s not the answer to his question.

He presses into your clit and your head falls back against the doors with a hollow thump.

“Take off your gloves,” you moan out, the sound airy and half-whispered, arching into a high whine in your throat as he presses eager little circles against your clit, dragging the material of your panties over your soft flesh, “Please—”

You’re still reeling from his touches when he yanks his hand out the front of your pants and tears off his glove. Your gaze drops immediately at the flash of exposed skin as he spreads his palm across your hip, letting his fingers slip beneath your shirt to drag over your stomach.

His helmet tilts to follow your gaze as he slowly traces the rough pads of his fingers over the soft curve of your belly. His skin feels more foreign than the gloves and you bite down the moan that threatens when he flattens his hand into your abdomen and sinks below your pants again. This time, he pushes his fingertips into the elastic of your panties and lower.

“Th-this,” you finally whimper, the words barely registering in your own ears but he seems to receive them clearly. Your fists dig into the soft canvas of his undershirt wherever you can catch a hold of it beneath all that beskar, “Maker, it’s this.”

“My fingers?” His question is punctuated with a soft press of your clit that leaves your mouth hanging open and your brows neatly furrowed. You nod your head jerkily as he lazily touches you, his fingers in no rush to take you where you desperately ache to go. His helmet tilts up and he’s watching you again.

It might have been a little lie. The easiest lie. How else could you tell him that it was the fucking contact. The skin-to-skin closeness that you had felt tending to him; that ache it had put in you.

A pair of leather fingers reach around the back of your neck and you mindlessly tilt back into the grasp as he pulls your head forward. Your body follows the movement, leaning into him rather than the doors as his fingers draw urgent little thrusts of your own hips.

“Good girl.”

—

Tag List

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#idk why the fuck this is so long and took me so long to write lmao #i literally cannot imagine mando saying good girl and that was the fucking most difficult thing to work to #the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #star wars dialogue prompts #the mandalorian prompts

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detectiveupstead · 5 years ago

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Stay the Night [Upstead One Shot]

A/N: Hello, friends! This Upstead one shot (a grand total of 7,790 words) is based off of the Grey’s Anatomy episode, The Sound of Silence, in which Meredith gets brutally attacked by a patient. This, however, is my own spin of Hailey getting attacked by an offender and the aftermath. Hope you enjoy it!

He should have followed her.

That’s the only thought that was running through Jay’s mind. It was the only thought capable of running through his mind as he stood outside of the trauma bay, surrounded by his team, surrounded by Platt and fellow officers who had shown up as soon as the news broke. Jay was deaf to any sound, blind to everything else, only hearing the clamor of Will and the other doctors as he watched them treat Hailey. Upon noticing her state and the severity of her injuries, it hadn’t crossed anyone’s minds to shut the glass door and draw the curtain inside. And so Jay stood and watched.

It was only Adam and Kevin’s hands on him that stopped Jay from launching into the bay when he heard a strained, anguished cry emit from Hailey, unsure of what happened given the number of medical personnel surrounding her. His heart threatened to leap out of his chest, grunting against his friends’ grips as he tried to throw himself into the room, wanting to push aside all of the doctors for hurting her when he knew they were only helping. Hailey’s scream was followed by hoarse, heavy breathing, and Jay’s eyes burned with unshed tears as he jerked away from Adam and Kevin’s grip, burying his fingers in his short hair as he watched. Because that’s all he could do. Just watch and wait.

He should have fucking followed her.

*****

“Hey! Stop! Police!”

Why did they always fucking run? It never failed to exasperate Hailey as she chased after Nicholas, adrenaline pumping her legs, muscles working as she sprinted after him. Her boots thudded against the pavement as she went after him, gun in hand and, in the back of her mind, unsure if she was grateful for the lack of civilians on the late evening street. People milling around meant the possibility of no clear shot should she need to take it, but the lack of them meant nothing hindering Nicholas from getting away from her.

He turned the corner at the end of the block and Hailey forced herself to slow down, raising her gun as she checked around the wall before raising her weapon and following through, blue eyes sharp and eyebrows furrowed when she didn’t catch sight of Nicholas. No way he could’ve made it all the way to the other end already, or just disappear into thin air. Her senses on high alert, trying to pick up on any sound that would indicate Nicholas’s whereabouts—his breathing, his footsteps, anything—with her blue eyed gaze flickered everywhere as she carefully moved further down the narrow alley.

Apparently her senses weren’t sharp enough.

Somehow, Nicholas got the drop on her, using it to his advantage as the first thing he did was knock the gun out of her hand, the weapon clattering several feet away from their now struggling figures. Hailey was, by no means, someone who would go down without putting up a fight, face scrunched up in frustrated anger and determination as she tried to get the upper hand on Nicholas. But it was proving to be difficult, something Hailey was coming to a gradual, panicked realization, when she considered Nicholas probably had over a hundred pounds and a whole lot of muscles on her definitely smaller frame. Hand to hand combat with someone significantly bigger than her hadn’t been a wise choice—not that it had been much of a choice to begin with.

His fist was drawn back, and Hailey’s attempt of blocking it was useless as Nicholas’s fist came in contact with Hailey’s jaw, a pained grunt escaping her upon impact as the hit settled deep in her jaw bone. She felt as though her entire head had collided with something hard, eyes automatically squeezing shut as the pain was accompanied by the familiarly metallic taste of blood.

She stumbled back, but Nicholas’s hands were on her shoulders, using his strength to slam her into the brick wall behind her, the sound of her radio clattering to the ground distant to her ears. Hailey’s blonde hair flew at the harsh, jerky movement, her jacket doing nothing to prevent the scrape of the bricks against her back, her head thudding against the wall as her hands pressed against Nicholas’s chest. She dug her nails into him, hoping to bring some semblance of pain to get him to relent, eyes just barely opening to see him snarling at her.

Hailey exhaled sharply through her nose, finding enough strength to bring her right knee up as fast and as harshly as she could, slamming it deep into Nicholas’s stomach with a heated growl of her own. And although he keeled over with a groan, Hailey’s knee was no match for Nicholas’s stamina, because he recovered far quicker than she had anticipated, doing so by burying his fist in the same spot of her jaw as he had done so previously, stars exploding behind Hailey’s squeezed shut eyes. And then the air was knocked right out of her lungs as his heavy boot crushed into her chest, the sheer power of the kick once against knocking her into the brick wall. Only this time the rough action sent her flying back at an awkward angle, right side catching the brunt of the hit, and as Hailey fell to the ground, she had a vague feeling her right arm was broken. The numbing pain in her jaw told her it was probably broken, too.

This wasn’t good. This was not fucking good.

Nicholas wasn’t quite finished with her yet. “Think you could’ve taken me, bitch?” he spat, his large figure looming over her. There was a mild ringing in her ears. Why did his voice sound so far away? Hailey pressed the heels of her palms against the ground, the gravel digging into her skin as she tried to push herself up on shaky arms. But Nicholas grabbed a handful of her blonde hair at the top of her head, and Hailey cried out in pain as he yanked it to slam her head against the wall, and suddenly that ringing grew louder until it was all she could hear, her eyes squeezed shut, refusing to let the tears of frustration and pain fall. Her body didn’t feel like her own. It felt broken.

It was getting increasingly difficult to breathe, each small inhale and exhale feeling as though shards of glass were being punctured into her lungs. The taste of blood tainted her mouth, leaking down the corners of her mouth in semi thick streams, and her head spun. It hurt and it spun, a kind of pain and dizziness she hadn’t ever experienced.

Another punch to the jaw, though this time Nicholas kindly did so on the other side, his grip no longer on her so when the hit was delivered, she was sent to the floor. Her eyes squeezed shut as she fell, a breathless grunt escaping her, breath hitching when she felt shards of glass that had already been on the floor cut into the skin of her cheek and temple, blood oozing instantly from the new cuts.

“Hailey!”

Jay? She couldn’t be sure if it was him. She couldn’t hear, that much she was coming to realize. The several blows to her head made for a severe concussion, and the son of a bitch fucked up her ears. He fucked up her face and her arm and her chest. She was by no means a doctor, but in her moments of ragged breathing as she slowly came to acknowledge every sharp pain that stung her body, Hailey knew she had some broken ribs.

She heard something familiar then. Pop, pop, pop. Gun shots?

Her eyes could barely stay open, feeling her heart pound erratically in her chest. She knew that feeling an ache every time her heart beat wasn’t a good sign. Through hooded eyes, she saw Nicholas’s figure drop, body landing sideways with his eyes right in line with her own, and Hailey exhaled sharply, painfully. He was dead.

She groaned, eyes squeezing shut, the tears she’d fought to keep back finally falling. It wasn’t her fault. She no longer had the strength to keep them in.

Gentle yet frantic hands were on her, a familiar, far away voice calling her name, and Hailey decided she didn’t want the last thing she saw before she passed out to be the face of the man who did this to her. So she opened her eyes, slowly, reluctantly, blinking in hopes of clearing up her vision. No such luck.

The person above her was calling for help. She could barely hear, only picking out every other word. “5021 George. . . Officer down. . . Roll an ambo. . . Now!” And then hands were grasping her shoulders, her upper half laying on someone’s lap, feeling warm hands lightly touch her cheek. A familiar scent lightly tickled her numb nose—aftershave? She couldn’t tell, not over the taste and smell of blood. “Hailey, you’re gonna be okay. Stay with me, alright?” Jay. It was Jay. She knew it was him. Her head wasn’t right. Neither were her ears or vision. But she opened her eyes just enough to look up at him, to see a blurred familiar face and blurred worried green eyes. “Come on, Hailey. Stay awake. Look at me.”

Jay had her. She was safe. She could close her eyes now. At least she saw him.

*****

His hands were shaking at his sides as he watched his ragged looking brother exit Hailey’s room. They’d wheeled her off to get X-rays before setting her up in a room, and Jay hadn’t sat down for a second as they anxiously waited for an update. Will noted Jay’s red rimmed eyes, saw the anxiety and desperation etched into his features, looking more worse for wear than the other worried, terrified cops loitering around.

“How is she?” Voight asked. Even he didn’t bother hiding his concern for his detective.

Will let out a breath, looking over all of the quiet officers before his eyes finally met his younger brother’s. His throat was tight, never liking the part of the job where he had to recount a loved one’s injuries and sufferings to their family members. It was a million times worse having to tell it to his own brother. “She’s stable,” was how he chose to start off, knowing it was the most important thing. He was speaking to them all, but his gaze was only on Jay. “But she suffered massive head trauma. She’s got a severe concussion, and the blows to her head have caused temporary hearing loss.”

“Oh, my God,” Kim murmured, a sharp breath escaping her as the gravity of the situation befell Intelligence.

Jay remained silent. Numb.

“She—” Adam paused, throat working. “We heard her scream earlier, when you were working on her. What was that? Is—Is she okay?”

Will pursed his lips, breaking their gaze momentarily. “Her jaw was fractured at an awkward angle, which would make it difficult to heal properly. So Dr. Marcel had to—he had to completely break her jaw and wire it shut so it can heal. She can’t speak.” Will exhaled sharply. He always tried to remain detached when it came to situations like these, delivering the terrible news to friends and families of patients. But it was damn near impossible when he was delivering this kind of news to his friends and family. “Her left arm’s broken, and a broken rib punctured her lung, so we had to put in a chest tube. She’s—She’s got a long road ahead of her, most of which is going to be spent here. But she’ll heal.” He shrugged, almost defeated. “Physically, anyway.”

It was a wonder Jay heard anything his brother had been saying at all; his heart was thundering in his chest, blood rushing in his ears and were his fingers shaking? Hailey was hurt. Of course he knew that. He was the one who found her. He was the one who let her go after Nicholas while he took care of the partner. They both had gone without backup, something he had promised himself he would never do or let a partner of his do, and it nearly cost him Hailey.

The image of her laying in the alley, barely breathing and beaten to a horrific pulp. It had reminded Jay of the time when he’d seen her file after her first sting with Booth, bruises discoloring her face. Only this time, the nauseating twist of his stomach was overwhelming because he could have prevented this. He should have followed her, provided ample back up, and maybe she would be okay then. It was his fault.

“. . . Jay? Hey, Jay.” Will’s voice drew him back out of his muddled, guilt ridden thoughts, blinking tear heavy eyes as he looked at his older brother. All eyes were on him, and Jay would’ve felt them if he wasn’t so damn numb. Will’s concerned eyes were stuck on him, hand resting on Jay’s shoulder as he repeated, “She’s not awake yet but you can go see her.”

It took a moment for Will’s words to register in Jay’s mind, and when they did, he silently moved without a word. He walked the few steps towards her room, well aware of Voight and the rest of Intelligence following after him. Jay’s feet moved of their own accord, not quite comprehending where he was until he stood at the end of Hailey’s bed.

It was gravely silent in the room, the only sound coming from the shrill and continuous beep of the heart monitor, a loud reminder that she was still alive. Still breathing. From his peripherals, Jay noticed his team members entering around him, flanking either side of Hailey’s bed as he remained at the foot of it. Small tubes for the nasal cannula were connected to Hailey, providing her with supplemental oxygen as she lay unconscious.

Jay’s lips parted, a long, slow breath escaping him as he took in the sight of her. Reddish-purple bruises discolored her face, cuts from glass along her cheek, and his chest tightened at the swelling of her jaw. Needles and tubes were connected into her left arm, because her right was in a cast, broken and in need of healing. Her head was wrapped as well, a spot of blood vaguely visible under the white cloth bandaid by her temple. And despite the slow, calm, and steady beeping of Hailey’s heart monitor, Jay could feel his own heart racing in his chest, a guilt and panic mixing together into an overwhelming concoction of anger, desperation, and terror.

