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strungnews · 1 month ago

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WHAT WOULD I DO WITHOUT YOU?

It’s the same question Mark always asks when he’s in a pinch. Always seemingly there when he needs you most, covering his ass multiple times because of his recklessness.

“What would I do without you?”

He asks then again, feeling your fingers brush and dry the tears away from his face.

“Probably burying your head into a pillow and making a terrifying print of your face on it.” You joked. He always appreciated that about you. Light hearted at the best of times, even if it seemed inappropriate for the moment. He never cared if you were blunt like a bad knife, he’d rather you were straightforward than be full of twists and turns.

“Dick.” He sniffles. And you give him that old comforting smile, an infectious thing you have that always makes him smile back.

“What would-I do without you?” He says breathless. Dry heaving onto damp sand, coughing up more of the salty water. His lips feel chapped, despite being soaked to the bone.

“Dead, bloated in the water. Fishes wouldn’t even eat you with how much hair gel you put on.” You pat his back, harder this time. And he coughs up violently and grips at the grains below. An appreciative grin graces his face when he finishes, looking a lot better than earlier.

His hair flops to his forehead on queue, he opens his mouth in defense, but only shakes his head slowly. The droplets of water flickering on your face and knees.

“Yeah, probably.” He agrees hoarsely. The sun beats down on him when you stand, the shade of your shadow now gone to comfort him. “Let’s get you some water, real ones.” You say, offering your hand as he looks up to watch you, the sun blinding him.

He takes your hand, gripping at it tight, and you pull and pull for him to stand. Clashing back down to the sandy ground when you fall back with him; laughing.

“You were supposed to lift me up!”

“You’re too heavy!”

“What would I do without you?” He says, quietly. Leaning his head on your shoulder while the two of you look outside the window of his room, the moon being the only source of light.

You wrap your arm around his shoulder, and let him lean to your chest as he gently breathes. His hair devoid of product, only the smell of fresh laundry clinging on him as you inhale.

You shrug lightly. Hand rubbing his arm up and down in a slow motion, your cheek mushes on the crown of his head when you answer. “Lots of things,”

You feel him shake his head. Sighing deeply.

“Thats a lie.” He mumbles.

“Why would I lie?” You ask, quick and genuine. Now watching his chest rise and fall while he plays a circle on your leg. A heavy shrug against you.

“Dunno, to cheer me up I guess?”

“Well. Is it working?” He bristles, silently laughing and he shakes his head no.

“You suck at this.”

“Better than nothing.” You kiss his head, an act you’ve done on numerous occasions in the time you became his best friend. He moves and faces his body completely towards you, wrapping you in a hug.

“Thank you.”

“What would I do without you!” Mark cheers, jumping up and down in joy with you in his arms. You jostle and stumble in his hold, a bit sick from all the movement.

He lets go, and spins around. Taking the letter of acceptance and pointing at it with a huge smile on his face.

“I can’t believe it! Im going to college with Amber!” That stung. More than the time you were bitten by the beetle he found on the side of the road.

Still, you shrug it off. A sly smile and jab to his arm.

“Well, let’s just say you’d be out there working at Burgermart till the smell of grease stuck to you till death.” You and him laugh.

“Still, if you didn’t help me with the studying, i’d probably have to go someplace else! No thanks to William for the help.” He grumbles, putting it back down on the counter, a bit more tired than his usual energetic personality a few moments earlier.

“I can’t screw things up with Amber, not this time.” He says, more to himself than for the both of you. You lean back on his cabinet, nodding.

He talks some more, but you don’t listen. Your ears going fuzzy and hazy while staring down at the ground. He’s recalling moments and times that you’ve already heard of before, it seems like he’s got it all figured out.

“What would I do without you?” He smiles, taking Eve’s hand in his. His face is practically beaming, expression screaming ‘i love you’ when he looks at her.

He used to say that to you.

Mark finally introduced Eve to you, but you already had a feeling about her before everything. The missions, the attacks, you already knew who it was with the way he spoke with such fondness.

Why couldn’t he do that with you?

“Shut up, dork. Are you gonna order or what?” Eve’s gaze flitters to Mark, then you. Giving a big warm smile that you have a hard time giving back.

“Fine, fine. I’ll just get my usual, same with you?” He asks, you. Eyes finally peeled away from Eve, staring at you.

“Yeah, you know my usual.” You say, and smile. Closing the menu and sliding it to the middle of the table. Watching Mark handle the waiter to order everyone else’s food.

“So, tell me. Is Mark as much of a geek as he is now?” Mark sweats at her prying tone, a pleading expression as he looks over at Eve and you.

There’s nothing you can do, nothing to do. Only to fake it till you make it, hopefully on the other side.

“Man, wait till you hear about that one time he blamed me for leaving dirty laundry in the bathroom. He had the gall to say those dog printed boxers were mine!”

Eve’s laugh bounces in your head like an echo chamber. It kind of makes you smile, having this effect on him and her.

“Please, stop.” Mark begs, and you lean in to the table to continue.

“And after that, he made up a whole complicated story to try and get off scott free. Can you believe that? Him throwin’ me under the bus because he can’t admit those were his?” Eve’s in hysterics. Something about the way you spoke and told the story, made it out to be funnier than what had actually happened.

“Oh my god.” Mark’s red, from embarrassment or shame, you don’t know which it is. But you’re cherishing the moment each second.

“What do I do without you?” You sob. Ugly crying right beside his unconscious body, shaking like a leaf battling against the violent winds.

It’s been day since he’d last woken. A day since you saw his broken arms and bruised body. Blood covering him like it was his skin.

You haven’t cried this much since he had told you about him and Eve, haven’t cried this much since you fell on your bike as kids. With Mark bandaging you up with stickers to try and cheer you up. It hurt, so much.

Each day passing by, you could feel him slipping. Slipping from your memories, from your routine, from your heart. He was outgrowing you in more ways than one. He’s more now, not just that awkward teenager you once knew, always holding your hand when going from place to place. Not that light hearted boy you knew and grew up with.

He’s more, and you’re just less.

“Im scared, Mark. Can you even hear me?” Your voice trembles. Gripping at the white blanket that covers his lower half. Too scared to actually touch him, too scared to even look at him.

He doesn’t reply, can’t. The constant sound of his heart monitor beeping and beeping further solidifies something you didn’t want to come to terms with. Something you didn’t want to face. So you pull away, wanting to be gone from the now suffocating room.

“I would have died without you.”

No one’s visited him today, thats what you thought at least. You were always the first one to come and visit him, and the first one to leave. Not wanting to take up too much time for the other people who’d visit, you were considerate like that.

But the room has voices inside, muffled. And that sentence, that one sentence. It was as clear as day. You couldn’t even make out the rest, but that one, that was the only thing that reached your ears.

You shouldn’t be eaves dropping, shouldn’t be sad, or angry. Shouldn’t feel entitled to Mark at all. But why did it hurt?

“I guess I’m doing this without you.”

You stopped talking or contacting with Mark all together. A month had passed-and nothing. Not a peep or even a word from Debbie. You were nothing to him now. Thats what it felt like.

But thats a selfish way of thinking. He had a life now, a half brother, a girlfriend even. He had responsibilities one person shouldn’t even be burdened with, and you’re here throwing a pity party for yourself.

You knew that, fuck you knew that. But you didn’t want to know it. Refused to acknowledge it. Knowing it now clearer than ever, was gut wrenching.

The old and worn photo album your mother had put together was nostalgic. You can recall certain moments when she’d stick these on, watching and recalling the events while she glues it on.

It spans to birthdays and events, to milestones and your many few ‘firsts’ in life.

Even that one time where you had boldly kissed his cheek for a photo, now it was forever captured on the book.

There’s a reason this was hidden away in the back of her closet, but it came beckoning to you like a voice.

Landing on a memorable photo, you trace the edges of the page. It was Halloween, dressed up as a typical sheet ghost with jagged holes for your eyes, and Mark as ‘duct-tape man.’ You smile. Fond of the memory of having to help with removing it in the bathtub, making sure he didn’t end up bald and ripping his skin off.

You shut the book. It smells like old memories and childhood.

“I guess I know what you’d do without me.”

a/n: haha jonathan I am questioning my mark

#mark grayson #invincible #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson invincible #mark grayson invincible x reader #News report!

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theorist-fox · 9 months ago

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In your eyes I saw a longing, while I longed to lift you up

John 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Summary: Johnny survives what should have been a deadly injury. During his recovery, you bond with his family while he refuses to accept his weakened state, only wishing for you to let him wither. However, as you help him through it all, Johnny is reminded why he fought to stay.

18+

CW: smut, tiny angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, deals with medical topics, recovery from injury, mention of depression and struggles related to recovery, cuddles. LOTS OF CUDDLES.

Masterlist 🦊

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days.

One hundred and eighty-four days since Johnny got a bullet in his head. Six months since you saw him flatten against concrete. No lights if not those of the torch tucked in your tac vest.

One hundred and eighty-four days since your own heart stopped beating. More than four thousand hours since the moment you snarled – bellowed. Voice raucous and loud echoing in the tunnel. Raw fire burning your tongue all the way to your fingertips; those that curled around the trigger of your gun.

Makarov on the floor with a hole in his forehead. Mouth-gaped, exhaling his last breaths, mouthing like a fish out of water. Cross-eyed. His lids fluttered, shaking. Pathetic.

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days since you pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. And again. To his chest. To his face. To his legs, groin, shoulder.

Since Price hastily got up from where he’d been thrown and grabbed you from behind. Burly arms around your waist lifting you off the ground. Your gun still shooting, bullets now hitting the cinderblock of the walls. The trigger clicked empty, but you still pressed it – autopilot.

The roar that echoed scratched your throat, made you choke. You spluttered and coughed. Tears and spit, foaming at the mouth. A rabid dog.

Not Johnny.

More gunshots echoed, but they didn’t come from your weapon. Price dropped you, your knees knocked against the floor. Helpless, you folded. You draped your body over Johnny’s. Forehead to his chest, arms limp next to his face – fingers grabbing at his cheeks, enough to indent the skin. Blindly skimming through his features, feeling the slick blood carve its path through the tiny folds in your fingerprints.

Senses dull. Not Johnny.

Cotton in your ears. Each explosion from the guns was nothing more than a muffled thud. Bullets flew past you. Bullets hit you. You felt the familiar blinding pain of mangled flesh in your left arm. It caused your body to flop further – a ragdoll. It burned, yet it was nothing compared to the agony currently disemboweling you.

You were gutted. Much like a knife piercing flesh. Cutting its way through layers of skin, muscle, and fat. Intestines pouring out, blood and water and bile mixing on the floor – cocktail of death. Not yours. Johnny's.

Not Johnny.

He heard. His chest rose under the weight of your head, and life was breathed into you again.

It was absolutely mind-boggling to you how he’d survived. You saw it; you saw Makarov pull the trigger. You saw the bullet pierce his skull. You saw him crumple on the cement in that underground tunnel. You felt the blood on your hands. You felt how slick it made his skin.

But apparently, it wasn't enough to snatch the life out of him.

And as you spent the following days sleeping uncomfortably, curled on one of the chairs in the waiting room of the army hospital, doctors came and went to talk to Price.

Or to Johnny’s ma.

She’d flown all the way from Glasgow to Hereford in the blink of an eye, bringing with her a goddamn squadronof MacTavishes. Four sisters with his blue eyes, and his dark hair. All of varying ages. Even a little one, half of yours. Her long hair was in a plait that swung behind her back. You watched it – transfixed. Too catatonic and dazed to care that you might have looked like a right weirdo – staring at a kid like that.

But she was the one who looked like him the most. Maybe it was in the tilt of her chin. In the shape of her eyes. In the slight fold of the tips of her ears – God, you weren’t looking like one, you were a proper weirdo.

Her braid swung like a pendulum, marking the time you spent apart from him.

A guarded prognosis meant that no one aside from close relatives could enter the room. Family only - and the leader of Johnny’s unit. So, you spent your days of medical leave with your ass on those plastic chairs that were made for short sitting sessions, looking at a platoon of women going in with flowers and chocolates and leaving with tears and bloodied gauzes.

Your arm was wrapped in a bandage of its own, the muscle torn at the bicep. The pain was dull, much like the goddamn sight of you. Or the smell, which you reckoned mustn’t have been the most pleasant whiff to catch with one’s nostrils.

Price took pity on you because he knew. He acted like he didn’t for the sake of his team, but he knew. And he conveyed his awareness with lingering, judgmental glances he gave you and Johnny when the Scot let his hand travel a little too low on your back.

You watched them all from afar, perking your ears to catch any news the doctors told Johnny’s family or your Captain. Clawing at the walls for some information. You’d give your right kidney to know something more aside from the sparse words Price told you out of sympathy.

And then, out of nowhere, after tortuously long days spent with stomach and heart utterly empty, a nurse came to you.

She tapped your shoulder and you flinched. Bloodshot eyes swiveled to land on her face. She looked down at you apprehensively, knowing she’d have to tread lightly. A cornered animal, you were. Pitiful thing.

She called your name, and you blinked.

“The lady there said you’ve been here a while,” she spoke oddly soft and yet respectful. Must’ve spotted the pips on the epaulets of your uniform jacket, the one currently draped over you like a blanket.

Your eyes were unfocused and blinky. Lashes fluttering to swipe away the fatigue – a broom against dust. Looking around made your neck tingle, muscles corded, but you did. Your pupils locked with bright blue ones at the other end of the hallway.

Johnny’s ma waved.

Your brain rewired itself from its slumber and you sat upright. Your shoulders popped as you pulled them back at attention. Legs uncurled from where they were tucked underneath your weight, finally stretching out. Palms to your knees. Your jacket fell to the floor, you didn’t mind it.

“She wants to know if she can talk to you,” the nurse prompted.

You nodded eagerly, probably looking a little too desperate. Your leg bounced in anticipation and anxiety, tiny needles piercing the muscle as it awakened.

Gingerly, his mum walked to you. She sat right in the chair at your side. It took nothing but a look for her to understand: the crust in your lashes from the tears you’ve shed, the bandage around your arm gone from white to yellow with a splotch of brown in the middle. Dried blood and pus. The wound festering beneath it.

She hugged you. She didn’t care if you hadn’t washed in days. If your injury was probably infected, or at least smelled as such. You curled your fingers into fists against her back, and you cried.

She did, too.

𓇬

You understood that Johnny took his fire straight from his ma because she was currently bullying the doctor who had been preventing your entrance into her son’s room.

You stood almost embarrassed next to her, feeling like her child yourself.

She had forced you to wash, after all. Took you to one of the washrooms and helped you out of your clothes. Stroked your skin with a sponge when she noticed the weakness of your movements. Washed away the suds with the showerhead. Dried your hair and braided it.

You’d have felt pathetic if she weren’t there, constantly telling you it was alright. You'd have felt guilty that you became an additional burden to her if she weren't continuously whispering that “whoever loves my Johnny like you do, ‘s mine to care for.”

You took a few steps back the more she argued with the doctor, trying to flee from that predicament. Maybe you’d be lucky enough to peer through the cracked door and spot Johnny’s face now that both surgeon and nurse were busy trying to tame (fruitlessly, they’d learn) Mrs. MacTavish.

However, your back hit something. You lifted your arms, elbows out to create more space around you.

You looked behind and clocked a girl, and her braid. She was slightly shorter than you, about fifteen. The resemblance with her brother was so striking it caused your breath to hitch.

She looked at you with caution. Assessed you like antiques at an auction. Whether you were worthy of her brother’s affection, or not. And you found yourself thinking you’ve never wanted someone’s approval more than you did at that moment.

It was a game of stares that she was clearly winning.

Comical, really. How your skin had bled because of bullets tearing it apart. Knives had ripped crimson gashes on your flesh. Bombs had gone off in your vicinity. You’ve killed. You’ve seen death and brought it, too – a harbinger.

Yet now you stood stock still in front of a teenager. Eyes locked with the depth of the azure sea hers bore. Frozen in place with your elbows still out and your hands hovering between you two.

It was silent for what felt like hours when in truth only mere, tense minutes had passed. The only sound that of Johnny’s ma giving an earful to the doctor and a very tired nurse.

Your lips parted on their own accord then, and your voice came out wet and strained. “You’re so much like him.”

That girl had tried to crack open your skull with the sheer force of her eyes and somehow managed. Then snuck her fingers in the hollow of your stomach and curled them around the handles of your ribs only to rip them open and take a gander at the battered thing that was your heart.

What she said next made your chest clench to the point of pain. Your heart stomped against the hard bone of your rib cage. Her voice was heavily accented yet softer than her brother's. The meaning behind her words was different from the ones you uttered. They went deeper than mere physical appearance.

The thought that she might have seen something in you that even remotely reminded her of him made your heart ache - feeling undeserving of it.

“You are, too.”

One hundred and eighty-four days since the incident, you could’ve gotten a goddamn medical degree. You took a long compassionate leave to stay by his side, hastily apologizing to doctors and PTs alike for his behavior because during that time, when they’d show up at your doorstep, he’d bark like a dog for them to leave.

For one-hundred and eighty-four days, the moment he fell asleep, you’d bury your head in medical manuals and books. You had his physical therapist explain to you step by step all the exercises he’d have to do for his limbs, so he’d regain strength and mobility.

The massages. The oils. The meds. How to put an IV in. How to change the bandages of his bedsores. You helped him shower. You helped him dress. You did his beard or his hair, and while he pushed for it to be a bland buzzcut or just let it grow, you always let the airstrip at the center stay – gelling it up sometimes, for good fun.

When you’d place a kiss against his buzzed side, next to the healing scar, he’d find himself giving in more and more. His back would soften against your chest, fingers curling at your forearms wrapped around his front.

By the one hundred and eighty-fourth day since the incident, Johnny still barked like a dog at whoever dared to walk in his flat that wasn’t you or a member of his family. But at least now the rest of the lads had their privileges.

At least now he let you sleep on your side of the bed – sometimes daring to curl his arm around your waist so you’d scoot over to his.

At least now he kissed you again and brushed his fingers along your cheek, or through your hair.

His strength came back at a languid pace, but his hands didn’t tremble anymore when he held a fork, so now he could eat by himself. He could lift small weights, but still couldn’t sit up on his own. That was the next achievement you both were aiming at.

His personality now shone through the fractures of the shell he'd locked himself into. The cheeky grin slowly came back like molten gold mending the fissures. That glint in his eyes - a reminder that he was alive.

You already knew it, but he didn’t – and now, he was on his way to finally realize it.

On the morning of that day, Johnny was lying in bed as you’d just finished helping him wear a pair of grey sweatpants. Your back was to him while you folded clean laundry.

He watched like a hawk each movement you made, no matter how mundane and trivial. Shame and resentment still had a tight grip on his heart, withered his soul, but the sight of you – simply there – was enough to make those feelings hush.

“Can’t believe you bloody stayed.”

You stilled in your motions, and only resumed a moment later, setting down the laundry back in the basket. Then, in your sweats and one of his t-shirts, you moved towards the bed. Sat at the edge. Lingered there for a moment as you took him in.

He was thinner. However, against all medical logic, his muscles were still there. Definitely less bulging, definitely much less defined, but there. Apparently, it takes a lot more to wear down John fucking MacTavish. However, you’d have to give credit where credit is due, and your relentless insistence in forcing him to do all the exercises as the PT instructed you, even when Johnny all but cursed at you, might have helped his muscles keep their tone.

You lay down in bed next to him, propped on your elbow with your cheek in your palm. You placed your free hand over his chest, his strong heartbeat at your fingertips.

"'cause you're too hot to drop, eh?" You quipped.

He tried to keep up with your joking mood, his lips curving into that trademark smirk he used to don so effortlessly. Differently from before, when life seemed to flow smoothly, it was short-lived. And while his heart felt like it was being torn apart, he lifted his arm and slung it around your waist, bringing you close.

You snuggled in his side for good measure. One leg of yours was draped over his two, palm still flat on his chest, and now your head lay there as well. While he’d almost returned to his usual self, these moments in which he allowed you to touch him were always sparse and rare. You’d take your fix whenever you could.

His chest still felt tight at the sight of you huddling against him. “Why do ye love me?”

His voice rumbled in his ribcage, echoing in your ear pressed against his pectorals. It perfectly scratched an itch in the back of your brain, almost giving you gooseflesh.

"Because you're pure dead brilliant.” You replied quietly, drawing shapes over the fabric of his tee, "You make me laugh, you make me happy."

Absently, you smiled – memories of your relationship even before it bloomed into love came running in front of your eyes. He could only see the top of your head, but he felt the way your cheek lifted against the cotton, somewhat scrunching the fabric.

"Can't imagine a life without you, honestly.” You lifted your head from his chest and placed a chaste kiss over it. Your shoulders shrugged, the answer being simple. "You're my Johnny."

As much as your words served as a balm to his wounds, he felt as if you were describing someone else. Attributes he was undeserving of – ones that described the man he might have been once but didn’t feel like anymore.

His hand lightly gripped your hip. All he could do was tilt his head down and plant a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a tad longer. Savoring your skin and the salt of it.

“’m the luckiest man alive,” he mumbled. The press of his mouth against your flesh slurred his words, but you caught them anyway.

Luckiest for real, you mused but didn't voice it. He didn't need a daily reminder of the sheer miracle his survival had been.

Instead, you only relished the touch of the chapped skin of his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed to block out anything else that didn’t involve that tiny, warm feeling.

"My lucky charm,” was all you could muster up to say.

He huffed. The air escaping his nose was warm as it hit the crown of your head. You could tell by the way he tensed that he was hesitant, still mindful when it came to having you close. Insecure, ashamed. But you'd linger there unless he pushed you away – hoping, deep down, he never would again.

In very Johnny’s fashion, he masked his insecurity with a lighthearted joke. “C’mon, inflate my ego a bit more.”

And you did, despite knowing it was all a façade to hide the inner turmoil he’d been brewing constantly ever since. Despite knowing he silently craved your words of reassurance, because maybe, if you repeated them enough, he’d eventually believe them, too.

A chuckle bubbled up your throat. Johnny felt its gentle rumble in his bones, and it stole a smile from him.

“You’re absolutely hilarious – you crack me up,” you continued like he asked, “Sharper wit than mine – which I thoroughly appreciate.”

You leaned your head back, reluctantly pulling your forehead away from his lips, only to be awarded with the blue of his eyes.

“You’re kind and compassionate," you sighed, "You care ‘bout others even when you shouldn’t. That’s noble.”

But then your mouth pursed, because its corners struggled to keep a smile, "You're also absurdly hot, love.”

He scoffed, giving you a look – shallow. But he couldn't deny the way the last comment made his chest puff a little.