He should’ve followed her. He should’ve been her backup.

His fault, his fault, his fault.

The sight of her laying in the bed, unconscious and bruised, suddenly felt like too much. Jay, who had witnessed a lifetime’s worth of horror, couldn’t stand there looking at his partner, at this woman who had such a tight hold on him, because the sight was too much for him to handle. He physically couldn’t do it.

His teeth clenched together, he turned, feet carrying him out of the room, ignoring Vanessa’s soft call of his name as he moved further away and down the hall. Jay’s feet carried him, hands buried in his hair, head bowed as he squeezed his eyes shut. A ball of lead settled deeply in his stomach, throat closing up with a lump that made it difficult to breathe. Get it together, Halstead, he kept repeating to himself, forehead creased with the way his eyebrows were so harshly drawn together. He knew the tell tale signs of an episode, of a panic attack. Recognized the racing of his heart and the flush of his body. Hailey wouldn’t want him losing it like this.

Hailey. She was in this state because of him, wasn’t she?

“Damn it!” His voice echoed in the hall, and Jay didn’t think twice about slamming a fist against the nearest wall. Not head on, saving his knuckles from any damage, just the side of his fist. Still, the pain reverberated through his hand, but he didn’t care.

“Hey, Jay—Look at me!”

It was Voight, with his hands on Jay’s shoulders and heavy voice anchoring him back to reality as he turned Jay around to face him. Jay opened his eyes, eyebrows still draw together, jaw tight as he stared at his sergeant. His head was bowed, chin brought down, looking Voight right in the eyes as the older man stated, “This is not on you, you hear me?”

Jay scoffed, the sound derisive and deprecating, ready to push away from Voight. But Voight was firm, grip on Jay unrelenting, gaze sharp on his detective who stared back with glass sheen eyes. “You both made a tactical decision, and those don’t always end right. This is one of those times. It is not on you.”

“She’s my partner,” Jay spoke, his voice tight and edgy and controlled, ironic given that he felt completely out of his element here. Coming apart as every second passed by. His eyes once again felt heavy as tears drowned them, his emotions getting the better of him. Jay knew he had the habit of losing it in front of others, but it had never been with tears. Not until Hailey was laying in a hospital bed beaten within an inch of her life. “If I don’t have her back, who does?”

There was a silence between the two of them, filled by the distinct sounds of medical personnel doing their jobs and machines beeping in the distant, and Jay knew Voight was realizing there wasn’t much he could say to lift the guilt that suffocated him. “You were both just doing your jobs,” he repeated the idea, looking at him sternly, but the concern was still visible. Concern for Hailey’s recovery, concern for Jay’s conscious. He squeezed his shoulder. “Do you want to head home or—”

“No, no,” Jay instantly said, voice thick as he lifted his chin, gaze flickering up to the ceiling as his eyes remained glistening. He swallowed. “I’m staying.”

He walked past Voight, running is hand down his face as he made his way back to Hailey’s room. His arm dropped to the side as he stood in the doorway, feeling his friends’ eyes on him yet his own remained on the unconscious woman.

Everyone had left after a while, despite wanting to stay. Everyone except Jay, who brought the chair in the corner up to Hailey’s bedside, settling down on it with his elbow on the arm rest and knuckles pressed against his mouth. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, taking in every injury he could see. Every injury Nicholas was able to conflict before Jay got to them, before Jay manage to fire his weapon and fatally shoot the man who had been trying to deliver another kick to Hailey’s stomach.

The offender was dead, but Jay’s guilt was lively as ever.

*****

The only time Jay left Hailey’s room was to change into a new pair of clothes that Will had brought, going into a bathroom in the hallway. His brother had brought in breakfast as well in the morning, but Jay didn’t have the stomach to eat. So the breakfast burrito sat cold in Hailey’s room as Jay left the bathroom, now in a fresh pair of jeans and T-shirt. He hadn’t seen the point in changing, really, but Jay figured Will was trying to get him to move after spending the entire night sleeping on the somewhat comfortable chair.

His body felt heavy, weighed down my worry and guilt and mere exhaustion, given that he barely slept. Not because of the chair—he just didn’t want to take his eyes off Hailey. Logically, reasonably, Jay knew if anything were to happen, the doctors and nurses would be in there in a second to help. But he couldn’t sleep. Didn’t let himself.

Despite his exhaustion, Jay made his way back to Hailey’s room quickly, rounding the corner, only to stop when he was right in front of the room. His heart stilled for a moment, mimicking the way his muscles froze when his widened eyes took in the sight before him.

Blue. Gorgeous blue. The prettiest fucking blue he’d ever seen.

His voice was thick, throat closed up as he hoarsely sounded, “Hailey.”

He hadn’t even noticed his brother in the room. Jay’s eyes were glued to Hailey, who was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite get a read on—because it said nothing. She sat there, a blank look on her face, watching as he further entered the room and stood at her side. “Hailey, are you—”

She was frowning up at him, silent. Her jaw was still swollen, bruised from the hits it had taken, and she remained quiet. But it was Will who spoke up. “Jay.” He looked towards his older brother, who had a mildly concerned expression etched onto his face. Licking his lips, Will reminded, “She can’t hear, remember? At least not for now.”

Right. Shit, right. Fuck.

Jay blinked quickly a couple of times before looking back down at Hailey, who had been looking between the two Halsteads as she tried to figure out what was being said right over her head. Jay’s throat worked, noticing the frustration evident in her bruised features, before looking up at Will. With her uninjured left hand, Hailey made a gesture, like she was writing, and Will caught on.

“Wanna write something? Hold on,” he said, and Jay watched as he turned his back to them to rummage through a drawer in the counter by the wall. He then turned back to them, offering Hailey a small whiteboard and uncapped the marker before handing that to her, too.

Jay chewed on his lower lip, watching as Hailey wrote something down. When will my hearing come back? She erased the words after Will read them, handing him the marker as he wrote down, Can’t say for sure. Could be a day to a week. Upon reading the response, Hailey’s eyebrows furrowed together, harshly pushing away the whiteboard from her lap towards her feet, a strained groan escaping her, muffled with her jaw being wired shut.

Jay’s stomach twisted at her obvious frustration, biting the inside of his cheek as he and Will exchanged a look. Letting out a breath, Will grabbed the board and erased the words, writing some more. How’s your pain level? I can give you something if it’s too much.

Hailey read the words before giving a shake of her head, exhaling sharply through her nose as she turned her gaze up to the ceiling, apparently done with the silent conversation. Will looked at Jay, murmuring, “I’ll check on her later,” before exiting the room.

Settling down in the chair he had failed to sleep in, Jay let out a slow breath, hands tightly gripping the arms of the chair as his green eyes remained on his partner. Maybe his gaze was burning a hole in Hailey’s face because she was suddenly looking towards him, blue meeting green, and Jay remained silent as she watched him.

He sniffed, hand reaching up to run down his face once more as he broke their gaze, suddenly unable to look at her. He looked at her and all of her injuries were a reminder of how this happened. How he had been too late.

Jay heard a sharp tap, prompting him to look up to see Hailey tapping the marker against the bed to get his attention. His lips parted when he read the words she was showing him on the whiteboard.

This wasn’t your fault.

Throat closing up, Jay felt something inside of him crack; something that had began to crack the second he had entered the alley. His teeth pressed together, jaw tight to keep his expression from crumbling in front of her. But the fear had yet to loosen its grip on him—that unadulterated fear that he lost her was still heavy on his mind and heart, reminding him of how close of a call this was. He’d lost people; in Afghanistan, in Chicago, and it never got easier. He learned to healthily deal with his emotions, learned to be okay. But Jay had a feeling that if Hailey had succumbed to her injuries, if she wasn’t staring at him right now, if her bright blue eyes were instead dull and lifeless. . . He had a feeling he wouldn’t come back from that.

*****

When she woke up, her head wasn’t pounding as thunderously as it had been before. Still, though, Hailey’s eyes felt heavy as kept her head against the pillow, and she managed to shift her gaze to the right to catch sight of her partner. Jay slept on his side, a pillow under his head and a blanket half covering him, and Hailey exhaled quietly through her nose at the thought of him being uncomfortable. He’d slept on that couch for—how long had it been? She couldn’t remember how many days she’d already spent—but she wished he would go home to his bed.

She also knew that asking him would be pointless. Hailey hadn’t left the waiting room when he had been shot—not until she knew for sure that he was alive and well and recovering. But she was fine, wasn’t she? Sure, she couldn’t hear, her jaw was wired shut and she had some broken bones, but she was alive. Jay should go home and sleep on a comfortable bed rather than that couch.

But she would be lying if she said she didn’t appreciate, didn’t love the fact that he insisted on staying with her, even with his hatred of hospitals.

There was a subtle ringing in her ears, a distant muffle of a sound she couldn’t comprehend, and Hailey squeezed her eyes shut at the reminder of her temporary deafness. And her temporary muteness. Her eyes opened and she looked around her room, towards the windows on the left that allowed her to see the rest of the hospital, the nurses’ station a few feet away as the world around her continued to move. She just couldn’t hear it.

The soreness in her jaw was ever present even as she tried to clench it, wincing as the pain throbbed through the bone, and Hailey hated the water that began burning her eyes. She felt trapped in her own body, unable to hear or speak, just watch everything around her move while she was stuck in this bed with a broken arm and even more fucked up body. She hated that she was in this position, hated Nicholas for putting her here, hated herself for not being able to defend herself properly even though, logically, Hailey knew she couldn’t fault herself for that.

Hailey Upton was never one to pity herself, never one to think of herself as a victim. But in this moment, days after being admitted to the hospital and needing help to go to the bathroom or take a sip of water or being unable to properly eat anything, her emotions were catching up to her and the tears were spilling from her eyes before she could help it.

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the tears wet her cheek as she leaned her head back, the sobs escaping her. She tried to remain quiet—but it was difficult knowing how loud or quiet she was when her hearing was damaged. The muffled sounds from before remained as such, distant in her ears, but Hailey could feel the quivering of her lips and the heaviness of her heart as she cried out of anger, frustration, and sadness.

Hailey wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that, with closed eyes leaking tears, but eventually she felt the mattress of her hospital bed shift, felt a body lay down right next to hers, and the familiar scent of her partner invaded her nose as she felt Jay’s left arm settle on the pillow above her head as his chest pressed against her right arm. She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes, the sobs escaping her as she, for once, allowed herself to drown in her misery, her self pity, her anger.

But Jay was ever present. He remained lying next to her, propped up by her pillows, his left hand brushing away her blonde hair from her forehead while his other hand found her right one. His hand felt warm holding hers, callused fingers wrapping around hers perfectly as he anchored her emotions, pulling her out of the vat she was drowning in.

Everything hurt—physically and emotionally. Sure, she’d been banged up and bruised, had her fair share of trips to the hospital to get checked out for on-duty injuries. But it never had been this bad. She’d never gotten so beaten up before; God, she thought what Booth had done all those years ago at that damned New Years party had been awful—this felt ten times worse.

The hand that held hers in this moment, though, helped. She squeezed Jay’s hand, trying to steady out her breathing, which was a bit difficult when her mouth was wired shut and nose had become stuffy from the tears she had let out. But as she tried to calm down, catch her breath, the distant ringing in her ears started to fade, and her unsteady breathing started to sound louder and louder rather than feeling as though she was hearing it with cotton stuck in her ears.

Over the beating of her heart, sounds slowly started becoming clearer, gradually emerging from a distant muffle to being clear and present, and as the realization settled in her head, Hailey felt herself being pulled into reality. Jay’s hand still holding hers definitely helped.

The sounds came together slowly. First it was the steady beeping of her heart monitor. Then it was the vague sounds of the hospital bustling beyond her room. And then, finally, it was him.

“. . . love you. I know you can’t hear me, Hailey, I can’t imagine how awful this is. But I’ve got you. I’m here, alright? I love you and I’m here.”

Hailey inhaled sharply as Jay’s quiet, soothing voice filtered in her ears, eyes blinking open to rid of the tears as her blurred vision immediately dropped to his hand holding hers. Her heart once again began pounding as she heard his words, registered them in her muddled brain as a confession she didn’t know he wanted her to hear or not. He’d uttered it thinking she couldn’t. But she had. Her hearing had taken that exact moment to return, and Hailey now knew of a secret of Jay’s heart she wasn’t entirely sure she was meant to.

But it would be a complete lie to say it didn’t lift a weight off her chest she didn’t know she carried.

He loved her. He loved her the way she loved him. And although Hailey Upton didn’t like depending on other people, she held onto his words tightly, afraid of letting them slip.

“I’m gonna be here for you.” He was still talking, oblivious to Hailey’s ability to hear again, his voice quiet by her ear. Hailey knew it made Jay feel like he was doing something, made him feel useful in a situation she knew he otherwise felt helpless in. She was too familiar with that, given that’s how she had felt when he was in surgery. Her gaze still on their joined hands, reveling in the warmth of his touch, she listened to him continue with a small smile in his voice. “I’m gonna be by your side every day while you’re here, even after you’re discharged. You’re gonna be sick of seeing my face by the end of your recovery, but you can boss me around all you want until then.”

That had Hailey letting out a small laugh—as much as she could, anyway, through a wired shut jaw—briefly resting her head against his chest as she gave his hand a squeeze, his words both comforting and amusing. She would never be sick of seeing his face—that much, she was certain of.