It was unbearably hard not to burst out laughing. Difficult to keep the warmth inside, in the face of the familiarity of it all. You cleared your throat, mustering up the most serious expression you could pull at that moment.

“You’re the strongest man I know.”

And just like that, his smile was gone. The dancing flame he lit in your heart, smothered by ice. Johnny, who’d always been the gasoline to your fire, now felt like freezing water.

He shook his head, trying to hide the unease. “My strength is long gone, love.”

And even if your blood was struggling to boil against the ice he instilled, you decide you wouldn’t have that. Not in a thousand years.

Your eyes welled up with tears, as much as you tried to fight it. He sounded so tormented - you craved to take it away from him. Your fingers curled at his jaw, gently. Tilting his head, you forced his eyes to lock with yours – making sure to keep him there, focused on you.

"You, my love," you repeated, voice wavering but filled with resolve, "are the strongest man I've ever met."

Yet your words only fueled the self-hatred. He failed to see the determination in your eyes because the wounds in his brain, both emotional and whatnot, only made him perceive pity.

“I hate this,” he growled. While your fire had been smothered, his only grew. His eyes held defiance and fight, unfortunately against all the wrong things. “I hate this so damn much. I – I struggle to live, darling. I can’t even fucking stand. I’m like a useless sack of sh-”

"None of tha'." You interrupted him. This time, you sounded angry.

Hell, you understood. You were a special forces operator, too. You were in his same team. You fucking got it. The pain, the worthlessness after having been fully independent and, at least on his part, generously strong for most of his adult life.

But you weren't having it.

Your fingers held his face in place, curled at his cheeks. Not too tight, always gentle and mindful of his head injury, but firm enough to indent in the plush of his skin.

"You are Sergeant John – fucking Soap - MacTavish." You stated firmly, and while your eyes were glossy, your voice didn't hesitate this time. "You are a sniper and demolitions specialist. The best out there."

Your pupils sailed the storm in his eyes with unparalleled skill. "You've survived a gunshot to the head. You fought to live, and I swear 'ere and now, John, I'll make fucking sure you will."

Johnny found himself fighting a war he couldn’t win. And while he wasn’t used to it, he realized he didn't mind losing. He had been biting each hand that tried to feed him, to nurse him back to health.

Even yours.

He failed to see, however, that you came back each time – mangled fingers, bite marks and all.

He hated being the reason you cried, even if it was for the sheer amount of feelings that had been brewing all at once, threatening to spill over.

Without warning, he put his hands against the mattress and sat up. And because it wasn’t enough for him apparently, he grabbed awestruck-you by the hips, pulling you on top of him – with no little effort – to straddle his lap. That was the achievement of the week, he thought, and with an exhausted sigh, he flopped with his back against the headboard.

He used to be able to absolutely manhandle you and place you wherever he wanted, once. Now, his chest heaved as a result of barely lifting you an inch. The concept was still hard to grasp for him, but he realized how proud he felt when his eyes landed on yours, when your gasp reached his eardrums.

And he understood, then. He might have thought that he was a useless sack of shit, but you weren’t, and steaming Jesus, he’d do it. For you, he’d take the fucking praise of having lifted a spoon without dropping the stupid golf ball you placed on it. He’d take the kisses you’d pepper his face with each time he’d bend his knee to his chest without your hands helping him fold it.

He’d take that look you were donning right there on his lap, your eyes going from heated to watery. Brows pinched. Mouth-gaped.

He’d take it like a fucking champ, and he’d be proud of it.

"Johnny,” you breathed, steadying yourself with your palms on his shoulder.

The bastard smirked; lips parted as he caught his breath.

He brought his hands up to cup your cheek. His thumb rubbed at your jawline and his fingers threaded through your hair. “How are ye so bloody beautiful, eh?”

You almost melted right then and there.

You huffed. Breathless and shaky. You leaned your cheek against his palm – perfect fit. One could hear the clicking sound it would’ve made as it fell into place.

“Gonna have to cross tha' from our achievements list." You slurred, your words as wobbly as your lips.

He hated your bloody achievements list, but he’d take that one, too.

His voice was raspy. Scratched you in all the right places. “We should put a reward for each one you tick off, mh?”

You blushed.

You did, and you weren't even ashamed of it. How many people could say that their significant other made them flush even after years together? You bet very fucking few.

Because Johnny made your heart stutter like the first time although it had been years you two shared the same bed. Johnny made your chest swell, your cheeks pink, and your panties wet even after he'd seen you naked and bent however he pleased – and he could do that with a very visible craniotomy scar on the side of his head.

You gave him a knowing look, though.

"Just a kiss," you replied, sounding a little too patronizing. Almost as if you were scolding him. "The doc said no sex, Johnny."

Indeed, now he almost looked like a child who just had his favorite new toy snatched away. A feigned pout, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. “Not even a tiny bit?”

He looked utterly gorgeous, even when he acted like this – normally, it would’ve driven you up a wall.

The blue of his irises was now a mere halo around widened, dark pupils. He took a greedy handful of the meaty part of your hip. His other hand journeyed from your jawline to your bum, and he wasn’t parsimonious there either, as he curled his fingers around the plush skin.

"What even is a tiny bit of sex, Johnny?” You huffed. Before he could reply, because you saw that cheek in his eyes, “And for the love of Christ – Don't say just the tip.”

He grinned, caught red-handed.

You fixed him with a blank stare.

And then, you spouted all the knowledge you had acquired during these months while he slept away. You went full medical encyclopedia on him. "Sex increases blood pressure, which might cause weakened blood vessels in your brain to burst, potentially leading to a hemorrhagic stroke. You could -”

Johnny barked a laugh. You ended your lecture by pursing your mouth in a tight line; rolled your lips between your teeth to hide how much the sound of his genuine chuckle had affected your heart.

He absolutely demolished you with a sentence only.

“But I sat up today, sweetheart.”

Your shoulders deflated. Utterly powerless.

He pinched the air between thumb and forefinger in the space between your faces, “Just a glimpse, yeah?”

You scoffed and briefly looked down at the spot where he’d placed you in. All by himself, no help from you whatsoever. You were so fucking proud it made you arrhythmic.

You settled on a glimpse.

Gingerly, you grasped the hem of your (his) tee and pulled it off your head. You tossed it in a vague direction behind you, eyes focused on his. Deft fingers went to unhook your own bra, and you let it fall.

Sitting up on your knees, which gave him a very nice close-up of your breasts (the lad went cross-eyed at the sight), you hooked your fingers at the waistband of your sweatpants. With one motion, you took down both pants and underwear, which pooled at your knees.

You leaned back, sitting on your rear, and pulled them both off your ankles. Much like your sorry t-shirt, they landed somewhere on the bedroom floor.

Planting your feet on each side of his thighs, you kept your knees spread and leaned back on your palms, as if to say There, enjoy.

"Better?"

Johnny’s eyes darkened instantly at the sight before him. You looked wet already for reasons unknown to him. Poor man couldn't grasp the idea that no matter how he looked, he'd always make your heart race and your cunt glisten.

Johnny slowly rubbed the back of his fingers against his lips.

“Better,” you heard him rasp.

You nodded imperceptibly, eyes never leaving his. You raised a hand and drew a map of your body with your finger, tracing a path he’d hopefully follow again, one day.

It started from your mouth, fingertip tugging at your lower lip until it bounced back into place. Then down your chin, down the curve of your throat, traveling in the valley of your breasts.

"You behave, Johnny," you breathed, letting your own hand grab a handful of your breast and squeeze. The fat bulged between the grooves of your fingers.

"Follow PT.” You pulled at your nipple, "Take your meds, do as the doctors say."

Your palm snaked down your belly until it reached your core. You spread your lips for him with your fingers, "And I'll be your first meal after recovery."

Johnny’s eyes followed your hand, hypnotized. He swore his mouth watered and he thought this wasn’t much of a reward as it was torture.

His heart throbbed against his ribs, and his eyes clocked yours once more.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, his voice thick with an unspoken need – and he would.

Johnny decided that he’d take this, too. Fucking hell he would.

Your lips quirked to the side, trying to hide the small smile of delight. The only thing you wanted was for him to get better. Small steps: he had already managed to sit up in bed by himself, so maybe the next step would be to stand up on his own, one day.

Then walk. Then run. Then train at the gym, or take you out for dinner. Fuck you senseless into the mattress. Get on his knees to make a meal out of you. Or get on one knee, holding out a ring.

And by God, if what he needed was a reward – he'd get it. Honestly, if it would help him improve, you'd give it to him every bloody day. You’d bend, break, turn, and fucking dance if he asked. As long as he stayed here, alive.

You were unabashedly wet, so there was barely any friction as you plunged middle and forefinger inside your core. You hissed at the sensation – pleasure and pain. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes closing just briefly.

You should've been embarrassed about the sound your own cunt made when you slid them out, but the way Johnny's eyes widened made you anything but. His hand dropped from his mouth onto his thigh, limp.

Utterly disarmed himself.

Sticky and wet with arousal, you placed your fingers on his lips, gently pushing them inside to rest on his tongue.

"Good man, Johnny," you breathed, your own heart thrumming, "So fucking proud of you.”

Johnny’s chest warmed and his eyes flickered between your own, his tongue automatically coming forward to taste you on your fingers. His cheek hollowed as he sucked, which did absolutely nothing to the already dripping state of you.

You scissored your fingers against his tongue, “Take it.”

His eyes fluttered closed. Sweet and salty, ambrosia on his tastebuds. The tang of you, forever impressed in his mind – a man parched of what he used to drink almost daily and had been denied for months. He thought it had been criminal of you to take it away from him for so long.

And while this totally wasn’t the most appropriate moment to think about it, he realized that you never denied him anything that wasn’t for his own good.

He did it to himself.

Which made him angry. Which prompted his hand to flit up and wrap around your wrist to keep your fingers there, snug in the cavity of his mouth – wishing he could never part from them.

The humming sound of pleasure vibrated through your hand, and you shivered in response. He grunted in a low, husky murmur – words barely muffled by your fingers, “I want my reward, pet.”

Your own eyes were hooded and heavy. He looked perfect, despite that thick scar on the side of his head. Actually, the fact that he was still here, in this plane of existence, with his brain injury - somehow alive, by sheer miracle - made him even more perfect.

You took your fingers out of his mouth. Johnny begrudgingly released them with a pop. He looked flushed and ravenous. It would’ve scared you, the voracity in his eyes, if you weren’t already accustomed to it – known it like your own, same hunger that’d been festering in your lower stomach for months.

You helped him lay back down again, making sure his head would fall softly against the pillow, back flat on the mattress. You stretched out like a cat, settling yourself on your knees between his legs.

Resting your palms against his thighs, feeling the taut muscle underneath, your fingers gently scraped over the fabric of his sweatpants. The obvious tent he sported imperceptibly twitched in reflex.

You grazed the bulge with your nails. Johnny shuddered.

Only then, you curled your fingers at the waistband of his sweats and slowly pulled down, exposing him. His cock bounced back against his abdomen once it unhooked from the elastic of his boxers.

It was your mouth’s turn to water. You’d seen him naked several times in the past one hundred and eighty-four days, but the purposes were very much different. Of course, it wasn’t only him that had to refrain from intimacy. While you could, well, DIY your way to bliss, it clearly wasn’t enough, because your body was reacting dramatically at the mere sight.

Your hand almost darted at the base. Johnny’s hips gave a tiny jerk, and you could hear the lack of sounds coming from him. He was holding his breath, almost in anticipation of what he knew would happen.

Thankfully he’d always been vocal, and when you gave the first stroke, Johnny absolutely melted. Quite literally, you saw him deflate against the pillows as if he were made of wax and your hand was fire. His lips parted in a whine you hadn’t heard in ages. Or maybe never. At all.

You decided you wanted to hear that again. Fucking pronto.

You started slowly, stroking up and down the way you knew he liked. Dragging the skin over the tip, using the honestly baffling amount of precum as lube.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Johnny always looked gorgeous, and during sex, he looked like a god.Made to worship and praise. Now, his eyes were half closed. The narrow space visible was white – he had rolled back his eyes. Lips parted by heavy pants. Brows tight, as if he was concentrating.

Because he was.

“Slow down,” he drawled, seemingly unable to have his mouth follow along with his thoughts. “Fuck, plea-“, he whined, again. That sound you were looking for. Goddamn music that could feel like silk to the touch.

Your thighs squeezed together for some needed friction, and you did as he asked. He exhaled shakily, fully closing his eyes to get a grip. Johnny’s jaw clenched. He gritted his teeth, releasing a sharp breath from his nose.

Slowly, you bent at the waist, shifting a little on your knees. Your face was right next to his length as you held it up by the base, stroking languidly.

Johnny felt your breath hit his shaft and his eyes snapped open. You saw how his chest stuttered, eyelid twitching at the sight. How the indent of your spine drew a curve that tipped at your ass, tilted up. The lashes framing your doe eyes fluttering right next to his cock. Your lips pink, as if they might have caught teeth. The sheen of his precum around your fingers.

Johnny could’ve come right then and there.

To prevent it, he slid his eyes shut again. It was useless, because he felt that plush mouth he loved oh, so dearly, leave a trail of slow kisses from his base up to his angry-red tip. Johnny hissed a string of curses, wringing his eyes closed until his lids wrinkled.

You lingered a little more on his tip with your lips barely grazing it, tasting the salt of him and reveling in the desperation he was showing. Not a bad thing – this wasn’t that kind of torment you hated to see. Indeed, you liked it.

Very much so.

“Johnny,” you whispered, “Look at me, baby.”

Johnny could only oblige; however, he did beg whatever deity up there to give him enough resolve not to cum on your hand. His eyes drifted open and the sight of you, once again, threatened to have him end the moment way too soon.

He gulped. A fruitless endeavor, because his mouth was dry and his throat stuck. He parted his lips to mumble something. Something incoherent and jumbled because his brain was haywire.

Whatever he had to say, however, came out as a choked sound. Your lips parted further and wrapped around his head. Your heavy-lidded gaze locked with his much too wide eyes, and Johnny crumbled once and for all.

“Christ,” was the first sensed word he growled. His head fell back against the pillow, but that made you still.

He moaned again. Not that sound you liked, but more like a lament – why did you stop. Your mouth left his shaft with a sonorous pop. His head lifted and he glowered – how dare you.

“Eyes on me, Johnny.”

His breath hitched, and he thought you couldn’t have looked more beautiful. His eyes softened at the order, and he gave a simple nod, trying not to look as desperate as he felt and failing spectacularly.

You grinned, and he corrected himself: you could look more beautiful.

Whatever devoted thought was about to cross his mind was stopped in its tracks when you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock. Tortuously slow.

You used your hand at the base to slap the head against the flat of your tongue while your other palm rested on his thigh, feeling how he tensed beneath you. Only then, your lips returned around his cock. The muscles in his neck bulged and the tendons tightened, resisting the urge to just flop back once again.

His hips gave yet another tiny jerk, and he bit his bottom lip. "Careful, pet," he warned you, his voice strained against the rock lodged in the back of his throat.

He reached down and grasped at your hair but did not pull, simply just holding on to give you a sense of where his hands were. He wished he could sit up and ram his cock down the back of your throat. He knew you’d take it – fuck, he knew.

But he’d used enough strength to gain the current reward, which was also the other reason why his muscles felt too syrupy to hold him up.

The tight grip on your hair almost made your eyes roll back at the promise of what it could’ve meant. The memories of how good he’d guide your head down his length made your cunt flutter around nothing.

You dived down until his tip reached the back of your throat. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to breathe from your nose.

“God, sweetheart,” he moaned. Didn’t growl, or groan. John fucking MacTavish moaned, and you were unsure whether you liked this more than the gruff sounds you were used to.

You rose up again and then rammed down. Up, and down. Again, and again. And Johnny thought he could’ve cried. His chest heaved and his lungs burned – struggling to keep up with his rapid intake of air. His thighs tensed.

“Just like tha’.” He stuttered, voice cracking at the edges, “Yes, love. Yes.”

It took a lot of him not to collapse right back against the pillow and just enjoy the feeling and the obscene sounds you were making. And while his eyes stayed focused on you because you had commanded so, he also didn’t want to deprive them of the sight that you were.

You knew his tells: breathy voice, taut quadriceps, those tiny jerks of his hips to meet your mouth. Your hand curled at the base to help you out in your endeavor, stroking lightly and twisting as your mouth still worked. Your eyes locked on him, lidded and watery. Tears down your flushed cheeks.

A fucking sight alright, Johnny thought.

With the last spurs of strength left in his body, he selfishly pushed your head down, burying your nose in his curls. He groaned a desperate “Oh, fuck”, lifted his hips to meet you halfway. With a shudder, you felt him empty himself down your throat.

The grip he had on your hair tightened to the point of delicious pain, stinging your scalp. Johnny's legs went stiff under your touch. His cock twitched, buried deep down your throat, as spit and cum bubbled at the corners of your stuffed mouth.

You didn’t fight how your eyes rolled back this time. Struggling to breathe through your nose as you obediently swallowed.

Johnny allowed himself to collapse back against the pillow. Unfocused and dazed. The way his orgasm hit, like a needle puncturing his brain, made him think that maybe you were right and he’d gone and done it – the hemorrhagic stroke, or whatever it was you said.

When you finally pulled back, Johnny looked down at you with hooded eyes. His chest was still rising and falling at an alarming pace. And just when he thought it was over, that the bliss had regrettably ended, you locked eyes with him. His mouth went dry again.

He slowly let the grip on your hair go to allow you some freedom to move. He reached out to touch the side of your face. His thumb skimmed your lower lip, smearing the spit and what was left of him on your cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly – more than just a compliment.

You blushed. As if your cheeks could get any redder.

After tucking him back into his pants and sweats, Johnny beckoned your face closer to his. You followed his guidance, only to have him curl his fingers at the nape of your neck to tilt your head, and let his lips meet yours.

He didn’t kiss your hungrily. He savored you, allowing your lips to slot, and your tongues to mold. He tasted himself on you, and you tasted yourself on him.

Johnny tucked you under his arm, guiding you to rest your head on his chest like before.

You looked up at him, a cheeky smile on your lips. Tapped your fingers over his heaving chest.

“Slow breaths,” you instructed, “Keep the blood pressure low, baby.”

He huffed, “Fuck off, darling.”

You laughed and nuzzled against him. Johnny could only chuckle with you – could only think you were a vision. And when your face lifted to prop your chin on his chest so your eyes could meet, when your smile beamed in his direction, he was sure you were one.

"Now will you," you tapped his nose with your finger, "Cooperate a little more?”

Johnny snorted.

His lips curled into a tiny smirk. His cheeks were flushed as well, a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes were droopy and a little dreamy when he took you in. You looked so beautiful his heart could’ve stopped, and if that were to be the last thing he saw, he would've died a happy man.

You were proud of him, and for the first time, he was proud of himself, too.

He fell silent and only basked in your glow, reveling in the sunlight you brought. The arm that held you by your waist traveled upwards, and he curled it around your head. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tangling with some of your hair as well.

And Johnny thought he’d take it. He’d take it any day.

“Get that achievements list,” he whispered, “Wanna cross that shite myself.”

#john mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #john 'soap' mactavish #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #soap x you #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod mw3 #ao3 #fanfic #cod smut #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #foxy

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klownfuckery · 4 months ago

Note

I love the way you write 👉🏻👈🏻 May I request some more Franco from you? Perhaps with a reader who is fascinated by him and follows him around only to panic when he spots her! (Totally not based on my behaviour ingame) Thank you! 🩷

Yes ofc 🫶 Sorry for the late reply. I’d kept making drafts for this ask and every-time I thought I was finished my brain was all like, ‘… yeah, that’s great. But what if we re-wrote it again? 🥴’

Anywho, hope you enjoy :P

.*✩Franco il Bambino Barbi/Reader ✩*.

Surviving in the Sinyala facility was no small feat, some took to their new living conditions more easily than others— like fish to water. You were not among those lucky few. If you were to continue the trend of using comparisons, you’d suppose you’re more akin to that of a sad little sardine. Flopping about awkwardly on the docks, waiting for somebody to grant you pity and mercifully nudge you back into the water.

Whereas others would brazenly leap into the fray, stun-rig ready at hand; you would creep around the perimeter of the trial-grounds. Scavenging and scouting, giving call-outs when able to. Never had you been a confrontational person, and if your teammates wanted to take a more combative stance, who were you to get in the way of that? You’d still support them, of course. Safely. From a distance.

It was during another such occasion, when you’d been helping chuck hearts at the Futterman targets. It wasn’t morbid once you got used to it, and as long as you didn’t think too long about the squishy organ in your hand— well. It was almost enough to not question where the hell a seemingly infinite amount of vital organs were coming from. Almost.

Creeping through the gloom of the faux diner to re-arm yourself with more hearts, you quickly scrambled under one of the booths with bated breath as the diner’s bell jingles cheerfully. Something, or someone, has followed you inside.

Through infrared goggles, you watch, transfixed, as the newest prime-asset, ex-mafiaso, Franco Barbi, stalks forward.

It was silly to admit even in the sanctity of your own mind, but you’ve always been a fan of those detective novellas. More specifically, their frightfully charismatic antagonists. You swore up and down, it was sheer happenstance that Franco unknowingly managed to check all of your boxes— and not the man himself.

You don’t think he can see you, at least you’d hoped so. The man’s eyesight is poor, and even poorer in the dark. You’ve used this against him more times than you could possibly count— and it was admittedly a little funny to watch the mobster huff and pout with you just a mere few feet away. One could even say he was almost… endearing like that.

Despite walking mostly blind, Franco moves with the confidence of someone who owns the joint— or more likely someone who knows nobody else could possibly lay a finger on him. That speculation is only exacerbated by the sight of his pinstripe suit. Neatly pressed— or as neat as one’s clothes can be in here. The desired look is heavily crippled by the generous smattering of ruddy spills staining the once pristine fabric. His shotgun, Lupara, hangs loosely from his hand like an afterthought. The way he carries it utterly flippant. As if it’s presence isn’t a herald of death, and just… is. Like a an extension of himself, a limb. There was no Franco ‘il Bambino’ Barbi without Lupara.

The man’s eyes seem to glow through the lens of your goggles, pupils reflective and giving a ghostly-look as he surveys the area. Lopsided grin growing, crooked teeth bared as he takes in the overturned chairs.

“ ‘S a real cozy joint,” he muttered, his voice a pleasant rasp. His tone was casual, but there was an edge hiding beneath it, a simmering promise of violence. “Real nice place for a late-night chat, don’t’cha think, Sweetness?”

His wing-tipped shoes crunched on broken glass as he sauntered further in, his gaze sweeping across the room. His grin widened, baring crooked teeth in a lopsided sneer. “You’s cozy in here, Sweets?” he called, his voice deceptively teasing, almost familiar.