Her laugh, despite being muffled because of her jaw, was enough to catch Jay’s attention. She felt him stop before leaning back slightly, and she lifted her gaze to see his bright, widened green eyes peering down at her. This close, Hailey could count every freckle on his face, could see the specks of gold in his green irises, and Hailey tried her best to school herself into a state of tranquility in case the heart monitor decided to betray her.

But Jay was looking at her in surprise, bewilderment, and Hailey raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry until he finally spoke up. “Hails—y-you—can you hear me?”

Hailey nodded, closed lips quirking up ever so slightly as she hummed an affirmative, given that’s all she was capable of doing, and watched as Jay’s lips parted to release the disbelieving scoff that escaped him before he ultimately grinned. “Shit—” Jay cut himself off with a shocked laugh, free hand running down his face while his other squeezed hers. She wanted to smile, the sight of his merely urging her to do so, as Jay shook his head. “I should—I should get a doctor—I’ll get Will, yeah? He’ll give you a quick check up.”

The excitement and relief brightened his eyes, and Hailey knew it was warranted—having her hearing back was a step forward in her recovery, that much she knew—so she nodded with a smile. Even if she didn’t want to let his hand go, or didn’t want to be rid of the warmth of his body as he got off the bed. But she let him go, watched as he stood to his feet with a relieved chuckle and ran his hand through his hair as he gave her one last look before leaving the room.

Despite the circumstances, if she could grin any wider, she would. No surprise it was because of Jay.

*****

“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Jay laughed at the satisfied groan Hailey released after swallowing down a mouthful of the gyro he’d gotten for her, his own in his hands he kept forgetting to eat. He was too busy focusing on her. And the sound of her voice he could finally hear after what felt like forever.

“I figured your first proper meal should be your favorite,” Jay told her after taking a sip of his soda. With a smirk, he added, “You’re welcome.”

Hailey rolled her blue eyes, though the smile on her face was evident as she putted the gyro down on the paper plate in her lap to grab a napkin and wipe at her mouth. “I already thanked you—stop fishing.”

Jay merely chuckled before biting into his gyro, but his eyes never left her. She looked better now, much to everyone’s relief. Three days after her hearing had returned, they doctors had taken off the wires from her jaw, though she still hadn’t been allowed to move it too much for a few days after that. But the bruises on her face had started disappearing, yellowing out and nearly blending into her skin, the cuts and her internal injuries were healing well and the thick cast on her left arm was replaced with a brace.

She was getting better and Jay was more than relieved.

“I do need to thank you for something else, though.” Jay raised his eyebrows as Hailey’s blue eyes locked onto his green. Her lips quirked into a smile, showing off those dimples he’d so easily come to adore as she rolled her lip into her mouth. “Thank you for. . . For having my back out there. With Nicholas. You saved my life in the alley, so—you know. Thank you.”

Jay’s lips parted, her words tightening his chest as his eyebrows drew together. He leaned forward, arms resting on his thighs as he gave a shake of his head. “Hailey. . .” He spoke up, breath hitching in his throat as the corner of his lips quirked up. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that. You’re. . .” He paused, feeling his throat lock out of nowhere. Lock from the thought of losing her. Lock from guilt. “You’re my partner and I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

“Jay,” Hailey began with a shake of her own head, eyebrows knitting together. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw clenched, head dropping as his gaze went to the wrapped gyro he was still holding. A frown drew together his eyebrows too, the guilt still tightening his muscles. Since the moment he’d found her in the alleyway, Jay’s thoughts had been running rampant. No words of comfort from his brother, or Voight, or any member of his team calmed him down as he thought of his injured partner and how the extent of her beating could’ve been reduced had he gone after her sooner. Sure, he was occupied with the first offender, but he shouldn’t have let her go after Nicholas without backup. He was her backup. And he didn’t do his job the way he should’ve.

“That’s the first thing you wrote to me when you woke up,” Jay muttered through a dry, short chuckle, her handwriting flashing across his mind.

“I still mean it,” Hailey replied softly. “Besides, I’m doing better and I think I remember you saying something about me bossing you around until I’ve fully recovered.”

At that, despite the weight on his chest, Jay let out a laugh as he lifted his head, catching sight of her wide grin as he shot her look. “That would be the first thing you hear after temporary deafness,” he mused playfully.

Hailey let out a raspy chuckle. “It wasn’t.” He saw the instant moment of regret that flashed across her face as she let those two words slip past her mouth, neck tensing as she pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze to the half eaten gyro in her lap. She was avoiding his gaze, something Jay picked up on instantly, and Jay sat up slightly as his eyebrows furrowed together. What?

“It wasn’t?” he repeated, green eyes watching her carefully. What was she talking about? “Then what was—”

It slammed into him like a truck, harsher than the damn baseball bat he’d taken to the back of his head all those months ago. The blood in his veins froze as his heart jumped up right into the middle of his throat, and he stared at Hailey as she twisted her lips to the side, easily catching sight of the flush that spread across her cheeks. He remembered. Of course he remembered what he’d been murmuring to her, believing that she couldn’t hear him but still feeling the need to voice the words that wrapped around his heart.

He didn’t think she’d heard him. Had only uttered them because she couldn’t hear him. But she had. She knew how he felt. And Jay. . . Was alright with that.

Question was—was she?

“Hailey—”

“Jay—”

They both stopped short and he let out a nervous chuckle, watching as she smiled as well. She gave a shake of her head, gesturing to him with a soft, “Go ahead.”

He let out a breath, putting his plate on the table next to Hailey’s bed before linking his hands together, grip on himself tight as a way of keeping himself together. Jay reminded himself that this was Hailey—his partner, his best friend—and he could tell her anything. But this was different, wasn’t it? Their relationship was already so strong, unbreakable—he didn’t want to risk it. But he also couldn’t just pretend he never said what she had heard.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird between us,” he spoke slowly, carefully. “But I don’t—”

He stopped, feeling a tightness in his throat. Was he making a mistake? He didn’t think so, but the doubt was still present in the back of his mind. “Don’t what?” Hailey prodded quietly, gently. She deserved an answer.

His green eyes locked onto her blue, and Jay saw the hope in her eyes, the softness in her features, and it was enough to make him finish. “I don’t regret it. I meant what I said.”

Jay’s heart was pounding, taking in the way Hailey parted her lips and took in a breath. His gaze never left hers, even as she was about to say something, only to get cut off by a knock on the door that stole their attention, watching as Kim and Kevin entered.

Jay’s gaze flickered back to Hailey, who smiled at their friends, briefly meeting Jay’s gaze. She heard him. That’s all that mattered.

*****

She was finally able to go home. It felt damn good to finally leave her hospital room after taking a shower without feeling like her entire body was aching. She was finally in her own clothes, too, no longer in a hospital gown that ran a draft up her back. There was still a cast on her arm, but for the most part, she was physically healed and ready to sleep on the comfortable mattress of her own bed.

As soon as her discharge papers were signed, she went to pick up her duffel bag, only to be beaten to it as it was scooped right up, and she let out a soft chuckle at the sight of Jay standing there in his usual jeans and dark hoodie. His badge was clipped to his waistband, gun on his side and her bag in his hand. “Hey,” Hailey greeted with a smile. “Off duty already?”

A half smirk tilted at his lips. “Sarge let me off to pick you up. Since Rojas is on an undercover op.”

Hailey’s smile remained, biting the corner of her lip as she eyed him knowingly. “Sounds good,” she said. The two of them then began walking towards the door—Hailey couldn’t be out of there fast enough.

The car ride to her place consisted of the radio playing softly in the background as Jay told Hailey about the case they’d just wrapped up, knowing she didn’t like being out of the loop when it came to cases. It was comfortable, like nothing had changed, despite a conversation they’d had days ago still lingering in the back of their minds—a conversation they hadn’t brought up again since the day they’d had it. But they would; Hailey had a feeling.

When they got to her house, Jay came inside, setting her duffel bag on the coffee table in her living room. The house was silent, but Hailey felt a flood of relief and comfort rush through her as she stood in her own home. She hadn’t been there for so long, the days having blended together while she was in the hospital, and she couldn’t contain the sigh of relief that escaped her.

“You good?” Hailey opened her eyes to see Jay watching her, the amusement apparent in his features and signature half smirk. She didn’t particularly care he just saw her have a moment.

“Just glad to be out of the hospital,” Hailey told him with a smile, running her fingers through her blonde hair.

“Yeah, you and me both,” Jay chuckled softly.

She smiled, taking a step towards him, aware of the pounding in her heart as she looked up at her tall partner. “I appreciate you spending all those nights with me in the hospital, Jay.” Then, with a teasing scoff, she added, “Especially at the expense of your back.” She couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that couch was.

He rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face remained as he responded, “Anything for you, partner.”

Hailey rolled her lower lip into her mouth, blue eyes locked onto his green as she repeated, “Partner?” She hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, but it gave her the excuse to tilt her head a bit and find the courage to ask, “Is that all we are?”

Jay’s smile faltered slightly as he heard her question, and for a heart stopping moment, Hailey feared she had misstepped, had drudged up a topic he’d been trying to evade. But Hailey could read Jay well, knew him as well as she knew herself, and she saw the relief that swam in his green eyes as he gave a shake of his head. “Hell no.”

His hands were gentle on her face, carefully cradling her jaw after the rough time it had, but his touch was welcome as he tilted her head up and met her halfway with his lips pressing against hers. Hailey’s eyes instantly fell shut at the pressure of his soft lips against hers, returning the kiss just as earnestly as the stars exploded behind her eyes and her hands gripped his wrists to keep him in place.

The scruff he was sporting scratched at Hailey’s skin deliciously and she leaned into him, leaned into the kiss, feeling dizzy in the best way. She felt weak in the knees as Jay kissed her, as if he’d wanted to kiss her like this for the longest time, and she understood the feeling. She couldn’t remember how long she’d waited for this moment, either.

The kiss ended too soon, but Jay’s nose brushed against Hailey’s and she let out a soft breath. Her skin was warm, the heat from Jay’s body seeping into her bones. The smile, blissed out and sincere, upturned Hailey’s lips. “By the way,” she breathed, her lips brushing against Jay’s as she spoke, “I love you, too.”

Hailey could feel the relief relax his muscles, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone while the fingers of his other hand brushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “Yeah?” he murmured, voice dropping an octave lower. It sent a shiver down her spine.

“Yeah,” Hailey returned, eyes slowly fluttering open. Her heart jumped to see his green eyes already watching her. Smile widening slightly, she asked, “Wanna stay over? My bed’s more comfortable than a hospital couch.”

Jay’s smirk returned—how did he manage to look charming at the same time? “Yeah,” he answered quietly before the smirk widened. “Think I’ve gotten too used to spending my nights with you.”

Hailey grinned, dimples in view. “Not that you’re complaining.”

Jay pressed another kiss to her lips, soft and slow. “Never.”

#jay halstead #hailey upton #hailey upton x jay halstead #jay halstead x hailey upton #jay halstead fic #hailey upton fic #chicago p.d.#chicago pd #cpd #writing #upstead #hailey x jay #jay x hailey #upstead one shot #upstead fanfic #upstead fic #jay halstead one shot #hailey upton one shot

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bbrandy2002 · 5 years ago

Text

My Love

Chapter 11

Pairing: Liam x Riley

Book: TRH

Warning: Gun violence and gun death mentioned.

@emceesynonymroll @romanticatheart-posts @burnsoslow @dcbbw @ao719 @jessiembruno @hopefulmoonobject @texaskitten30 @drakesensworld @janezillow @merridithsmiscellany-blog @mskaneko @loveellamae @queenjilian @sirbeepsalot @pedudley @caroldxnvxrs @jovialyouthmusic @forthebrokenheartedthings-blog @desireepow-1986 @bebepac @patriciaanchrist2019 @kingliam2019 @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @olympianpantsuit @msjr0119 @lodberg @cordonianroyalty @princess-geek @sparklinglilac @annekebbphotography @twinkle-320 @ladyangel70 @rainbowsinthestorm @innerpostmentality @cordonia-gothqueen @flutistbyday2020 @marvelandchoices

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He lifted his mask to reveal himself. Riley’s dark eyes creased into slits as she gritted her teeth. “Neville! What the hell is wrong with you? Get out!”

With sweat beading along his brows, Neville slipped a gun from his suit pocket and aimed it directly at her. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere. I believe we have some business to discuss.”

Riley’s eyes widened, and she felt her heart leap from her chest. With his arm outstretched and the shiny metal of the pistol projecting a glare onto its intended target, she took several panicked steps back until her rear side bumped off the wall. She wanted to scream for help, but her throat constricted tightly around her vocal cords. Her mind was racing between thoughts of how to save herself and why the most self-centered noble in Cordonia would dare to threaten the Queen.

Except she wasn’t the Queen. Not to him.

In a frightened state, it dawned on Riley that there must be a connection between the woman who had killed her and the arrogant bastard standing before her.

She swallowed hard. “What do you want with me?”

Neville’s face wrinkled up into a devilish smirk, and he inched closer to her. “Amanda, Amanda.” He wagged his finger and pressed the gun under her chin until her head tilted against the wall. “I’m quite displeased with your ignorance, my dear. Though it’s not all that surprising coming from you … a common street whore with no principles and even fewer brains."

He twisted the pistol harder into her reddened jaw. "Tell me, did you really believe I wouldn’t come looking for you. That I would simply disregard the fact that you made a fool of me?”

Riley held her breath and dug her fingernails into the ornate plaster panels behind her.

She had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but why would she? There was only one way to find out.

“You’ll have to forgive me, sir.” she finally breathed through a whimper. “My memory isn’t as sharp as it once was.” Her probing eyes met his, and she quirked her brow. “Did we know each other?”

Neville let out a small chuckle; the smell of epoisses and cognac emanating from his breath made her stomach even sourer. “You appeared to know precisely who I was when I entered. You referred to me by name, did you not?”

“I … I did,” Riley’s voice stammered. “It’s just that … you are one of the more, uh … dignified and well-known members of the court,” she lied. "Obviously, I would know who you are.”

Neville guffawed in response to her answer. “Flattery? I like it. Perhaps that little blow to your skull knocked some sense into you after all. It’s too bad I’m not buying it.”

Riley glared at him piercingly. “How did you know about that? What happened was never made known to the pub … lic …” she trailed off and instinctively placed a hand lightly over her mouth. Riley drew in a sharp breath. “It was you. You’re the one who attacked Aman – me – in the park that day."

A self-satisfied smile dangled from the corner of his lips as he shrugged smugly in return; his grimy eyes flitted with arrogance.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! You did do it … and you don’t even care!”

“I did … And I don’t.” Neville maintained while he caressed the gun along the side of her cheek, causing her to recoil away from it. Angered by her insolence, he grabbed her chin with his free hand and squeezed tightly, jerking her head to face him again. “Now you listen here, I did what needed to done, you foolish bitch! You refused to follow orders then, and you continue to do so now. The only thing you’ve ever been good for to me was killing that simpleton commoner Queen and a quick fuck. And I had to twist your arm to do both.”

It was like the earth and time stood completely still as Riley processed the words he had just spoken to her. Neville had just confessed his part in her murder.

He had taken her life.

He had taken her from Liam and Ellie.

And in all of that reveal, there was neither remorse nor sympathy. Just an annoyance that his accomplice hadn’t completed the job to his satisfaction.

Tears stung behind her red-rimmed eyes, and it felt like the ground collapsed under her. Riley felt a twinge in her heart, knowing he had caused so much pain without as much as a second thought.

She arched her neck and spat in his face. “You coldhearted son-of-a-bitch! I had a life, damn you!”

Feeling a charge and rush of adrenaline, fueled by anger, Riley heaved a hard and swift knee blow to the groin that caused Neville to groan loudly and double over.

Riley reached for the gun that was still clasped firmly in his hand and spun her body around so that her back was facing him. She hiked one leg and repeatedly plowed her small heeled shoes into his Venetian loafers while struggling to keep the gun pointed away from her. All of her self-defense training kicked in, and now she was fighting for the survival she didn’t have the luxury of when she died nearly three months ago. She would be damned if Neville Vancoeur would take her down again.

Neither was prepared to lose this battle.

She had fire coursing through her veins and a belly full of vengeance.

He had his arrogant pride, a reputation to uphold, and the ire of the Queen of Monterisso.

As they bounced and fought along the edges of the wall, Riley thrust a sharp elbow to his face. The sound of his nose cracking wasn’t enough to slow him. It was only the impetus for him to fight back harder.

With blood splattered on his hand, he reached out and grabbed a fist full of her long brown hair, and hurled her to the floor. Her grip on the gun was all but lost to soften the blow of her fall. Somehow her head still hit the ground with a jarring thud.

Riley could feel the room spinning around her as Neville straddled over her midsection. His nose continued to drain blood like rivulets down his splintered face that seeped into the fabric of her dress.

Her vision became blurry, and she could hear nothing over the ringing in her ears. As she gasped what she believed to be her final breaths, having felt the cold, hard metal pressed against her throat, Riley prepared for her ending.

In a split second, it felt like a boulder crashed on top of her when Neville’s upper body collapsed across hers. Riley could barely make out a woman’s voice, and Neville’s haughty cries were whirling next to her ear. Her eyes fluttered with each passing moment to gain a clearer picture of the thin silhouette in red that now engaged with her capturer for the gun.

Olivia.

With a small blade protruding from his shoulder, Neville and the Duchess battled it out for the upper hand, but he still had the gun.

A loud blast erupted.

The first shot had been fired.

In the small confines of the room, the putrid scent of sulfur and charcoal infiltrated throughout. The echo of the gunfire reverberated into the abysses of Riley’s bones, as well as the abrupt howls of distress.

Olivia fell to her knees, her hand clutching her side, and collided face down with the ground next to Riley.

A myriad of panic spread across his face.

Neville intended to force Amanda out of the Palace so he could kill her inconspicuously.

Now, he had shot the Duchess of Lythikos. It would only be mere seconds before the King’s Guard came rushing in.

Everything was starting to fall apart.

The gun was loosely hanging from his hands as he panted for air and stumbled backward into the muscular arms of another.

Alarmed, Neville whipped his head around to find the commoner whom he despised – Drake Walker.

Time was running out. The sounds of onlooker screams and the clashing of boots and drawn weapons were heard from afar. He needed to escape quickly.

Neville’s finger hooked around the trigger. His arm coiled around his side, ready for the kill shot. If he missed, it was game over for the Lord of Cormery Isle. He would no doubt be arrested and tried for the crimes he had committed this evening. And with that bitch, Amanda still alive, knowing all of his secrets, he thought, she would definitely betray him to reveal his part in killing the late Queen.

If he were to hit Drake with a bullet, he had what he felt was a chance to escape, to make a run for it.

With one last desperate move, Neville pulled the trigger.

In the ballroom, chaos began to unfold when several guests who had been in the hallway and away from the noise inside, reported hearing a gunshot. As the rumor spread near instantaneously, Liam, who was engaged in conversation with a suitor, was caught off guard when Bastien pulled him away. Two more guards surrounded him as they weaved and dodged around tables, making their way to the kitchen.

Liam had been through enough assassination attempts to recognize there must have been a dire situation within the Palace taking place at that moment. With Bastien and the guards pushing him through the crowd, he twisted his head around and began to resist their shoves. “Ellie! Riley!”

Unable to counter his guards, he was thrust through the double doors of the kitchen, still struggling to get away to find his baby and wife. A heavy feeling grew in his chest, fearing the worst. He couldn’t help but think about how Riley would have to leave again. No one knew how or when she would have to go back and having not seen her since they danced together, he couldn’t get over this sinking feeling something had happened to her. Amanda had her enemies, which was made clear by the letter Riley opened three weeks ago and the package that accompanied it. And knowing that Amanda was the one who killed Riley, it was reasonable to believe she had an accessory to carry out such a tremendous task.

Whipping around the corner in the rear of the kitchen and through another set of double swinging doors, Liam took what felt like his first breath in hours. In the corner, he caught a glimpse of Maxwell standing with two guards, and Ellie’s head cradled in the crook of his neck. Pushing his way through them, he gently lifted the sleeping baby from Maxwell and held her to his chest, breathing a sigh of relief.

Placing tiny kisses on the top of her head, he glanced back to Bastien. There would have been no reason for the palace guards to protect Riley, but he hoped that at the very least, she was with Drake or Hana. He needed even the smallest reassurance that she was safe, yet he still wasn’t clear what transpired to cause the abrupt disruption from the ball. “Bastien, what happened?”

Bastien had a finger pressed into his earpiece while he received muffled messages from different sources he had in the vicinity. He lowered his hand and turned to Liam. “Sir, there were gunshots in the ladies’ restroom just outside of the ballroom. Our guards have apprehended the gunman, but there are casualties and at least one deceased … hold that thought, sir.” Bastien placed his finger back into his earpiece, listening as more information came through. He shook his head, inhaled a deep breath and blew out slowly. “I’m not quite sure of what to make of this yet, but it seems the identity of our gunman is … Lord Vancouer.”

Unsure whether he heard correctly, Liam slammed his eyes shut with a gaping mouth. “Vancouer? As in, Neville Vancouer?”

Bastien nodded. “Yes, sir. He has some wounds that will need to be tended to, however, our guards were very explicit in their identification. They’re transferring him to the cells as we speak.”

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “What the hell is going on?” He muttered under his breath. He turned back to face Maxwell. “Do you know where Riley was?” He asked in a hushed tone.

Maxwell lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Not really. Drake mentioned seeing her run out of the ballroom and he was going to go check on her. Asked if I would take Ellie. You don’t think she could have been there, do you?”

Liam brandished a fist. “Fuck! I don’t even know,” he roared, causing Ellie to stir and squirm in his arms. He bounced and caressed her back, attempting to lull her back to sleep. Worry had blanched his face, and it was apparent he was trying to keep himself together for his daughter. That same bad feeling he had moments ago continued to increase now, knowing she was likely near the shooting.

Maxwell reached out and took Ellie from Liam. “Here, Liam, I’ll take her. Go find Riley.”

Without hesitation, Liam nodded. “Thank you, Maxwell!"

He ordered the guards who were standing watch over Ellie, to not leave her unattended under any circumstances, and took off with Bastien following closely behind.

"Sir, we haven’t cleared the threat to you yet!”

Liam slammed through the double doors, retracing his steps back through the ballroom kitchen. “That’s why I have you. Clear the threats, Bastien.”

The scene just outside the ballroom in the hallway was packed with guards, medics, and a handful of elder noble onlookers. Liam hurriedly pushed through the masses, his heart racing, and stopped just short of a medic who had just laid a white sheet over a body.

Bastien stood next to him and placed a grip on his shoulder. Since who he thought of as Amanda was released from custody several weeks ago, Bastien had noticed a particular closeness between her and Liam. It wasn’t his place to ask questions, yet he had a sense there was something more to their relationship than just Amanda being his child’s nanny. “Your Majesty, would you like for me to look?"

Liam couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, and words were not something he was able to even speak at that moment. There had only been one confirmed dead, and the thought of it being Riley or Drake was not something he would ever be able to prepare himself for. He nodded slightly to his head guard.

Bastien stepped forward and crouched down beside the sheet. Taking the corner, he lifted it, peeked under, and lowered it back. He motioned for Liam to come closer and rose again to his feet.

Fidgeting with his wedding band, he reluctantly approached Bastien, who then leaned in to whisper to him. "It appears to be one of your suitors, sir.”

Before Liam could ask which one, the sound of a stretcher wheeling out the room and the urgent shouts of medics caught his attention. Liam stiffened his posture and watched curiously while his heart continued to thunder in his chest. Bastien pulled him back to make room for the emergency crew to pass by with their victim. A quick glimpse of red hair, still almost flawlessly styled, was the only part of her that could be seen as they rushed by him.

Liam placed both hands on his head, wholly stunned to see her almost lifeless. “Olivia?"

"Liam,” a tiny voice called behind him.

He recognized her voice immediately and whipped around to find Riley standing there with Drake holding an ice pack to the back of her head. With his whole body trembling and tears piercing his eyes, he rushed to her and pulled her as close to his body as he could. She too wrapped her arms tightly around him, feeling safer than she had all night.

Liam’s hands instinctively went to her cheeks and placed several soft pecks to her waiting lips. He rested his forehead on hers. “I thought I lost you again, Ri. I thought you were gone, and I … I,” his voice cracked with each word, tears continuing to fall at his relief over seeing her there and appearing to be okay.

Riley cupped his cheeks, sniffling through her own tears. “Shhh. I’m okay … I’m still here … Look at me, Liam … I’m still here.”

He shook his head, trying to make himself believe that she genuinely was okay; that she was still with him.

“Hey, guys. I hate to interrupt, but you have some curious eyes watching you both right now.” Drake motioned to a small group of nobles, gawking and whispering amongst themselves.

Liam turned to see the scowling faces staring back at him, each of them making their assumptions. He placed a hand on Riley’s upper back. “Right. Let’s take this back to our quarters.”

The three of them returned to Liam’s quarters. Maxwell returned with Ellie several minutes later after being escorted by the guards, with Hana joining them not too long after that.

With the baby sleeping soundly in the nursery, they sat in the living room, trying to regroup after the events of the evening. Hana had made coffee while Riley changed and cleaned up. Liam called the hospital to check on Olivia, who was still in surgery to remove the bullet she took on her right side. She was still in very serious condition, and he was assured they would follow up with any changes.

Riley laid with her legs across the sofa and her back resting against Liam, who had his arms wrapped protectively around her. Drake handed her an aspirin and glass water to help with the headache she had since Neville threw her to the floor.

The four of them listened as Riley recounted how Neville had confronted her with a gun, thinking she was Amanda. She told them how it was clear there was a connection between him and Amanda and that she played into it to find out what it was. As they listened, each one shocked to hear that Neville had confessed to her his part in not only his role in Amanda’s death but her murder as well. Through tears, she described how she fought him for the gun, how he had her on the ground prepared to shoot her, and how Olivia managed to get in just in time before he was able to.

Liam felt the heat rising in his face and his body brimming with fury, knowing that bastard was part of orchestrating Riley’s murder and trying to kill her earlier. As Drake explained to them how he tackled Neville to the ground after the second shot that killed the suitor, the only thing on Liam’s mind at that point was how to make Neville pay for everything he had done. This was no ordinary crime – it was treason, it was betrayal, and it was very personal. He had wanted someone to pay for taking the love of his life and the mother of his child away from him, and now he had his culprit. As the others continued to discuss what happened, he mulled over how he wanted to deal with this situation.

Liam wanted revenge so bad he could taste it. With his position as King making him the judge and jury, this was his opportunity to see fit that at least one person would pay the ultimate price for destroying his family. When an idea finally struck him, he contemplated whether or not he had it in him to actually carry out such a sentence. After everything he had been through the past several months with her death, Neville’s betrayal at the council meeting, his mental breakdown, and what took place during tonight’s ball, it was a chance he was willing to find out.