You fought the pounding in your chest, the desperate thrum of adrenaline urging you to run, move, do something. The only thing stopping you was a heavy dose of self-preservation. Realistically, he’d hear you before you could take two steps, and you’d end up a gorey, painted smear on the business-end of Lupara. Not only that, but another part of you was morbidly fascinated.

So, like any other sane person in your shoes, you lay still. Crouched low to tiled floor, and watched.

Franco paused near the counter, his engorged head tilting again as though he were listening. His breath rasped in the silence, heavy and uneven. Then he chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made your stomach churn with unease. He reached out, dragging Lupara’s sawed barrel along a nearby table, the sharp scrape setting your teeth on edge. A wordless threat meant to rattle you, and holy-hell does it get the job done.

“You’re not playin’ fair, doll,” he drawls, voice taking on a mockingly hurt tone. Nasally in pitch, wobbly, as if he’s about to cry. “I thought we’s had somethin’ special.”

Abruptly, he fired without warning.

The booth beside you splinters in a deafening blast, plates clattering and metal screeching. The reverberation rings around in your skull, causing you to jolt in surprise— for a moment believing you’d been shot. In your panic, your cranium thuds against the underside of the table. Pain throbs through your skull, causing you to whip your hands clasped over your mouth, stifling the reflexive cry that threatened to escape. Above, the countertop rattles with your movement, betraying your presence.

Franco stills.

For a horrifying moment, you thought he’d heard you. Through the lens of the goggles, you watch him crouch low, one hand reaching out to grope blindly under the ruined booth. His fingers curled, grasping at empty air.

“C’mere mommy,” he mutters darkly. But when his hand fails to find you, he sorely swears under his breath. He then rises back up onto his feet, kicking at the splintered wood like a frustrated child denied dessert.

“Fuckin’ slut, givin’ me the slip.” he roars, spittle dribbling down his lip. The man’s stocky shoulders quake, panting heavily in enraged exertion. For a moment, you think he’s about to double down, rip apart every booth in a mad-rage until he found you. However, in the next moment, he’s taking a deep, stuttering breath. Already back to his smarmy collected calm in the next exhale.

With a disgruntled sigh, he straightens himself out. Wiping his mouth, gloved hand then reaching to fuss with what little hair he has left. When he’s ensured it was coiffed presentably back into place, he slung Lupara over his shoulder, meandering back the way he came.

As the bell jingled again, signaling his exit, your shoulders sagged in relief. The once palpable tension in the air melts, leaving you a trembling, boneless puddle. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Somehow, you’d slipped by him again. But you knew this definitely wouldn’t be the last.

#the outlast trials #outlast #outlast trials #franco il bambino barbi #franco barbi #franco barbi x reader #fanfic

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abigailovesz · 2 months ago

Text

FISHING FRENZY

pairing: jj maybank x fem!pogue!reader

synopsis: fishing together, and finally at peace away from the pogues

warnings: swearing, fluff, slight touching, pet names, mentions of nudity(no smut).

"RISE AND SHINE, BABY" jj was stood in the doorway of his room, you were laid naked on the worn out bed jj basically took without asking john b, like he cared. jj had been talking non-stop about 'fishing' down at the docks since the fish had rose up near the docks and most near the marsh after the big hurricane, he talked about it every chance he got yesterday, like, he wouldn't stop.

you grumbled, turning your head to look over your shoulder at him. "jj, its too early dude" jj hummed mockingly as if he was thinking. "dont care, and i also don't care if i have too drag you out of that bed, mama" you swiped a piece of hair out of your eyes and nodded. "fine, fine" he smiled and turned around to continue fixing the fishing pole he broke about 2 weeks ago.

after getting dressed and ready, you walked down the chateau's hallway and got met with a very exhilarated jj. he had a fishing pole in his left arm and a tackle box in the right. "m'kay, beautiful, ya ready?" he smiled and walked towards you, holding his arm out which you took, latching your arm around his since his hands were full.

"okay, first, i know you dont really know how'da fish so im gonna give you pointers." he smirked, glancing at you. a sigh left your mouth and you gave him an obvious, "no" look. you would be hearing his fish talk for at least 30 minutes. nope.

"jj, i don't need pointers baby, you can just show me, easy" you both walked out of the sliding door and got hit with a summer breeze immediately. "jesus fuck, its hot damn" he said, making a "phew" sound through his closed lips. "mmhm," you hummed, stepping down the wooden steps with him and onto the dirt ground.

after a very short drive in the twinkie to the dock, both of your flip-flopped feet hit the pavement, your hands holding crackers and cheese while jj held the fishing pole and tackle box. he practically skipped around the van to you in pure happiness. you never fished with him, only watched. with the pogues so this was new. "huh, your in a good mood aren't ya?" you chuckled, squinting your eyes up at him from the sun blasting all its light straight at your face, or, at least it felt like that. "sure am." he spoke, moving his head side to side with each step the two of you took, flip flops flopping against the pavement then hitting your heels.

you put the zip lock bag of cheese and crackers down onto the wooden plank of the dock. JJ was crouched down, putting bate onto his fish hook and fixing the gears of it. leaning your forearms against the railing while looking out at the swamps of beautiful grass and the seagulls flying up in the sky, god, you loved this place.

"okay, now, im gonna get behind ya, and your just gonna pull when i tell ya, m'kay baby?" he stood up with a content sigh, carefully lifting the hook over you, as well as his arms before encircling your upper body with the two of his arms around your own and his hands wrapped around the base of the fishing pole. "comfortable?" he turned his head that was on your shoulder, his eyes looking directly at yours from the side.

"yep, so, i just pull up when you tell me, right?" you asked, head slightly turned while your eyes trained on his. "yeah, so, ill just yell pull and you pull, i mean, pull-" he stuttered and you chuckled, "yeah, yeah- i pull when ya say, i get it." you looked back at the water, his chin comfortably sitting on your shoulder while looking at the water as well.

after about an hour of non stop talking and re-doing the bait, finally, the line pulled, and pulled. "pull, pull" jj said fastly, his smile soft while watching you reel the line with ease, somehow. "oh, god- j, i think its like, huge" you wince when your hand ached from pulling and he immediately took control and reeled it up easily. you let out a long breath, rubbing your thumb around the cramp in your palm, it wasn't too bad.

jj pulled up the fish, looked like a fat red fish. and laughed, " ha, look at that one" he grabbed the end of the line and his other grabbing the slimy fish. "ew ew" you repeated, moving the back of your head to smoosh against his chest. it was gross, like, slimy and all. "what? its cute, look at em" he teased, moving the fish tauntingly close to your face. but then he stopped when you laughed and turned your face away. "ew! jj it smells like rotten school glue."

he made a face with a loud laugh. "rotten school glue? thats all ya got?" he teased, unhooking the silver hook from the fish's mouth and throwing it into the bucket he brought. "uh huh, cause it does!" you smiled and bent down to grab the zip lock of crackers, ripping the plastic top of the crackers and taking one out of the small ritz bag. "oo! i want one, please?" he smiled, wiping his fishy hands on his cargo pants. you rolled your eyes but your lips curled up immediately.

"here ya go." you held out 2 crackers to him and he fastly grabbed them. his body came back behind yours, his elbows back on the railing while he ate the crackers right next to your ear, the sound making you laugh. "dude, i can hear ya munching." you turned your head to him "so? " he chuckled, his hand moving down to your hip and trailing up your waist under your hoodie and up to your chest, normally resting his palm on your boob. it was normal. what he was doing, i mean. "so, you had fun today yeah? its gettin' late" that was true. the sunset was beautiful above you and it had been 2 hours since you both arrived at the dock.

"yeah, m'tired" you said, lazily rolling your head onto your palm which was holding your cheek up for the sake of your elbow against the rail. "aww, ya need me to carry you?" he teased, but he wasn't lying, he was gonna carry you. "mmhm?" you spoke with hope, you'd been standing for awhile. "thought so, come on mama, on my back" he brought his hand out of your hoodie and tapped your ass, making you whine playfully. "come on whiney pants, hurry" he bent his knees and turned his head over his shoulder.

you slung your hands over his shoulders and lifted yourself up and wrapped them around his waist. surprisingly, he carried both fishing pole and tackle box, plus you. "so, we're doing that more often right?" you asked. he smiled and continued walking down the dock.

"yep, me'n you, always."

song that kinda feels like this fic-

#꒰ ˙ my works. ﾉ #jjmaybank #jj maybank #outer banks #obx x reader #jj thoughts #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank obx #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank smau #Spotify #jj x reader #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj

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tmnt-l0v3rrr · 5 months ago

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Bay! Donatello x Reader

Warnings!

Suicide, Suicide attempt, depression, Reader needs a break, Severe worry, Yandere tendency, Yandere Donatello

Overall, dark content.

818 words

It had been a long week, a long month, a long year even. You were just so tired of it all.

It was the same shit every single goddamn day. Wake up, 6:30 AM, get ready for work, Eat to keep your iron levels up, text donnie you're heading out to work and that you love him, get on the subway at 8 AM, work your ass of until 9 PM, get back on the subway, struggle with your shitty lock cause your landlord refuses to fix it, change into home clothes and pass out. Everyday for the past two years.

You were so sick and tired of getting yelled at by customers, everyday. About the stupidest shit ever too.

At this point you’re just really fucking tired of being alive. You had talked to Donnie about it a couple times, he always said the same thing, that he was here for you and he’ll always help. But after so long that doesn't matter, It gets dilaudid to just words, their meaning being lost a long time ago.

…….

You weren't thinking right, your body moves aimlessly but swiftly, akin to a ghost.

You saunder your way to the bathroom, mind blank and fuzzy, but won’t shut up. Like TV static, Loud and annoying but quiet at the same time. You felt desensitized to your own body and mind. Before you could really think about what you were doing, you were in the bathroom, the medicine drawer open, the bottle of medication taken out and opened on the counter.

You slugged back pill after pill, leaning your head down into the sink to drink from the tap. You take a deep breath and flop down on the bathroom floor, the tiles cold on your flushed skin. It felt nice, cooling.

Your head spun and you gagged and held vomit down every so often. Your hand digs into your pocket, fishing for your phone. Taking out earbuds and some gum before getting to the cold device.

Struggling to work your hands, the phone drops and cracks a little on the tile. You let out a groan of annoyance but pick it up and eventually end up unlocking it.

Opening your missed texts from the last few hours well you were at work. A few from Donnie, nothing important, he had just been asking what you were doing. Ah he must have checked your location.

You struggle to type, but you manage to type what you can. Just a short “I love you, stay safe Donnie.” You let your phone slide off your hands to the ground. You wrap your arms around your torso. You really wished donnie was here… you hadn’t seen him in a couple days due to work and whatnot. Your eyes fill with salty tears and regret. You really missed Donnie.

The pinging of your phone keeps you grounded. Donatello was spamming you. Looks like he got the point of the message…

A few cold, silent minutes pass. You sit slumped against your bathroom wall. You quickly jump from your pretty much passed out state by the sound of the lock of your bedroom window being snapped off.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you hear Donnie’s footsteps racing to your living room, past the bathroom. “Sweetie? Please- where are you.” Godamnit he sounds like he’s crying. You can hear a small sniffle and his gear shifting along with him. Soon enough your bathroom door swings open with a very worried looking donnie staring down at you.

He sees the empty and discarded pill bottle, His eyes widen and he brings a hand to his mouth. Oh, how such a small thing tells such a gut wrenching story…. He bends down and places a cold hand on your jaw.