Drake let out a loud yawn and stretched, rising from his chair. “I think I’ve had enough damn excitement for the night. I’m gonna go throw back a couple of shots and hit the hay.”

Maxwell helped Hana put on her jacket, both exchanging hugs and promises they would call and check on Riley first thing in the morning. Riley followed the trio to the foyer to see them out while Liam remained behind. When the four of them had left the room, he walked over to the fireplace and pulled his cellphone from his pocket. His hand shook as he hesitated to type out the message to his head guard. He couldn’t stop his conscience from taking over, questioning whether he had it in him to carry out this plan on his own.

Liam’s finger hovered over his phone as he kept talking himself out of it. It went against everything he believed in, but the truth was, he didn’t want to be talked out of it. Images of his wife’s lifeless body lying in their bed while his guards worked to revive her played over and over in his mind. Holding her body in his arms after she had been pronounced dead at the hospital. The days that followed where every part of his body hurt missing her, wanting her, needing her. The funeral. The burial. His infant daughters cries for her mother.

“Liam?” He jerked when Riley called out to him. “Are you okay?”

He smiled back at her and held his phone up. “I’m fine, love. I just have a few things to take care of first. A lot happened tonight and I …I just want to make sure everything is dealt with exactly as it should be.”

She quirked her brow. “Are you sure?”

Liam crossed the room, flipping the light switch, then wrapping his arms around her. “I’m positive.” He leaned down to kiss her, running his hands through her flowing hair. “I don’t want you to worry about me. You’ve been through quite an ordeal today, and I want you to try to get some sleep. I’ll be up in a little bit, I promise.”

Riley smiled back at him and nodded before they kissed goodnight, and she headed for the stairs. In the back of her mind, she too had a lot to think about. In a way, she was relieved to have a moment to herself before Liam came to bed. Riley was utterly exhausted, yet she wasn’t sure if sleep would even be possible with everything that took place this evening. There was still one lingering question she needed to be answered before her head hit the pillow. She took a deep breath, feeling that same queasiness that sent her running from the ballroom earlier.

Liam typed out his instructions to Bastien and hit send. He removed his outer coat and the regalia that was attached to his collar. After slipping off his vest and ribbon and tossing them over an armchair, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Walking into the foyer, Liam stopped when he noticed his reflection in the large hanging mirror. Sweat beaded along his forehead, his face was flushed, and his breathing was becoming more onerous. He could feel his heart pounding. Placing both hands on the table below the mirror, Liam hung his head, trying to calm his nerves and slow down his breathing. He glanced back at the reflection in the mirror, that same fury and longing for revenge building up once more. With his eyes widened and jaw tensed, he decided to give himself parting words.

“This is for Riley.”

He clapped the top of the table and exited his quarters.

Riley went straight to her bedroom then into the bathroom. She swung open the closet door and started rummaging through personal care items and hygiene products. Bottles of shampoo and soaps fell off shelves and rolled across the floor. She pushed aside boxes of tampons that hadn’t been used since she came back.

Confident she still had a few unopened boxes leftover from when she and Liam were trying to conceive Ellie, she crouched down. Her eyes lit up when on the bottom shelf, behind her hand lotions, there were still two boxes of pregnancy tests.

Riley grabbed one and squinted as she checked the expiration date on the side, relieved to find it was still good. She kicked a bottle of body wash to the side while ripping open the packaging and removing the wand.

After following the instructions, she placed the cap back on it and set it flat on the counter top. Riley stepped into her bedroom and checked the clock. She paced and twisted her hair around her finger, waiting nervously for the unknown. If it was positive, what would this mean? She would have to go back at some point.

If this were under different circumstances, there would be anticipation over having another baby. Even though Ellie was only three months old, she imagined her daughter and a new baby, being so close in age, would grow up with an inseparable bond. Liam would most likely be over the moon to have another child; he was such a good father, and in love with his daughter, there would be no question about his elation.

This wasn’t a typical situation, though. Her time was limited and when she returned, any child they may have conceived while she was here would inevitably return with her. Liam was already heartbroken over her leaving again; an unborn baby that he would have no possibility of seeing would be so much harder on him. Why they hadn’t thought to use protection boggled her mind.

Then thoughts of if the test were negative began to plague her. Was this nausea and exhaustion she was feeling part of something more? Was she getting sick in order for her to pass again and return back? She came to help Liam, and she had prepared herself to do that for a short time, but now that she was here with him and Ellie, she didn’t want to go back. At least not yet.

Riley glanced at the clock, and the time to check was ready. She inhaled deeply and made her way back into the bathroom. Her stomach was in knots as she tried to steady her nerves. She closed her eyes and leaned over the counter, directly above where this little stick that held so many answers set.

Slowly, Riley opened her eyes; catching sight of the results, she immediately blinked back tears. Both hands clasped over her mouth, and she shook her head vigorously. There were no doubts as to the results as two bright pink lines were shown prominently in the translucent window.

“No.”

#the royal heir #choices liam x mc #choices trh #liam x riley #choices fanfiction #choices stories you play #king liam #guns #murder #attempted murder #violence against women #gun violence #pregnancy #death #My Love #bbrandy2002

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practicingmedicine · 3 years ago

Text

Practicing Medicine: Chapter One

(+)1

It was eight o'clock in the morning, and Sheriff McBain had just been shot.

There weren’t no lights, no sirens. No outward signs of urgency anywhere, save for the frantic telephone call I’d received just seconds ago and my own bounding heart rate.

It didn’t take me long to pull on my pants or step into my boots. Even with my shaking body, I moved with a sense of purpose, each action a step in a subconscious routine.

Buckle up my pants, lace my boots, grab my glasses, disconnect my Pip-Boy from the outlet, clip that bad-mama on and get it running…

The black screen turned a vibrant green color as I clicked the power button, lighting up my dark room. These were the words on the screen:

PIP-OS(R) v1.0.3

LOADER V1. 1

EXEC VERSION 41.10

32K RAM SYSTEM

16811 BYTES FREE

HOLLOWTAPE LOADED: “THE-SCIENCE-OF-UNCERTAINTY”

INITIALISING….

SUCCESS!

> STATUS

Battery Level: 100%

Wireless Signal: (?)

Operating Temperature: 90F

> HEALTH

BP: 150/120

SPO2: 100%

Temp: 98.5F

RR: 25

HR: 160

> TIME

Day: 25 September 2279

Time: 08:01

> CLIMATE

Current Temperature: 78F

Atmospheric Pressure: 753 mm

Background Radiation: 0.231 RAD

---

I couldn’t read much, so I wasn’t sure exactly what each of them meant, but I got the gist- I knew exactly what I needed to know. I threw open my door and strode into the hallway, grabbing my father’s white coat off of a hook along the way. I slipped it on over my shoulders as I strode up to the front door, where my faded orange doctor’s-bag lay on its side. Before I threw the strap over my shoulder, I made sure to quickly button my coat and pull my green tie tight around my shirt collar, because my father told me that a doctor should always look his best. I hefted my bag up with one hand and pushed the door open with the other.

The morning sun was bright in my eyes. It was hot outside, about 97 Fahrenheit if my pip-boy was telling me the truth. Not that it mattered- I was used to the heat, and my patient was inside the air-conditioned Bison Steve’s Hotel. I didn’t give it much space in my head.

I started to sprint, skirting the corner of my neighbor’s house and running out into the main square, heavy bag swinging wildly in my aching right hand. As much as I wanted to have time to process all this, to stride up all slow and confident like father had taught me, I didn’t have the time. It could be a matter of seconds deciding whether or not the Sheriff survived.

I was starting to feel kind of dizzy, like you do when you’re fixing to vomit. The Hotel was just up ahead now. The big “Bison Steve’s” sign flickered eerily as I walked up to the double wooden doors, which I pulled on at least three times before I remembered that they were push doors. A rush of cool air washed over my skin as I stepped into the building, and tried to regain my composure. I cleared my throat.

“Alright- Alright y’all, listen up: My name is Isaac Saller, and I am a medic! ” I shouted. There was silence. “‘I’m empty holstered, so please don’t shoot!”

That may have been a bad idea, in retrospect, but it was all that I had planned for an active-shooter type deal. I didn’t deal well with confrontation.

The front hall and the reception desk were abandoned, but the lights were on. I stepped through the next set of propped-open doors and into a dark hallway, where a pretty blonde woman was cowering, holding onto a wall-mounted telephone. Her red face glistened with sweat.

That would be Mrs. McBain.

“Oh my god, Isaac! Come here, quickly- I think my husband is dying!” I power-walked to catch up with her, then tried to keep up a comparable walking pace. Which was kind of hard, given my height; I was still, “between hay and grass ,” my father would have said.

“Could you tell me what happened?” I asked. The words felt so strange to say out loud. I’d practiced what I’d do in a real emergency, but now that it was actually happening, I couldn’t believe that I was actually falling into my routine, just like I did for everything else. Must not have seen any other option.

“Well, the boys- Beagle and my husband, right, they were doing firing drills! But then the shooting stopped and my husband started airing his lungs, just shouting something awful. And when I ran in to see what happened, I saw that Beagle had shot him in the leg!”

And, there was the story. I let out a sigh of relief; here I was worried that I might be dealing with some crazy psychopath! Though, the more I let myself think on it, an idiot like Beagle with a gun started to seem just as dangerous.

“Does he still got the gun?” I asked, approaching one of the four doors to what had to be the firing range. The familiar scent of gunpowder stung my nose as I cracked open the rightmost door, and peered into the massive, open room. I didn’t see nobody, but then again, my vision was so awful that my patient could’ve been right in front of me. Mrs. McBain brushed through the doors.

“No, I made him put it down!” I nodded and entered the room.

As I stepped through the doorway, another smell drifted in after the first- a sharp, metallic smell that hung in the air like some sort of leaking gas. Subtle, and not quite so intimately familiar, but I recognized it right away; the acrid smell of blood rubbed on skin.

“Hey Doc, come on in--the Sheriff is lying over here,” said Deputy Beagle, waving his iron about. I flinched.

“Holster that!” I shouted back, “I’m not going to do anything until-“

“Beagle! You put that thing down right now or I’ll shoot you myself!” Shouted Mrs. McBain. Beagle made a dramatic sigh.

“Fine. But, you know it was an accident, and it ain’t like I’m gonna do it again.” He tossed the gun aside. The cocked, loaded, cold-steel weapon hit the ground hammer-first.

The ensuing, “BANG!” was, no kidding, the second loudest thing I’d ever heard.

“Goddammit!” Beagle shouted, and Mrs. McBain screamed and dropped to a crouch. I just sat, stunned, staring at the gun and trying to think again. It was like my mind was a Television set, and someone had just thrown a brick through the screen; An all-encompassing static crept over my senses.

“Isaac? Isaac, are you alright sweetie ?” asked Mrs. McBain, over the loud ringing in my ears. I nodded.

“I’m okay ,” I lied. I kept nodding. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay…”

“You sure don’t look okay,” said Beagle. He was too close to me, way too close. I took a deep breath and pushed him back a little bit.

“I’m good! Where’s the Sheriff?!” I looked around warily. My eardrums were still bubbling, but I was starting to be able to hear myself think again. I had apparently dropped my medical bag on the floor, but it hadn’t opened up or spilled.

“Jesus kid, can you not turn your head on your neck? Over there, sitting against the support beam!” snapped Beagle, motioning towards the wounded Sheriff with his whole upper body. I felt like yelling back but I didn’t. I just gave him a quick nod and stumbled over to the fallen Sheriff.

The bright red pool beneath Sheriff McBain’s thigh had already begun to clot into ketchup-like clumps. As I got closer, I could hear him muttering to himself, though I couldn’t understand what about. I dropped to a crouch beside him, opened my bag and rooted through it til I found myself a pair of gloves. I had to work to get them on with how sweaty my hands were.

“Hello, Sheriff! Can you understand me?” I asked. He smiled up at me.

“Hey! You’re Isaac, the um, the Gambling-Place owner’s son. Uh, Casino! Yeah…” He trailed off. In my head, I started going over my ABCs, because apparently my mind was too overwhelmed to do anything but stick to its beaten-path routines.

He could speak, so his Airway was patent. I didn’t have time to properly test his Breathing, but it sounded fast and a little shallow. That was par for the course, which left me with the real problem, his Circulation- that’d be the bleeding.

“Alright, Sheriff, I’m going to take your pants off. Tell me if it hurts much,” I said, unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers. They got snagged up on his shoes, so I started pulling harder. He just laughed as I pulled them off.

“Actually, I don’t feel much of anything in this leg! Just like I got punched, and now it’s burnin’, sorta.”

That was good. It meant that the bone probably hadn’t been fractured, and I wouldn’t need any med-x. I always kept an emergency syringe of the stuff, but I was reluctant to actually use it on anyone.

Once I’d gotten his pants off, I touched his leg. It was cold and wet. I’d assumed shock, based on the bigass blood pool, but I could be dramatic like that; This was solid confirmation. I was going to have to work fast!

As I searched around in my bag for a tourniquet with one hand, I held up the Sheriff’s leg up with my other, so that I could see the wound in the dimly lit firing range. The hole wasn’t big. At least, not the entry- just a red, penny-sized oval near the base of his thigh, surrounded by bruised skin and seeping out blood. Like a bloody little volcano.

The exit wound, on the other hand, was massive . A jagged hole right under his ass with flaps of skin hanging loose around it, spitting out a torrential amount of bright red blood with each beat of his bounding heart. Based on the color of the blood and the way that it was coming out, I knew that the bullet had nicked or severed his femoral artery. I also knew that I probably couldn’t repair that with forceps and bandages alone. The best thing I could do would be to stem the bleeding, and get a stimpack as quick as possible.

Of course, that presented a little bit of a problem: See, stimpacks are awful expensive, so carrying them around wasn’t always an option for a man like myself. As of now, I didn’t actually have any of them-things in my jump-bag. Some places ‘round here had one in a box on the wall, but I didn’t see none in here, and I’d have noticed one in the hall if there’d been one. I cursed under my breath.

“Go and get me a stimpack!” I ordered. I had finally found where I kept my tourniquets without actually looking into the bag, though if I had any sort of presence of mind, I would have been embarrassed at how long it had taken me. I pulled his shoe off, and slipped the tourniquet on over his leg.

“I’ll fetch one from the kitchen!” replied Mrs. McBain, and I nodded to let her know I’d heard. Now that I had a stimpack on the way, all I had to do was keep the Sheriff from kickin it until I could apply the damn thing.

Easier said than done.

“Why are you squeezing me? You taking my blood numbers or something?” The Sheriff asked, as I pulled the premade tourniquet tight and started cranking on it. I tried to smile.

“I’m not taking your blood pressure, sir, I’m putting on a tourniquet. It’ll hurt, but you’ll bleed a lot less.” When I couldn’t tighten it anymore, I took out another tourniquet, and fastened it right above the first one, against the base of his thigh. It was a good thing that the Sheriff was thin, or I’d be having some issues about now.

“What are you doing? He could lose his leg that way!” shouted Beagle. When I kept on tightening the second tourniquet, he hit me in the back of the head- not so much to hurt me as to get a reaction out of me. I didn’t give him one. “Hey, are you blind and deaf? I’m talking to you!”

“Stop it Beagle! Isaac is a good… he’s a good kid,” insisted the Sheriff, his voice growing weak. I finished cranking the tourniquet, and touched the Sheriff’s ashen forehead. He looked like he’d stuck his head in a drinking fountain, with how much he was sweating...

“Could you try and talk with me, Sheriff? I’m gonna try some more stuff, try to keep you from going into decompensated shock.”

The Sheriff looked confused. He squinted up at me with teary eyes.

“Shock? You mean, the reason why it don’t hurt? I’m pretty sure I’m already in shock, but I ain’t- I ain’t shocked, you know. Like, I know what’s happened. I got my mind about me ,” he grumbled, tapping his head conspiratorially. I removed a few packets of gauze from my bag and tore them open.

“No, I mean when your organs stop working cause your blood-pressure drops and they ain’t getting enough blood!” Finally, I finished packing the exit wound tight with gauze. I started putting pressure on it.

“Oh. Huh. Well, you doctors ought to stop having so many words that mean- that mean all different things,” the Sheriff replied, his breath passing his lips so quietly that I was worried he might have fallen unconscious. I stopped moving.

“Sheriff?” I asked. When he didn’t respond, I reached into my coat with my free hand, and pulled out a small metal tinderbox full of a reddish powder. I waved it under his nose.

“Wake up, Sheriff!” I shouted. He started coughing and looking around wildly.

“Ah, Jesus Christ, what the hell is that smell?” I slipped the box back in my coat.

“N-H-Four, sir! It’s supposed to keep you awake!”

Of course, it wasn’t doing a very good job at it! Before I was even done speaking, the sheriff had puked all over himself and slumped forward. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him vigorously.

“Keep them eyes open Sheriff! Stay with me here!” His eyes fluttered.

“You know, I like your voice! It’s like, you talk like a teacher, but then you got your daddy’s cowboy-thing going on, so it’s sort of funny…” he muttered. His head hung limp on his neck. I let him drop to his side, and focused on applying pressure to the wound again.

“Um, Isaac?” I looked over my shoulder. Deputy Beagle was standing above me again, clasping his hands together. I wasn’t so good at reading emotions, but I’d seen enough pre-vomit patients to know that he was feeling sick. He had spoken so quietly, which was strange considering how loud he’d been before. “Isaac, Is he gonna die? I thought that getting shot in the leg didn’t kill people. Why’s he acting like that?” I sighed.

“I sure hope not. But, there’s a big red-pipe in your leg, and if it gets hit, you bleed a lot. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do if I don’t get a stimpack soon!”

As if on cue, Mrs. McBain came rushing into the room, her dress all bunched up and full of miscellaneous medical supplies. Among the heaps of things I didn’t need, I could see a stimpack poking up.

“Isaac! I brought a bunch of things, I don’t know what’ll help and what won’t, but-”

Suddenly, Mrs. McBain stumbled, and her makeshift pouch came unfurled as she threw out one hand to catch herself.

Aw shit! I dropped everything and ran towards Mrs. McBain, interposing myself between the unsecured, falling medical supplies and the floor. Packaged Band-Aids, bottles of pills and ointments, a pair of scissors- it all went tumbling over me and I didn’t care, until suddenly I saw the fragile old stimpack teetering on the edge. By now, Mrs. McBain was trying to recover, but she was only making matters worse. The supplies were spilling out both sides now, and she was getting dangerously close to just dumping it all on top of me.

The stimpack. That was the focus. I shot out my hand to try to grab it, but I only succeeded in tipping it off it’s balance point, causing it to tumble back into the pouch.

I sat up, and all the supplies that had landed on me spilled back onto the floor.

“Don’t-“ I started, but she had already slipped and let go of the other side of the pouch. I cried out as it all went spilling on the ground.

“The stimpack!” I looked down, and found that through some unchecked reflex, I had caught it on my outstretched thigh. I blinked.

“Huh,” I said, and snatched the needle off my leg. I rushed back over to the Sheriff, who was unconscious and drooling. Beagle was sitting beside him, pressing hard on the entrance with his bloodstained hands and muttering to himself.

“Kurt, you can’t die- I’m, I’m just a deputy, if you die I’ll have to handle this whole town myself, and you know I can’t do that! Please, please don’t you die, please-“ I took a knee beside Beagle and his brother, stimpack in hand. Beagle was crying.

“Am I- am I doing this right?” He asked. I nodded.

“You are doing just stupendously! Just keep doing that!” I replied. I lifted up the sheriff’s leg, tore out all the gauze and probed around with the needle for a minute, until I’d found the deflated husk of his split femoral artery among all of the slick yellow fat and ground-beef looking shit in his leg. I didn’t have much light to work with and it was pretty well buried beneath the gory chaos of the exit, but I knew it when I saw it- despite the tourniquet, the top end was still spritzing out bright red blood with each passing heartbeat. I took my forceps out of my bag, which already had some fishing-line and a hook wrapped around them, and got to suturing the split ends together. The artery kept on pulsing out blood around the edges as I passed my hook and line through it’s thick middle layer.

‘Moment of truth, Isaac,’ I thought, as I squared off my suture. I picked up the stimpack again, prepped the needle with my shaking hands. I took a deep breath.

In the dim light of the firing range, I stuck the pipe.

The freezing cold from the reaction chilled my gloved fingers halfway to the bone. Had it worked? Would it hold? I had no idea. It wasn’t squirting blood no more, so I snipped off the end of the suture and pulled all the fishing line out, then started suturing up his ragged exit-wound, so that the ends of the skin were facing upwards. I didn’t even bother squaring off the end before running a stimpack along the seam. Once his thigh had sewed up along an ugly white line, I pulled all the fishing string out, because otherwise I was just asking for it to get infected. I still had a little stimpack-juice left, so I moved Beagle aside and shot the rest of it into the tiny-little entry wound, to sort out any of the leftover internal damage.

More time passed in silence. I knew it wouldn’t matter, but I loosened and removed the tourniquets to feel like I was doing something. My ears were ringing, blood was soaking into my pants like syrup, but I barely noticed- all that mattered now was if he was going to live, or if he was going to die. I was just going to have to have faith now.

“Is it working?” asked Mrs. McBain. I checked the Sheriff’s pulses, noticed that some warmth had returned to his skin...

Pulse is already stronger , and I can actually get a femoral. I sighed with relief. “It’s working. Pressure’s up.” A few more seconds passed. “I doubt he stopped perfusing to his brain for long, so his head should be fine, if you’re worried about that. He’s gonna need a ton of fluid, though, and he might need some more help with that leg-“ I started, but then Mrs. McBain wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a tight hug. Once I was over the initial shock, I hugged her back.

“Thanks,” I murmured. Mrs. McBain laughed.

“You saved my husband, Isaac! You saved his life!”

I nodded and tried to free myself from the asphyxiating hug. Unfortunately, Mrs. McBain was a teensy bit stronger than me. “I don’t even know how to thank you. Do you want caps? We- well, you know we aren’t rich, but we have a tin of caps hidden away under the floorboards!” Still struggling in vain to free myself, I shook my head.

“No- no, Mrs. McBain, I don’t want no caps! I just need you to work with me here for these next couple weeks to get your husband healthy again. I mean, he just caught a bullet, he’s gonna need some help getting back to normal...” I was lying about the caps. I would have loved caps, considering how much I was hurting for supplies. But I also wanted to establish that I didn’t charge for my services, and Mrs. McBain had a way of inadvertently spreading that sort of information.

“Oh, but I can’t just let you go back to work like that- look at you, you’re all filthy!” she said, finally releasing me from the hug. I stumbled back and fell onto my rear. “Why don’t you come over to our house- You can get those clothes washed, and I’ll get you some lunch. And a shower too, what would Penny say if she saw you like this?”

Well, I couldn’t disagree with her on that count. Just hugging Mrs. Mcbain, I’d gotten spots of blood all over her dress. Momma had already had to warn me about tracking blood in the house before...

“Alright,” I said. The ringing in my ears was tolerable now. I was starting to be able to think straight again, even if I was still shaking and sweating like hell. I noticed that Beagle had offered me his hand.

“Um- yes!” I said, pulling off my glove and allowing him to haul me up to my feet. He held on real tight to my hand and looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t parse.

“I owe you one, Isaac. I know that this is my fault, and that I’m not always nice to you, but I- I really do appreciate this. I don’t know what I’d have done without my brother.” I tried out a smile. Beagle smiled back at me, and it almost made me forget how much of a prick he’d been when I was a kid. Almost.

“Water under the bridge, Beagle,” I replied. I thought about winking, but I once made a girl run away from me when I tried to wink at her, so I held off.

“Isaac, sweetie-“ I turned around. Mrs. McBain was standing in the doorway. “The door’s unlocked, why don’t you come back to the house first? We can lay my husband down while you wash up.”

I considered. The sheriff seemed stable enough for that proposal, but no one else seemed to quite understand the extent of what he’d just suffered, or the long road that lay ahead for him. I mean, hell, he’d had his leg blown open, lost a third of his blood, and then had a stimpack injected right into a central artery! There were some things I wanted to take care of before I attended to myself.

“I like that idea, but can I borrow one of you to help me finish sorting out Beagle first?” I asked. Mrs. McBain looked at Beagle.

“Beagle, seeing as how you’re the one who shot him…” she started. Beagle put his hands above his head.

“I’ll handle it, ma’am. What should I do?” I raised my hand.

“We’re gonna try to get him on a mattress, if we can. Start him on some Saline and get him drinking water when he wakes up, the stimpack and his body will sorta work together to replace all that blood he lost. He’s going to be in a lot of pain, so we’ll have to give him morphine when he wakes up. I’ve got powder and IV’s with me,” I said, trying my best to cover all my bases without over-explaining. Mrs. McBain started to walk away.

“Alright! You two do what you have to, I'll be getting the house ready for him.” she said, and disappeared through the doorway. I looked at Beagle.

“He didn’t hurt his back none, right?” I asked. Beagle shook his head. “Good. I’m gonna grab his legs then, you grab his arms- let’s get him on one of them cots over there, then move him from there.”

He nodded. We grabbed a hold of the Sheriff’s limbs.

“Alright. Three, two, one-”

[+]

#fallout #fallout fanfic #fallout fanfiction #fallout fandom

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chibi-mushroom · 4 years ago

Text

Day 1: Reunion

My entry for Rikunami week day 1! *warning*: I do kill off Luxu and Riku gets fairly hurt. Nothing is described in detail though, so take it as you will.

The sound of metal clashed and rang through the air. Sora and Kairi were facing the Master of Masters and the foretellers together high up on the crag that loomed above them while Riku and Yozora had someone else to eradicate: Luxu, otherwise known as Xigbar. Sora and Kairi would be fine, despite the heavy disadvantage in numbers, Riku knew. What he needed to focus on was his battle here and now. He still had the face of Xigbar, someone he had gotten to know of while he was infiltrating the organization. For the most part, Xigbar had been unimpressive and unimportant. If he could just turn back time and warn himself….

"Give it up, kiddo. I believe I have the high ground." Luxu smirked before teleporting away and shooting at them while upside down.

"High ground doesn't matter when your opponent can still move!" Riku growled. He summoned a barrier to surround himself while he leapt at the one-eyed enemy.

Together Riku and Yozora yelled as they brought their swords down toward the man. He was slick and managed to dodge them, preferring to fight from a distance. With a laugh, he shot a pair of lasers that looked more purple than the others. There hadn’t been any time to look at them closely however, as they were homing missiles. In tandem they struck in a wave of flame and burned into the skin on his arm as he tried to deflect them.

It had been a long battle and Riku found he was out of potions. He grit his teeth. His mana was growing low too, and he only had one more ether. With a groan, he chugged it down while Yozora used his crossbow to match Luxu's fighting style. Throwing the bottle aside, Riku charged right back into the action. As long as he could save his magic for healing, then everything would be alright. He hoped. If they couldn't stop Luxu, then Sora and Kairi were done for. All the training, blood, sweat and tears he had shed were all leading to this moment. It was time to use the strength he had cultivated to protect what mattered.