“Oh- honey..” He hugs you gently, rubbing your back in slow circles. He picks you up by under your arms, then brings you to lean over the toilet. He lifts the seat and bends you over the water. “Okay… just hold on sweets” He gingerly held the bottom of your jaw, prying it open before shoving two fingers down your throat, hitting your gag reflex pretty hard. Donnie quickly takes his fingers out as you gag and puke into the toilet.

“Good job, keep puking. You got it..” With your puke comes tears, you didn’t know what you were thinking, you were upset and didn’t know what to do.

A couple minutes of puking passes and you slump against Donnie, his cool plastron being nice against your hot and flushed body. He rubbed a hand up and down your forearm with sweet coo’s of reassurance.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” His voice was shaky but relieved. “I think I’ve done enough.” You huff and rest against him. Too tired to hear or really care what happens next.

“Let’s get you home.”

#tmnt x reader #donatello x reader #yandere donnie #yandere donnie x reader #tmnt fanfiction #tmnt bayverse

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shadowcitrine · 1 year ago

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Sunbathing

Before the outbreak there's a girl who keeps teasing Daryl.

Daryl's pov. Angry Daryl. Daryl and named OC. Kind of dirty.

18+ You're responsible for the content you consume.

First post nerves.

Of course she was here! She was everywhere he fuckin’ went. It was like she knew when he needed space and had some sick twisted need to devour what little time he carved out for himself. That stupid fuckin’ Mather's girly is just laying out by the river bank, arms beneath her head like she owns the whole god damned river and the sun is shining down on her over the tree tops like it agrees with her.

Picking up the fishing pole, Daryl's fist tightened around it, his face screwing up in anger makin’ his whole head hurt twice as much. He lets everyone walk all over him, but not anymore, not today. Especially not stupid Mercy who parades around in her dumb tiny shorts and ugly cut off shirts.

Taking the pole over to a shady spot he throws himself down, landing with a grunt. Digging through the little box of feathers he keeps in a tin till he finds a few small ones to tie on. If Mercy is watching him behind those dark glasses of hers he can't tell, not that he was lookin’ anyway. Not that he cares.

He cast the line, sticking the pole in the ground to light a cigarette and wait. She hasn't said a word and it's so unlike her that he thinks she has to be asleep. It's the only time she ain't asking him a million questions or trying to order him around. He stamps out the first butt and lights another. Takes him nearly all of the second one before he can hear the water trickling by beyond the anger pounding around in his head. Takes him even longer to realize his line has too much slack. The reel clicks quietly, a familiar lullaby that usually helps empty his head but not this time, not today.

Mercy still ain't talking. It's the longest they've ever been around each other without her at least sayin’ hi and now it's bothering him. He came out here for peace and now her silence is eating him alive. Not like bein’ around her does him any good. Never has, not even when they were kids. Just to try and take his mind off of her he starts reeling in the line, puffing on the smoke between his teeth but the harder he tries not to think about her the more he does.

That girl sighs and it draws his attention away from his half hearted attempt at fishing. She's still just layin’ there, knees now bent. Her shorts are digging into the upper parts of her thighs making little dips there that make his fingers itch to touch. She's just some annoying girl that he doesn't even like.

Then she moves again, rolling to her knees in the dirt, dead grass clinging to her back she's digging in a small cooler. Picking out some red white and blue ice pop she stuffs the wrapper inside before flopping back down on the ground. Still, not a single word out of her. She sick? High?

The more he looks at her painting her lips with the cherry end of the ice cream the more he's bothered by her silence because he can't help but see something else in his head. The way her tongue swipes across her bottom lip collecting the sticky sweetness there makes him tense in a way he shouldn't be around her but can't seem to help.

“Why ain't you sayin’ nothin’?” He asks. It just sort of bubbled up.

She takes her time answering sucking on the end of it making a soft lewd noise that makes his dick twitch. “Thought I talked too much Dixon?” there isn't even any anger in it. She's acting like she isn't even bothered by him being there watching her suck half the ice cream in to her mouth like she suckin’ cock.

“You do.” He drops the spent butt on the ground, his fishing pole forgotten.

She hums again around her snack, lips making a slurping noise around it like they do on titty channels that come on late at night. “Want me to ask you how you got that shiner?” She turns her head to look at him and if she notices him move his leg to hide his half chub she doesn't say.

Mercy runs a tongue along the underside of it catching drops of it before it can land on her tits and he's silently hoping she misses just one. Then his dick is coming alive thinking of her swearing the melted sugar water across them, swirling the red end over a nipple until it's rock hard. He don't need to be thinking about her like that but he can't look away.

She sits up holding in her mouth, cheeks hollowing around it and he swears she's doing it on purpose. No, she knows what she's doing and this–this tease is secretly eating up the attention. Mercy grabs the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head. She isn't wearing a bra or even one of her bright colored biking tops, no, she isn't wearing anything at all now ‘cept them frayed shorts of hers.

“Put your shirt back on Mercy!”

She lickin on the end for a moment, watching him watch her. He can't not think about how her ice cream is smaller than his dick. “Stop actin’ all mad.” She drops her head back.

Stop actin’ mad? Stop actin’ mad! She's doing this to fuck with him cause he doesn't wanna talk to her. He can see it in the way she smiles at him before biting off the last of the cherry flavor. Knows it when she leans back on her elbows to push her tits out on full display. She does all this shit just to fuck with him and he can't even figure out why! She treats him like he's nothin’! Tryin’ to push all his god damned buttons! Fuck her and fuck this!

He has to readjust himself as subtly as he can just to stand up. Even being mad at her doesn't stop his cock from throbbing, doesn't stop the ache. Then he's mad all over again because this is Mercy he's thinking about. Bitchy, awful, needy Mercy who comes over and smokes pot with Merle. The same girl who laughs whenever his brother calls him some stupid girl's name. This same girl who tries to lay against him on the couch when Merle leaves to go get more beer because she's lonely.

He's shaking his head. “I ain't in the mood for your shit. ‘M goin’ home.” He hates her. Hates the pink strip of colored hair that falls over her shoulder. Hates the way his brain has already memorized the trail of blue melt that's dripping on the swell of her breast and racing for her dusky nipple.

“If you stay–” she shouts loud enough for him to hear. “I'll let you touch em'.”

He even hates himself at this moment because now his feet are planted in the ground. Needing a distraction he lights a cigarette he doesn't even smoke. “The fuck you think I wanna touch your tits for?”

Mercy shrugs. “You keep staring.”

He snorts a breath of air through his nose. None of it even means anything to her, she's just messing with him. Always messing with him and he was tired of being nice. “You're the one who whipped em’ out to get me to look. What did you expect?”

Her face twists up. “I'm sun bathing asshole! I was the one who was here first!”

“And you ain't pretending to give the world's shittiest blow job with that thing?” He takes a hit off his cigarette nodding to the sweet melting in her hand. Her face is turning red, the tips of her ears are burning in embarrassment. He's turned the tables on her, called her out on her little game and she can't take it. Some distant part of him feels an inkling of pride at that. Her lip curls and he's moving towards her one slow step at a time.

“I changed my mind. Get fucked!” She throws down her ice cream in the grass.

Letting out a soundless laugh he's next to her now. Daryl's looking down his nose at her, the blue melt finally falling off the tip of her breast. “You wanna suck cock? Here it is.” Then he's grabbing himself through his jeans.

He blames the fact that there's no blood left in his head for why he's acting like this. That he needs her good and pissed off and disgusted all so she'd quit trying to get on his nerves all the damn time. He wants her to hate him as much as he hates her. Only, she ain't pushing him away. No, she's licking her sticky lips as she looks up at him behind those big ugly glasses.

“What? Can't figure out how a belt works?” He asks her. He's goading her to yell at him, but she hasn't yet. He sticks the smoke in his lips bending down to grab her hand. He pushes her fingers against the buckle when he stands back up. “C'mon! You want it so bad you're going to have to take it out yourself.”

Mercy bites her bottom lip as she twists to sit on her knees in front of him. His heart stutters in his chest when she begins to tug on the strap and he nearly laughs. She was so desperate she was actually going to suck him off. She's silent for probably the second time in her whole life as she undoes his belt.

#daryl dixon #twd #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dix pov #daryl x oc #the walking dead #firstpost nerves #i'm working on it #kinda dirty #daryl pov #short

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ladykailitha · 1 year ago

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It's rantin' time! That lovely time when your favorite neighborhood steddie author flies off the handle.

Today I want to talk about the physicality of one Edward Munson and how the fan seems to have veered completely off the map.

The fannish notion that Eddie is weak, uninterested in the outdoors, and is clumsy.

But I've never seen anything that suggests any of that.

As always, headcanon what you want. I'm not say you can't say any of these things are what you think he's like, but this is me expressing my confusion because I haven't seen the evidence myself.

Let's start with the one that confuses me the most. That he's clumsy.

We see him leap onto lunch tables and off again without stumbling. We see him jump down off of Skull Rock and land neatly on his feet. We see him climb up the tree in the Upside Down and then safely get back down. All things that require a certain amount of grace.

The only time we see him stumble is when he's joking around with Chrissy or when the earthquake happens.

Admittedly he does have that weird loping run, but not always.

So where does this come from? My guess is that BTS of Joe Quinn tripping over the vine, and people who have only seen the gifs think that he's like that all the time?

This next point bleeds into the notion that he's weak (noodle arms etc.) and that's when he manages to pull himself up using the rope ladder to get out of the Upside Down.

He flops onto the mattress but it looks like he planned it that way as he grins and says that was fun. But to get to that point, he had to climb up the rope ladder.

Now before you tell me that it was adrenaline, he wasn't in immediate danger. He was motivated, sure. But no amount of motivation would get me up that ladder because I've never had the arm strength for it. But next to Steve he looks like he went up the easiest.

The next piece of evidence that people will blame on adrenaline is pinning Steve to the wall of the boathouse and that he had the element of surprise. Yeah...no. He pushes Steve several feet before they hit the wall.

Then there is the hauling of the metal sheets that him and Dustin use to armor the trailer so the demobats don't get in. They can't have been light.

Or grabbing both Mike AND Dustin by the scruff of their necks and yanking them to their feet. Which the average persons couldn't do. One of them, maybe, but both? Takes some serious strength.

Another nod to his endurance at the very least is how he's sitting, crouched, butt above the ground when he's talking to them at Skull Rock. He sits like that the whole time.

I would say that his strength isn't more or less than Steve's only different with the different muscles that they use.

Finally we have a hatred of the outdoors.

He falls into the lake, swims to shore, survives the cold March night wet, manages to find a new walkie talkie and water canteen, gets to Skull Rock and radios the Party. All without a compass, by the way.

He also knows where War Zone is. None of the rest of the Party knows where to go to stock up, but he does.

I'm betting that Wayne took him hunting and fishing as a kid. Back then those were things that you could do fairly cheaply and often food was brought back with them from such trips.

Eddie knows how to survive in the wilderness. Whether or not he likes it, I suppose is entirely up to you, but the evidence suggests that he doesn't mind it.

#my writing #stranger things #ladykailitha rants #eddie munson

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tarot-archives · 1 year ago

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Wasted Summers— Laios Touden

Mermaid Au. Modern AU. this fic involves drowning.

i. fish out of water

Laios has to take a bike to the market. His house was far from the rest of the village so it was up to him for tonight's dinner. His dad wasn’t home yet while his mom was busy with housework. That leaves the responsibility to him, the eldest Touden son.

On the way, he saw someone or some animal flopping around the asphalt. Laios pulls on the brakes before he can make roadkill then his eyes widen. Despite its bare upper torso which would attract most few, the boy’s eyes land on the half-fish lower end of its body. Mermaids, beings once marveled as legends but had become a local attraction.

Despite its human half, mermaids are labelled as unintelligent creatures by most of scientific society. They lack means of communication, they have the intelligence of a five-year-old and have yet to show other uses than eye candy. Some exotic dealers trade them too. Perhaps as a meal or something far worse in the black market.

Laios picks up a stick and whips it in front of the mermaid, “Get out! Get back to the sea! Shoo!” And like other animals, it tries to get away from him. But it doesn’t return to the sea. Instead, the mermaid waddles itself up the road to the direction of the shrine on top of a mountain, much to Laios’ disappointment.

“I said go back!” Laios stomps in front to scare it off, yet the mermaid persists. The noise it makes as it tries to waddle is a bit cute. He notices that with each noise Laios makes it grumbles, like a reply. It’s similar to a barking dog but looking at it struggle makes it sad. Its human half makes it difficult for him to be scary.

“That’s not the sea” The blonde makes an X with his arms” That’s the shrine. Not your home, a Shrine.”

And from a single word, the mermaid looks at him excitedly, then points to the top. It takes Laios aback from its reaction. Does it understand?

Laios wets his lips, “Are you heading to the Shrine?”

The mermaid nods enthusiastically, making him excited. A mermaid understands his language. A mermaid understands his language.

They can communicate! So it was possible to talk to them. He had read so much about marine animals and his sister took an interest in mermaids before. There were activist groups promoting mermaids' rights, fighting for their independence, and protesting against hunting. He’s seen those people outside of supermarket stores handing out pamphlets for mermaid awareness.

“We should get you— oh right,” he scoops the mermaid up into his arms to clear themselves from any incoming traffic as he heads to the beach. “Let’s talk about it somewhere else.”

Laios abandons his grocery duties as he spends the rest of his day with the mermaid.

ii. a notebook and a handkerchief.

For the past few days, Laios has been by the beach to talk with his mermaid. It made him feel special that some amazing creature like that was friendly towards him. Sure there were reports about mermaids drowning people, but he was careful. These conversations—er uhm— data were discovered on the shoreline. Laios noted that the mermaid had a good memory. And if he wasn’t feeding it with half of his lunch. The mermaid still points towards the shrine.

“Do you have anyone you know?” Laios asks, but the mermaid tilts its head.

“Person? Shrine?” Laios Points to himself and then to the building. Still, the mermaid doesn’t have a new reaction.

“Shrine?” he points to the building, and the mermaid nods once more.

“go?”Laios dropped to the pebbled ground and imitated the waddling mermaid from yesterday.

He sits up and then points to it to, “You?”

Its eyes widen as if it understands then waddles away to swim back into the sea. Maybe it went back home. They don’t have the concept of saying goodbye, after all, he thinks.

Laios waited for a good minute or so before deciding to call it a day. However, as he was about to depart, he heard stones being turned at the shoreline. He looks back and is happy to see his mermaid but with a handkerchief in hand.

“La-os! La-os!” it waves the fabric around proudly.

iii. mermaids are not meant on land.

The following day, Laios takes his father’s wheelbarrow with him and a bucket. He filled it up, bucket by bucket with seawater as he intended to take the mermaid through it. But of course, his mermaid was a curious one. Laios didn’t have to persuade it to come closer and had accepted to be whisked once more in his arms. It sits there snuggly, lucky for him it didn’t thrash around.

It simply points up to its awaited place, “Sha-rine?”

“Yes, Shrine,” Laios lifts the wheelbarrow and rolls upwards to the mountain. It was a cloudy day perfect for a walk and they took breaks here and there. He made sure it stays moist by taking the water from the wheelbarrow and pouring it over its head. When it started to splash around to play, Laios had to scold it to stop. And he noticed that in this journey, the mermaid likes to be held. It kept on pulling his hand over its head for head pats. Laios wanted to indulge in it too, it’s a bonding activity that heightens trust, but maybe for another day.

After an exhausting attempt, Laios has succeeded in bringing it up to the shrine. It splashes around clearly excited to break free.

“Wait, hold on, let me- argh!” The wheelbarrow leans to the side, making the mermaid fall. He urgently went by its side to check for any injuries, and luckily there was none. Laios presses both his palms into her, “Stay. Here.” But as soon as he tries to leave, it waddles again.

“La-os!” it wiggles around. It was displeased with the new terrain. “La-os. mhmm, Sha-rine. Kership.”

Laios tried his best to keep it calm but it was too exciting.

“Who is there?” A voice asks. The loud noise alerted the groundskeeper and he stared at both Laios and the mermaid. The blond noticed the way the groundskeeper gripped his broom upon seeing the mermaid.

In an instant, he shields it, “Wait, don’t be alarmed!”

“Kid, get out of the way,” the groundskeeper raised his weapon, ready to strike. “You have a dangerous animal behind you!”

He doesn’t budge, “Please Listen, it’s harmless!” Laios tries his best to seem friendly. It was a common understanding that churches deemed mermaids as devils luring sailors to death. But that was a stereotype made in bad faith against women.

“Harmless?” The groundskeeper was disgusted at the notion. “That animal attacked me! Don’t be fooled boy. they might appear kind, but they’re just lowering your guard waiting to attack.”

“But it made it all this way to give something,” Laios grabs the broom the throws it to the side. “I know that they’re just no better than animals, but this one is smart. It wants to return something.”

“Get out!” the groundskeeper pushed Laios making him land on his butt. The mermaid rushes to Laios side seeing he was attacked. The mermaid hisses and curl its fingers as if to strike against the offender. But Laios pulled it back, its skin against his chest to make sure it didn’t retaliate.

In the end, he decided to leave the shrine and head back to the sea.

iv. humans are not meant for the sea.

Laios sits by the shoreline with his mermaid friend by his side. He was discouraged by how the groundskeeper reacted. Maybe it was because he was old, acting his mindset from his generation. Younger people like him were more understanding after all (more or less). Mermaids were not like the creatures most people played them out to be.

They were like sharks. Their identities were muddled by years of propaganda against them. Though mermaids were quite new, they still didn’t escape the lies and stereotypes held against them. Here he is, waiting as the golden sun sets before he heads home. Laios likes how the light bounces off its scales in an ethereal glow. Ever since earlier when he had given her head pats, it was now eager to receive more as it nuzzled his side if he stopped.

“you’re not like them are you?” Laios sighed, today was an unfulfilling day. “you’re not like the humans with their biassed judgement.”

The mermaid doesn’t understand, it simply nudges its head against his palm.

“I wish I wasn’t human,” he lets out this foolish idea. Laios had always wanted to be something else. Perhaps, his reasons for helping the mermaid weren’t as altruistic as he thinks. After a moment, the mermaid stops in its movements. “hmm? what’s wrong?”

“La-os!” it cups his cheeks in his palms making Laios fluster. He couldn’t speak, unsure of what to interpret its actions into human behaviors. But its interest changes and it's back down again playing with the bucket he brought. But Laios looks away feeling embarrassed.

All of a sudden, a blunt force hit the top of his head, his vision was blocked, and then he felt talon sharp fingers digging into his skin as something dragged him to the sea. His heart was racing, and by the time he had removed the bucket from his head, more than half of his body was in water.

Laios claws at the grounds of the shoreface. He kicked and thrashed to break free from whatever was grabbing him, but it was a gruelling fight. This creature was strong in the water. Land dwellers like him don’t belong here.

His body needs air. Water enters his lungs as Laios struggles to escape. And with one successful hit, he had managed to escape and limp far away from the shoreline, coughing out the seawater from his chest.

He looks around to search for his mermaid, making sure that it is out of harm's way. He didn’t want the creature that tried to drown him to hurt it too. But with his friend out of the foreshore, Laios gawks at the familiar sets of eyes on the water.

It can’t be, His mermaid couldn’t have drowned him, right?

“Laios?” it tilts its head, not understanding it did something wrong. “Bakit?”

“What? Bucket?” he searched for it on the ground, but it was nowhere to be found. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s too terrified to act after that attempt that almost kill him. Maybe the groundskeeper was right. Mermaids are animals waiting for the moment to attack.

Drenched, Laios takes the wheelbarrow home. He doesn’t return for a while.

v. things to find out

In his journal, he wrote: in the same way as I brought her to the shrine on the wheelbarrow, did it mimic by using the bucket to scoop some air for me to breath in? did it try to show me its home? did it understand when I said I wished I wasn’t human? could joining it make me like it?

AN: It’s mermay! yey my first piece for this prompt. This fic was inspired by Ryoko Kui’s work titled Ryuu No Kawaii Nanatsu No Ko. It’s the second chapter, mermaid sanctuary. It’s a good read if you like dungeon meshi. it makes you understand ryoko ryu’s story telling which enhances the DMeshi experience tbh.

#laios touden x reader #laios x reader #dungeon meshi x reader #torta talks

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amazingmsme · 8 months ago

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Brotherly Antics

AN: day 2, here we go! This has been one of my favorite fics to write so far! It’s just so fun & playful, & I just love these characters so much! If you haven’t already, go watch Blood of Zeus! Now, on to the fic!

The fight was far from over, Heron knew this well. Their victory on the battlefield will be short lived, but for now, they could enjoy the rest and relaxation.

His friends remained on earth while he resided in Olympus for the time being, talking things over with his half siblings and training by their side. Their father would be proud.

Heron sat on the side of the field, drinking water as he watched his brothers spar. In a flash, Hermes ran behind Apollo, hooking both arms under his before slamming him to the ground in a cloud of dust.

"Why you little-" Apollo growled, swinging his legs to knock Hermes off his feet. His back hit the hard packed dirt with a pained groan. His eyes flew wide open as he felt an arm wrap around his legs and he began kicking with all his might, the wings at his ankles flapping frantically.

"Apollo don't! That's cheating!" he cried, a smile playing at his lips as he tried to shove him off.

"You cheated first! Attacking from behind like that, really Hermes?" he taunted as he began scribbling against the downy feathers. Hermes shrieked so loudly, it made Heron jump in shock, head snapping up to look at the pair.

"Ohoho plehease, you're just looking for ahan excuse to- NOHO WAHAHAIT!" Hermes cut himself off with a giggly squeal before hysterical cackles burst free from his chest. Heron found himself chuckling along to the infectious, goofy sound, though a blush was quickly spreading and he found he couldn't bear to watch the scene for long. He grabbed a whetstone and began sharpening his sword to appear busy, watching from the corner of his eye.

"Stick around long enough, and you'll be next," a gentle voice warned from behind, startling him enough to turn around. He relaxed slightly; it was only Athena.

"Trying to scare me away so you can have the field all to yourself, sister?" he teased, looking down to hide his blush. She snickered, something sly and knowing behind the sound.

"It was a warning. You're fresh meat for them, and if they see you sitting here..." she trailed off, looking him up and down. He squirmed under her gaze, furrowing his brows. "I'm afraid you'll be serving yourself up on a silver platter."

"That's ridiculous," he hissed, dragging the stone across the blade harshly. "They're all the way other there, and a little busy, if you haven’t noticed," he reasoned, a fair amount of sass entering his voice. "I'll be fine." Right? he didn't say aloud, but looked up at her expectantly, hopefully.