"You're done for!" He called.

Riku swung his heavy keyblade diagonally down at Luxu while Yozora kept him distracted. At least they had numbers to their advantage. Thankfully the attack hit, dropping the enemy to the ground with a hard *plop*. Riku wasted no time in swinging again, but Luxu had rolled over and blocked Riku's attack with a keyblade that had been pulled out of thin air. The shock of the ace up his sleeve had been enough to cause the keyblade master to leap back and take a couple of quick breaths.

Where had that come from?

"I thought I told you pipsqueaks; I'm plenty worthy for one of these. It's no no name, but it'll do."

The blade was dark with a firey looking handguard colored in deep reds while the teeth were a dark blue and in intricate swirls. The keychain had an eye, same as the Master of Master's blade, but instead of the piercing blue, it was the near golden color that Riku had grown to hate. Seeing it could only mean trouble. As he was holding his keyblade aloft to attack one again, the acrid scent of darkness filled Riku's mind. All at once he was back in Castle Oblivion, being followed by a demon. Although he knew he had defeated the shadow, his mind was still there for just a second. A familiar voice called out for him and he turned.

Look out!

"Pay attention!" Yozora chided, pressing his blade against Luxu's. He had blocked the attack.

"The worlds are colliding. Maybe he heard his girlfriend." Luxu laughed. "She's been trying to reach you, you know. Who would have thought she'd become such a powerful witch?"

Riku leapt to the side and slashed at Luxu with a growl. A witch. That was all the organization had ever seen her as. But she was so much more. She was a healer, a listener, a dreamer and a doer. Gone was the small scared girl who obeyed for fear of being alone. She was confident, more mature and wiser now. Atonement had been made and she would never have to go back to that world ever again.

"Riku, if we want any chance to keep the worlds safe, we need to finish him now!" Yozora barked.

"Right!"

A small light appeared from both of them; blue for Riku and red for Yozora. They held their weapons together and took aim. So they were able to link after all that time. Now, Riku could only hope it would strike true. His mana was completely depleted from the attack and his energy would likely be gone afterward. As the laser was coming toward him, Luxu saw his lives before his eyes. This would be the end. But he wasn't going to go alone. He held up his keyblade and shot out a bolt of dark energy, taking aim and letting it loose just as he was hit.

The light encompassed Luxu entirely and all that was left was a small cloud of darkness that dissipated a second later. But it seemed that he would get what he wanted. The dark bolt had a homing spell and it was locked on Riku, striking it's mark in the chest. Incredible pain seared through his body as he dropped from the link attack. The earth was shaking and Yozora rushed to his side.

"Hey, wake up! We did it. You can't die yet!" Yozora shook the keyblade master.

There was a loud crack and the ground beneath Yozora's feet began to split apart. He grabbed Riku and jumped up with what remaining power he had. Neither were in any condition to make it through a world collapsing in on itself. High above them was a light shining. It must have been Sora and Kairi. The worlds were starting to move back to normal. Riku could feel it. They had defeated the one who started all of this and now they could rest for real this time. Not that he was surprised; not by any stretch of the imagination. He believed they could do it. They were strong together. One of the regrets he had was that he wouldn't get to go home with them- not if Yozora was going to make it back to his Sora.

"Make sure Sora and Kairi get home." Riku yelled at his near clone.

“What do you mean?” yozora looked down at him.

“We can’t both make it, and we both know I’m dead weight. Now go before I find some way to blast you into the light!”

Yozora looked down at him with pain in his dual colored eyes. But he also understood. This was a war and war took casualties. It was better that one of them make it back to his own world line than neither of them. With a ‘thank you’ on his lips, Yozora dropped the keyblade master, and he fell into the dark depths of where the land was converging. Using the last of his strength, Yozora pushed himself upwards until he managed to touch the light ahead of him. He was going home.

As he fell, Riku closed his eyes. He had already been heavily injured during the battle with Luxu, and the last hit was enough to end it all. With a resounding clunk, he landed on some dry ground, rocks all around him. By some miracle he hadn’t been crushed, but the earth was still shaking. All he could do was pray. Well, pray and think about what he would have done differently if he had been given the chance. He wished he had been bold enough to tell Namine exactly what he thought of her and the love that had grown in his heart for her over the last two years before he left. She might have known, but it wasn't enough. He needed her to hear it with her own ears. As he closed his eyes, images of her flashed through his mind.

A moment later he awoke, body still heavy from the fall. If he moved too much, he would still feel the pain ringing through his chest. All of his senses were dulled, but he could tell that he was alone. Utterly, absolutely alone. Perhaps it was fitting. Sora and Kairi belonged to the realm of light. They had defeated every one of their foes and finally found their way back to each other. It was about time they were able to go home and be regular kids. There had been enough wandering and adventuring for a long time.

Wasn't this exactly what he had planned for just over a year ago in the rooms of the Twilight Town mansion? Sora and Kairi could be together now while he remained away. Of course, last time Namine hadn’t been left alone. She was inside Kairi’s heart. Now she had a replica body of her own. How ironic that she would be the one with friends and he would be alone. A small chuckle left his throat, followed by heavy coughs. He groaned at the pain that seared through his chest. As he lay in agony, he couldn’t help but wonder if she would weep for his loss. He hoped not.

I wonder if my heart went to the same place yours did.

After the thought crossed his mind, he closed his eyes. He didn’t know how long he was out, but when he opened his eyes again to the same dark and dreary rock-filled landscape, he heard a pair of footsteps. They were light and Riku noticed a dim pillar of light beside whoever was coming. But who was here? He was on a piece of desert in between the world lines. How would they even….

A soft hand brushed his hair before carefully sliding him onto what must have been their lap. One hand threaded itself through his damp locks while the other glowed green over his body. Instantly he could breathe without pain, although he was still drained of energy. The hands that held him were small but coarse.The scent….it was familiar and almost too good to be true. His mind must have been bringing back her memory.

"N-namine…" Riku whispered.

"I'm here.We found you just in time." Namine replied softly.

"Then who…?"

"Your replica. It's a long story, but he helped strengthen the connection between you and I, and helped lead me to you. I got a little lost at the point where the world lines converged though, so I had to look into your more recent memories to get here. I'm sorry."

Riku shook his head. He could barely see his replica anymore, as the light he gave off was fading fast. Wordlessly the spirit placed a hand on Namine's shoulder and pressed his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes and whispered a soft goodbye as a tear fell from her eyes and fell onto Riku's cheek. A second later, the replica was gone and the soft light he gave off had turned to darkness.

The ground beneath Riku felt dusty and dry. It seemed to go on that way for a long time, but at least all of the rocks around them were gone. Instead it was all nothingness; a dreary wasteland of dry ground. While he didn't want to give up hope of getting home, the realist in him figured they'd never see their friends again. He was so tired. At least he had Namine with him. She had a way of grounding him and giving him the will to move on, even if it seemed all hope was lost. He regretted not bringing her with him in the first place on the search for Sora; she was stronger than she looked. But she was here now and that was all that mattered.

Slowly, he moved his hand up to cup her cheek. He didn't have strength to hold it there, but Namine somehow knew what he wanted and held his hand in place, leaning into his touch. She was warm- much warmer than she had ever been in the Castle or Twilight town. He didn’t understand why that particular detail stood out to him so much, perhaps he was losing it faster than he had expected. It could have been days that he had been here and he wouldn’t be able to tell.

"It doesn't matter." She had to have read his mind. "As long as we're together, that's what's important, right?"

“Yeah.” he attempted to look at her through the darkness. It had been a long time since he had been able to see despite being blinded. “Hey Namine, do you believe in fate?”

“No.” She paused. “Do you?”

Now it was Riku’s turn to pause. He had believed in it for a long time. When they had started this adventure, he figured fate was on his side. Then everything had changed for him and he didn’t know what to believe in any more. The only solids he had to go off of were his friendships with Sora, Kairi and Mickey as well as the warm stirrings that tugged at his heart anytime the tiny blond looked at him. With her eyes capturing his, Riku wondered if she hadn’t been aware of the noise it was making.

“Maybe. But even if it’s all a lie, if we ever get back to the islands, let’s share a paopu.” Riku spoke softly.

“Y-you want to share one….with me?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Tears began to fill her eyes. A wide smile crossed her face. Instead of saying anything, she simply beamed at him and shook her head. A single droplet fell on his cheek. But it wasn’t a tear. It was a warmth and light that he was unfamiliar with. He looked up to the heavens to see little drops falling from the sky and breaking through the clouds. All at once they opened up, revealing a bright burst of light. When the darkness was dissipated, the previously dusty and empty grounds were filled with wildflowers of every kind and soft grasses. The world around them had gained new life and a gentle wind blew across the hill. It began to push the clouds away, revealing a beautiful blue sky. Riku knew where they were now. It was on the shores of the mainland on a hill not too far from the ocean.

“Where….?” Namine looked around.

“We’re home. Something brought us back.”

“It must have been your heart. You don’t have to share a paopu with someone to have an unbreakable connection. Sora and Kairi must have been calling out to you.” Namine suggested, looking around. “After all, if I managed to find you when the place you were was falling apart, who’s to say we couldn’t be led back? Maybe it was fate after all.”

She blushed as his hand brought her face back to look at his. The keyblade master looked relieved. He had been so tired during the last two years and Namine had tried to be there for him as much as possible. Perhaps she had been fated to love him from the start. He had loved her other first, but still managed to see her for her, not for Kairi. They had spent many long hours together hoping to find some sort of light to cling to. Somehow they hadn’t realized that it wasn’t light or darkness that they were hanging onto; they were holding onto each other and keeping the other from going too far into one or the other. He loved her despite her darkness and she loved him even though the light blinded her so.

“Hearts and connections are powerful things.” Namine spoke, her voice just above a whisper.

There was one thing her heart was pleading for. She needed him to understand just how much he meant to her. When this part of their adventure began she had told him good luck without obliging her heart for fear of many things- all excuses now, really. She wouldn’t betray it again. Carefully, she leaned down and pressed her lips against his. It was sweet and chaste, not nearly lasting long enough. If he were honest, Riku barely had any time to process what was happening before it had ended. So when she pulled back, he let the weight of his hand pull her back in for another, this time allowing himself to move his lips against hers in ecstasy. No thoughts ran through his mind. He was simply there in the moment, being cradled by the person he wanted to protect the most. The one fate had in mind for him a long time ago.

From off in the distance they heard a voice calling out to them. It caused them to break apart, blushing furiously. Both knew it had to be Sora. He was calling their names, running up the path with Kairi’s hand in his and followed by Donald, Goofy and the King. She cautiously sat him up, and he silently assured her he was okay to do that on his own. As their friends approached, both Riku and Namine saw their friend’s faces all aglow from realizing that everyone was safe at home.

“We thought we lost you there, buddy.” Sora hugged his friend. “If you wanted a little alone time with your girlfriend, just tell us next time.”

Riku began to stutter out some excuse but when he couldn’t find the words, he simply gave sora a playful shove. Kairi hugged him next, and then Mickey. They really were home. Riku looked up to the sky. There was only one sky; one destiny. With the major threats to the universe gone, he could make of it whatever he wanted. Until then, there was this perfect moment; this lasting memory where he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was home and had everything he needed as long as his friends and the girl he loved most by his side. Whether destiny or fate was real or not, he would never need to meet it alone again.

#rikunami week 2020 #rikunami #namiku #day 1 #replinami #hinted at #inspired by ff8 #drawing to come

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dwaynepride · 4 years ago

Text

the unfortunate case of nonchalance

PART III - WE CAN ESCAPE SOMETIME

summary: jethro gives the reader shooting lessons to avoid another incident in the saloon.

words: 3,163

warnings: female reader

tags: @fairytale07 @jrenn10 @f4nboi @purplestarsr5 @ladyzombiielove @littlemiss3ma @minikate--24-05 @consultingdoctorwholock @dressed-up-just-like-z1ggy @ms-allenbrown @ikbenplant @dylpickles1267 @diaryofafan17 @specialagentlokitty @pageofultron @stanathanxoox @kittenlittle24

author’s note: part 3 of the cowboy!au series. this is a part of meg’s 11k challenge. the prompts are cowboy au and secret relationship trope.

part II | part IV

February 29th, 1889

I’ve spent the last week instructing the heiress on how to shoot. It seems as if she’s never held a gun in her entire life, which I’m not too surprised about. It took a whole day to teach her how to hold my revolver properly. Another day to get her to shoot without letting it fly out of her hands.

But I think she’s getting the hang of it. Not too bad, but not too good. Hasn’t been able to hit three bottles in a row, yet. But she’s getting there.

She’s determined as hell, I will grant her that.

But even in my frequent absence, I’ve noticed Anthony’s change in behavior. It ain’t hard to miss. He’s quieter, somehow. Less annoying. And as much as I should be joyful over this change, it concerns me. Perhaps he’s only in a mood about my saying no to his foolish bank robbery plan.

Or I fear he may be up to not good. That’s nothing new, though.

I can’t sit around speculating. I have another target practice appointment to get to.

The wind carried the light scent of wildflowers. If one were quiet enough, they’d catch the faint chirping of songbirds in the trees. Jethro was pleased that, for all the civilization out here in the East, at least there were some silent spaces left. A peace he’s sorely missed.

And he regrets having to ruin such peacefulness.

Gunshots ring out into the air at random times, one after another. Sometimes accompanied by the sound of shattered glass - but most times not. Jethro watches with serious eyes and a furrowed brow as bullets are fired into the old wooden wall of the abandoned church. When one of the bullets hits a bottle, he gives a light nod.

But it doesn’t happen all too often.

He expects more shots to be fired, but instead hears you give a heavy huff and your arms fall to your sides. Jethro’s eyes shift to where you stand, and you’re just looking at him with an exasperated look. “Mr. Gibbs, I don’t believe I’m capable of being a gunslinger,” you tell him in a flat voice.

“You don’t gotta be a gunslinger, ma’am,” he replies. “You only gotta hit those bottles.”

You sigh again. Eye him with a disbelieving expression, but you turn back to the glass bottles. His old revolver is raised, you aim carefully, and fire.

No shattered glass follows the echo of the gunshot.

Jethro smirks when you stomp your foot in frustration, and he pushes himself off the tree he’s been leaning up against. “This is impossible, I tell you.” Jethro shakes his head at your words. “I believe I may be unteachable.”

“No one’s unteachable, ma’am.” Jethro stops behind you. His eyes run over your back and shoulders, and he quickly notices the likely reason for your missing the bottles. “You ain’t standing right,” he continues. Carefully, his hands come up to square your shoulders. As they slide down to straighten your back, Jethro’s careful to keep his touch light and gentle. Only the tips of his fingers touch your back, but he’s firm in his movements. And you give no objection.

“Make yourself solid. Unmovable when you pull that trigger,” Jethro instructs. His tone is low. Concentrated. Once your back is sufficiently straight and solid, he steps forward. His front almost pressed against your back in order for his hand to reach your arm. Jethro guides it to aim at the next bottle.

And he’s very aware that his heartbeat has gotten faster. Feeling like the tremble of horse hooves in his chest - he’s never gotten so close during any of the other lessons. And Jethro hadn’t planned on the close proximity - it just happened.

He feels you’re tense. And he’s unsure if it’s because of him or the shooting lesson.

You breathe in, and then exhale slowly. And this time, when you fire, it hits the bottle dead on. Tiny shards of glass explode off the church wall. You move the gun, focusing on the second bottle. And again, when you fire, it hits square in the center. Jethro sees your hands tighten around the handle - you’re getting nervous.

But he doesn’t speak. He lets you aim on the third bottle. A heartbeat goes by, and then a second. After the third, you fire again. And just like the others before, the bottle shatters with the impact of the bullet.

Three in a row.

Instantly, you let out an excited whoop. Bouncing up and twirling around to face Jethro with a large grin. And he can’t help but reflect the smile right back at you - what can he say, it was damn contagious. “I got it! I hit three in a row!” You exclaim.

And in the moment of pure excitement, your arms loop around his neck. Jethro can still hear your joyful laughter, but with you hugging him like so, he feels it, too. It shocks him. Surprises him thoroughly, but Jethro still wraps his arms around your middle and returns the hug. He was proud, truly. But he hadn’t expected to feel this sort of softness again.

Being held, gingerly, by someone he cares about.

Jethro’s the one who pulls out of the hug. His eyes are pointed down - not so much avoiding your gaze, but more hiding his own. Guilt pricks at him sharply; he can nearly feel your surprise that he broke the hug so quick. But he merely motions to the broken bottles. “Congratulations. May not be a gunslinger, but I’d be glad to ride with you anytime,” Jethro says lightly.

And when he finally glances up, you look pleased; wearing a proud smile on your face while examining the bottles you shot. “Perhaps I will, one day.”

You turn the revolver around in your hands for a moment. Jethro watches your fingers run over the cool metal slowly; almost a caress. So he’s surprised when you suddenly hold out the revolver to him, intending to give it back. But he shakes his head. “No, you keep it. For your own protection.”

You scoff at that, as if Jethro had told a joke. “Oh, my father would never allow me to have a gun,” you tell him, glancing back down to the revolver. “If he even knew you taught me to shoot, he’d be furious.”

“Well, a lady as pretty as yourself really should know how to protect herself.” At that, Jethro reaches out. His hand covers yours, and he gently pushes the revolver away from himself with a slight smirk. “Just keep it, and make sure he doesn’t find it.”

You’re reluctant, he can tell. But eventually, you give in and tuck the small gun into your waistband with a meek smile. It can’t really be seen, unless someone specifically searches for it. And already, Jethro feels much better that you’re walking around town with some sort of protection.

And then there’s silence - neither of you speaking up or knowing what to say next. This was usually the time when you part ways. Returning tomorrow for another lesson. That was the sole reason for their secret visits, and now that you know how to shoot, there’s no good reason to keep on. The celebration of hitting three bottles was bittersweet, in hindsight. Jethro’s boot kicks up some dirt, and he takes a breath to excuse himself. Perhaps for the last time.

But you’re quicker than him. Stepping closer, and when he glances up, your eyes are both excited and nervous. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Mr. Gibbs, but would you like to take a walk with me? There’s a spot by the river that’s my favorite, and I think you’d very much enjoy it.”

The question gives him pause. Jethro almost declines your offer because he knows what it sounds like and what it might mean and he’s not confident he can simply walk away if nothing comes out of it. Not confident that he can go back to camp without that mooning cloud over his head that Dr. Mallard would sniff out easily.

Because, try as he might to reject the notion, Jethro knows he’s grown a fond affection for the only kind aristocrat in this hellhole of a town.

He’s aware that you can do better than him. You can find a nice, rich man who would pay for your every wish and whim and the only thing Jethro can offer is a life of living in the dirt and blood. But as you stand there, watching him with those soft eyes, Jethro knows you’ll make a fool of him yet.

“Sure, alright.”

Your smile, even temporarily, relieves Jethro of his harsh thoughts. He smiles back, motions for you to take the lead, and then falls into step beside you away from the old church.

There’s silence, for a time. You both listening to the songbirds that have returned since the ruckus of gunfire. The breeze still smells of wildflowers, and ruffles your hair in a way that Jethro can’t look away from. And you catch him in his ogling, to which he quickly recovers from. “By the way, you don’t need to call me Mr. Gibbs,” he says lightly. “I gotta first name.”

“Well, Mr. Gibbs, you never told me your first name,” is your sarcastic response. “I was beginning to think your momma didn’t give you one.”

He huffs in laughter, head shaking. “It’s Jethro, ma’am. Most folk call me Jethro.”

“Most folk? So are there other folk who call you by a different name?”

“Only certain folk.”

You let out a slow, thoughtful hum, and Jethro can feel your eyes against the side of his face. Though, when he looks over, your light smile quickly starts to fade and your eyes flicker to the left side of his face. “How are your battle wounds holding up? I hope you haven’t been in too much pain, on my account,” you tell him.

But Jethro just shakes his head. “Ah, they stopped hurting long ago. ‘Round the time we started meeting up for target practice.”

The scoff you let out pulls a smirk to Jethro’s face - even if it did pull on his bruised cheek unpleasantly. “Mr. Gib- Jethro- that was only a day after the saloon fight,” you point out to him. And he reckons you were trying to trip him up.

So he only shrugs, and you say nothing.

Upon reaching the river, Jethro quickly decides you were right to love it. Green grass lining each side of the clear river. Colorful wildflowers seeming like freckles on fair skin with how they pop. And if Jethro cocks his head, he can spot a doe and her foal drinking from the river a little ways down. Even when the doe lifts her head and spots them, she doesn’t run off. It’s much too peaceful to feel any sort of danger.

Peaceful, and very beautiful. Much like you, in fact.

You pad up to the river’s side, wearing a smile as you look out on the water. “By the way,” you speak up, drawing Jethro’s attention over. “I never really understood why you were so adamant on teaching me to shoot. Any other gentleman would have just defended my honor and been on his way. But you? You’ve done much more than that.” Your voice is soft. So sweet.

It makes Jethro look out across the river again. Damn, he’d hoped you wouldn’t think too hard on his actions. Even worse that you’re questioning him, because Jethro himself had trouble understanding why he was drawn to teaching you.

But one thing was clear: the thought of you being in any sort of danger without him to protect you made him feel sick.

“I suppose I just didn’t want to see a lady be unable to keep herself safe.”

“Well, I doubt you tutor all unmarried women in the art of gunslinging,” you reply in amusement before lifting your eyes up to watch a butterfly as it flutters by. You’re being light-hearted; not pushing the subject much further than he wants to talk about.

And yet, Jethro can’t stop his thoughts from drifting. Drifting back to years prior, to what soured this cowboy life of his so irreparably. The heartache he felt akin to a stab in the chest. The waning sense of uselessness that turned him so hard and cold over the years.

But maybe not so cold anymore. Being here with you, by the river, warmed him more than the sun itself.

Jethro takes a breath, his cobalt eyes fixed on the slow-moving river. He wished moving on was as easy as water to the sea. “I had a wife, long ago.” Your head instantly snaps back to look at him, but he keeps his gaze steady. “Married young, and I loved her very much. But I wasn’t there to keep her safe, like I outta been.”

His words are short and straightforward. Jethro doesn’t watch your smile falter, nor the heartbreak clear in your gaze. He’d rather not see such a sorry sight, and prefers watching the fish swim by - somehow unable to hear his heart beating as hard as it was.

And....you’re still so quiet. Probably not knowing how to reply in the least, and Jethro scolds himself for dumping such a thing on you unprompted. It just came out so easy - he can’t really explain it. But then you move closer to him, just the tiniest step. And Jethro finds himself holding his breath. “I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been through,” you say softly. “I’ve never been married; though, if my father had it his way, I would marry his associate.”

A bit of humor edges on your tone - you’re trying to lighten his mood. But when Jethro looks over with a flat look hidden beneath the brim of his hat, you step closer. Reaching out and putting a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. “But I think it’s very honorable to want to protect the people you care about. Or even just....silly girls who need an entire week to learn to shoot bottles,” you say with a smirk.

He mimics your smile, just slightly. But it emboldens you. Softly, your thumb rubs back and forth on his arm. “If I may ask, what was your wife’s name?”

Her name. It’s always been stuck in his throat, choking him for years. A slow death.

But now, it comes easy. “Shannon,” he says.

“A very beautiful name,” you lament. “I bet you miss her very much.”

“....I do.”

The yawning pit in his heart that Shannon’s death left behind, it’s always been so painful. Too agonizing to ignore and it just made him angry when he tried. And right now, the pit is still there. But it doesn’t hurt too bad - doesn’t turn him mad with grief. Jethro can breathe, at least. That’s gotta be something. And when he breathes, he smells those wildflowers.

He turns from the river to face you fully. “I have a confession to make, ma’am. And you gotta promise something.”

You’re curious, he can tell. That little light in your eyes has returned as you nod enthusiastically. “Anything, Mr. Gibbs,” you reply quickly.

“Promise you won’t run off and tell your little friends about it. I know you women love to gossip, but this is just between us.”

You snort, close to laughing but you nod anyway. “Cross my heart - no gossip.”

Jethro hesitates, despite the promise. Almost spills his heart to this woman who has somehow been able to hold the pieces of it in her delicate hands. He nearly makes a fool of himself again, but regains his willpower and offers a half-smirk. “Jethro’s actually my middle name,” he relents. “My first is Leroy. That is why I introduce myself as Jethro Gibbs.”

He watches your eyes widen, and then you’re laughing. Not the malicious type of laughter - your hand covers your mouth to silence the outburst, but Jethro finds himself chuckling, as well. The laughter persists, and then dies down, and he finds your eyes watching him with a warm softness. “Well, despite your grievances, I think it’s a handsome name. A handsome name for a handsome man.”

Jethro’s ready to shrug off the compliment. Tease you for even saying such a thing, but your hand is still on his arm. It squeezes, harder than last time, and Jethro knows that you’re foolishly serious. So he doesn’t lean in so much as he’s pulled in - the thought of kissing you does too much to him to ignore. When your hand comes up, he half-expects a slap to the face for being so bold.

But you just tip his hat up, curl your hand around the back of his neck, and pull him in the rest of the way.

Jethro hasn’t kissed another woman since Shannon. He thought it would hurt too much - he’d be betraying her, somehow. It would be wrong. But when his lips touch yours, wrong isn’t even in his vocabulary.

You feel good. You taste good. Your lips are soft and warm and the skin of your cheek beneath his hand feels like silk and when your hands clutch his coat, Jethro can’t hardly breathe, let alone think. His other hand comes to grip your arm, keeping you in place - perhaps a little too hard, but he can’t help it. He wants to keep you here, pressed against him, forever. With nobody but the doe and her foal to bother them.

And by the way you gasp against his lips, he expects you feel the same.

Despite this, you’re the one to break the kiss. When he feels your breath on his lips, Jethro dips his head in for another. But you back your head away with a soft smile. “I must leave,” you breathe out. “My father will be wondering where I am.”

Your words make Jethro sigh. And he feels the shivers it gives you. “Your father really should mind his own life, instead of yours.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the fact that I need to be home,” you reply softly.

Reluctantly, Jethro releases you. His hands linger on your body, as does yours with his. But eventually, you turn away from him. Walking off toward the direction of town, and Jethro just watches you leave.

So when you stop and turn back to him, you’ve already got his attention. “Meet me in front of the bank in two days. I have to assist my father with something, but afterward, we can go back to the church.” Your smile is wide. Mischievous. So bright, it can be mistaken for the sun. “Perhaps I can hit four bottles in a row.”

He scoffs, shaking his head with a smirk. “Don’t push your luck, sweetheart.”

#ncis imagine #ncis reader insert #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs imagine #ncis x reader

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