Athena arched a brow at his tone, cocking her head to look at him.

"Do you know what Hermes is the God of?"

"A lot."

Athena snorted and rolled her eyes, resting her hand atop his head and leaning on him like a table. "Be specific."

"Speed, travel-"

"Mischief," she cut him off, and he snapped his mouth shut, eyes wide. "And Apollo is almost as bad, though he may have you fooled. But, I mean, just look at who started this mess?" she nodded to the pair subtly, not keen on drawing their attention by pointing.

Heron followed her gaze, watching the pair roll around and laugh. Hermes was flopping around like a dying fish, cackling and pleading for mercy as Apollo pinched and rubbed the wings between his fingers. He scratched at the base of the wings where they met the ankle and his laughter spiked, surging forward with renewed energy to launch an attack of his own. He buried his hands under Apollo's arms and he jolted, slamming them down to his sides with a bark of laughter. Hermes let out a triumphant, giggly war cry as he fought for the upper hand. Heron smirked as they watched it all play out, but there was the faintest touch of sadness to it. These were brothers, who grew up wrestling and playing with one another, who loved each other wholeheartedly. This was everything he and Seraphim never got to have, and he bit back the vile taste of jealousy.

He wasn't jealous that he wasn't included! That's not what he meant, so don't go putting words in his mouth. He was jealous of the bond that never was; the brother- the best friend he should've had. It was like looking in a twisted mirror of what could have been.

His lip curled in a sneer as he scraped the stone along the sharp edge. "So?"

"Do I really have to spell it out?" she asked, more amused than annoyed. "You're our brother. That makes you just as much fair game as the rest of us," she teased softly. His mouth hung open in shock, but she cut him off before he could speak. "So if I were you, I'd get a head start. Hermes is quite fast."

Heron sat there frozen, looking between her and the wrestling Gods on the ground. He locked his gaze with hers, "Are you being serious?"

Athena chuckled, shaking her head fondly. "Trust me, I'm one of the few who won't pull the wool over your eyes." He nodded before heaving a deep sigh, accepting the truth of the matter. If she's right, he'll be quick work if he sticks around. So he gathered his things as quietly as he could, but by that time, he could hear their fight beginning to wind down. Still, he crept towards the exit, praying they wouldn't notice.

"Just where are you off to?"

Of course they fucking noticed.

"I'm done training," he said curtly, glancing over his shoulder to call out, trying to play it casual. When he looked ahead, he stopped in his tracks with a choked gasp as Hermes stood blocking the exit.

"Actually, I don't think you are."

"Excuse me?" he asked, tossing his things to the side, knowing it's best to ditch them now than while he's running for his life.

"You have to get a full workout. You can't just hit the weights brother, cardio is very important," he practically purred, taking a step towards him. Heron took three steps back.

"I think I'm good-"

"No, he's right brother," Apollo spoke from behind, and he tensed up when he felt a large arm rest over his shoulders. He slipped out of the hold, stepping away and turning so he could keep both of them in his vision.

"Why so jumpy Heron? Did our dear sister warn you about us?" Hermes asked with a smirk. Heron didn't move a muscle, and that was all the confirmation they needed. "She knows us so well," he mused.

"I'd hope so. Otherwise we'd need to give her a little reminder," Apollo piped up.

"I think we should anyway. She did tip him off," Hermes shrugged nonchalantly.

"Guess it's settled then," Apollo agreed. As the pair spoke, Heron took off running across the field. They gave him a few more seconds to believe he had a fighting chance before they gave chase.

Heron came to a screeching halt when Hermes suddenly stood in his path and he turned on his heels. He screamed when he saw Apollo coming up from behind, and he made a B-line for the rows of seats. He jumped over the wall into the stand, heading towards the exit. Apollo paced him on the field while Hermes circled around from behind.

Apollo jumped into the stands with ease, quickly gaining on him. Heron should've known better than to look behind him. It was the same kind of fear as when you're up high, and you look down. A small scream escaped his throat and he ran even faster.

He was grabbed from behind, and panic surged through his body. He shot forward with God-like speed, breaking free of the hold. Hermes cut him off at the last second and he froze, caught between his half brothers.

"You're trying awfully hard to escape. You must be rather ticklish to go through this much trouble to avoid it," Hermes teased, flashing him a smirk. Heron took a step back.

"No, I just know you two are awful together," he justified with a smirk of his own.

"Thank you, you're too kind," Hermes hummed, taking another step towards him, and Heron took that as his cue to start running again.

"Great brother, you let him get away," Apollo rolled his eyes.

"Relax, it's not like he'll get very far," he quipped, dashing off and returning in less than a second with a struggling Heron in tow.

"Noho, let me gooo!" He leaned back as far as he could, running in place as he tugged on his trapped arm.

"Oh dear, laughing already?" Hermes cooed, chuckling at the blush that spread across Heron's face.

"No! Shut up!" he snapped defensively. He landed with a thud on the ground when Hermes let him go, watching Heron launch himself into the dirt with his own momentum.

"Is that any way to speak to your brother?" Apollo asked, crouching down to grab his arms while Hermes straddled his waist.

"I'm sorry! Let me go!" Heron put up a good fight, trying to get away. However, he had a twitchy, nervous smile and the struggling was mostly for show.

"No can do. See, you haven't gone through initiation yet," Hermes drawled, resting his hands on his sides. "I mean, are you really our brother if we haven't tickled you until you cry?"

"What?"

"Oh please, you're scaring him. Don't worry Heron, we'll stop once you beg for mercy. We're not animals."

"No way, I'm not gonna beg from a little tickling," he argued. His defiance was adorable.

"Won't you?" Hermes asked, arching a brow. Heron faltered in his confidence.

"No?"

"Oh my, you sound a bit unsure of yourself," Apollo spoke up smugly. "What's the matter, afraid you'll crack?" he taunted. Heron grunted and strained to pull his arms down, but they were firmly pinned beneath Apollo's knees.

"I won't!" he growled, kicking his legs against the ground. Hermes smirked down at him, leaning in a little closer.

"Let's test it then, shall we?"

Heron's eyes flew wide open and he shook his head. "Wait, that's not what I meant!"

Hermes threw his head back in a shrill, hysterical cackle of his own. "Oh dear, sweet, baby brother, there really is no escape. So you might as well just accept your fate now." As soon as he finished speaking, he began squeezing his sides softly, relishing in the way Heron jumped beneath his touch, yelping before biting down on his lip. Still holding onto the last shreds of his dignity, he shook his head.

"Oh good! I was so hoping you'd go down fighting," Hermes chirped, clawing just beneath his ribs.

Heron grit his teeth together, sealing his lips shut as tight as he could, but muffled giggles and shrieks still managed to make themselves known.

"I just love it when they try to hold it in, don't you?" Apollo teased, walking his fingers down his arms. Heron jerked under the touch, arms straining to come down. His breathing came in quick bursts through his nose, sounding more like laughter by the second.

"It's only one of the best parts," Hermes agreed before clawing at his stomach. Heron immediately crumbled at the touch, allowing loud belly laughs to escape. Hermes couldn't help but giggle at the reaction, "Aww, you really are a ticklish one, aren't you?"

Heron felt a blush rise to his cheeks, and he tried to hide his face in the crook of his arm. "SHUHUT UHUHUP!"

"I didn't hear a no," Apollo pointed out, scratching his bare armpits. Heron shrieked and arched his back before flailing uselessly beneath his half brothers.

"You're one toho tahahalk!" he managed to taunt back.

Apollo gasped loudly before drilling his thumbs in the center of his pits. Heron was thrown into hysterics, and the God had to raise his voice to be heard over frantic laughter, "You little shit! Just for that-" He didn't finish his sentence, instead he brushed Heron's hair away from his neck and took a deep breath.

"Wahahait! W-what ahahare you- AHAHAHAHA OHOH SHIHIHIT!" Heron tried to scrunch his neck to block the feeling as Apollo blew a raspberry on his neck. He pulled away, watching as Heron giggled and rubbed his neck with his shoulder, panting heavily to catch his breath. "Whahahat the hehell was thahat?"

"Oh? Don't tell me you've never had a raspberry before."

Heron scrunched his face, "That's what you call it?"

"Well, that's what humans are calling it," Hermes reasoned.

"Why?"

They both chuckled, and Heron felt his face grow warm. "I don't know. Say, you're half human, why don't you tell us?" Hermes asked with a smirk. Heron whined, tugging on his arms and bucking his hips.

"Just lehet me gooo! You're being mehehean!" he giggled, throwing his head back in defeat. The mischievous pair replied in unison.

"Oh I'll show you mean!"

"What? But we're being so nice!"

Hermes rolled up Heron's shirt, taking a deep breath just as Apollo had moments before. He shook his head, eyes wide with giddy fear as he realized what was coming.

"Nohoho wait! Please, I'm sorRYYYYY!" his pleading dissolved into a shrill squeal as the trickster God blew a raspberry in the center of his stomach. Heron kicked his legs and bucked as much as he could, snorting and cackling when Hermes blew another raspberry, followed by one on each side of his belly, still quivering with laughter.

"Plehehease! You're killing mehehehe!" he squealed, eyes shut tightly and nose scrunched adorably as he laughed.

"What? Come on, you can take a little tickling, can't you?" Apollo asked smugly, scratching behind his ears and earning a choked off giggle in response. "I mean, you're half God, so it would be pretty embarrassing if this was what did you in, after everything-"

"OHOHOKAHAY I GEHET IT! SHUT UP!"

"Oh, he gets angry when he's flustered. Good to know," Hermes noted with a smug smirk, clawing at his sides.

"Noho I dohohon't!" Heron argued, blushing profusely and trying to look at anything else besides the two Gods grinning down at him.

"Agree to disagree," he shrugged smugly. He moved down to squeeze his hips, and Heron bucked with a loud, giggly shriek.

"Ohoho shihihit! Nohot there, plehease!"

"Not there, you say?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. He squeezed his hips, making him thrash with another yelp. "See, when people say that, they usually mean it really tickles. So, is this a bad spot?"

"Ihihhi'll kihihill you!" Heron growled through his laughter. They both rolled their eyes.

"Sure you will. You look quite threatening with that smile plastered on your face," Hermes taunted.

Oh, that was the last straw. Heron summoned what little strength he could and thrust it out through his hands. He latched onto Apollo's knees where they were keeping his arms pinned and let the electricity flow from his fingertips, hoping for the best.

Suddenly, Apollo jumped back with a startled shriek of his own, rubbing his knees frantically. Hermes stared at him quizzically.

"What-"

"He used his damned lightning," he explained in a rush, cutting him off. He turned to look at Heron, hoping for a truce.

"I'll help hold him down if you promise to do that to him-"

"Excuse you, but what the fuck?" Hermes snapped, staring at Apollo with a look of utter betrayal.

Heron nearly choked on the air he was sucking in. He looked at him in bewilderment, furrowing his brows.

"You do know you'll be next, right?"

"Of course, I'm just biding my time, same as you. It's why you ran, is it not?"

"Just stop talking." When they looked up, Hermes was already halfway across the field. Apollo smirked and pointed at him.

"See, if he really wanted to escape, he'd be halfway to earth by now."

"I can still hear you!"

Apollo stood and stretched, "And yet, you don't hear him denying it." He smiled down at Heron and winked, offering a hand to help him up.

"No, you don't," Heron agreed with a genuine grin of his own.

"Well, he's waiting for us to catch up. So? What do you say?"

Heron just smirked and cocked his head before taking off in a sprint.

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