#god bless him for bringing back his beard

[nicoscheer]

[moth-murdock]

My heart takes up all my strength (Frank castle x pregnant!wife!reader)

My masterlist | Series masterlist

a/n: writing my first series! This is kinda scary NGL!!!

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Summary: a fight with your husband, and a surprise

Warnings: spouses arguing, canon typical swearing, reader finds out she's pregnant, fem!reader

Other tags: Bearded Frank my beloved, but he starts out with the skin fade, Max the dog!!, frank being frank, he's living as Pete rn

Word count:2.7k

To say Frank Castle was traditional was an understatement. From the very beginning, you knew. He was the kind of guy to pick you up for dates, bring you home, and even wait until he saw you walk in the door to make sure you did get home safe. He would buy you flowers. He introduced you to his rescue pitbull, Max. He took you to places you had mentioned in passing. He had asked your dad for his blessing, like you were in a movie.

The day you were married, he refused to be in the same room as you until you were both at the chapel. He rolled his eyes and laughed when he found out you had secretly been training Max to walk with Matt down the aisle, a sight that your husband will never forget or let his friend live down. He actually honest-to-god carried you over the threshold of the small house you two had bought a few weeks ago, despite how you giggled and squirmed.

The house itself was still halfway done, needing spackle and paint in a few places. It was barely furnished, mainly just the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. But since you two were on your honeymoon, it's not like you'd really need any of the other rooms anyway.

Now, as cute as that is, you're still both only human. You have your faults, and things you do that bothers the other person. The current issue is that Frank, god bless him, is horrible at updating you on time estimates for when he'll be home. You knew about his life and his past, so you had asked him to let you know when he'd be home from work tonight. He told you no later than 5. It is now 6:30. You check your phone, but there's still no update. Only the messages you've sent him.

You almost home? 5:12

Is everything okay? 5:37

I'm getting worried, honey 5:55

Hello?? 6:07

Are you even alive???? 6:26

Dead silence from him. You knew he would often get too focused on his work and forget to check his phone, but he promised he would more often. So, you did the one thing you knew would get through to him. You got petty. Rather than wait up for him, you ate your dinner, leaving his plate uncovered on the table to get cold. You put up the leftovers, take a hot shower, not caring if there would be enough hot water left for him.

After your shower, you put on a proper set of pajamas rather than sleeping in just a bra and underwear the way you know Frank loves it. You crawl into bed, your back towards Frank's spot. You check your phone one last time, seeing that your husband, your fucking husband, has left you on read. On. Fucking. Read. Not even a simple apology, not even an 'im alive', nothing.

Oh, you were fucking fuming. You grabbed his bare essentials that he'll need for the night, dumped them on the couch, and called Max in to sleep in his place. You crawl right back into bed, silencing your phone and shutting your eyes.

Frank gets home, knowing he fucked up. It was barely 8pm and you were already in bed, a single plate left on the table, Max nowhere to be found, and his stuff dumped on the couch. Fuck. He went to the guest bathroom, taking a lukewarm shower. Fuck. You two hadn't fought a lot, much less fights that were this big, so he knew that when you didn't even care to leave him some hot water, he was in the doghouse.

And he knew why, too. He had promised to tell you when he'd be home, and you made him pinky swear to give you an update if that changed. And he didn't. So he had two options now. Either he apologized to you and admitted he messed up, or he could wait to see if you would forgive him anyway.

You are now on day 12 of being angry with Frank, because you'll be damned before you let this one slide. You've let him sleep in bed again, but you make it clear that any affection is off the table until further notice. It kills the both of you to not be able to wrap your arms around eachother, feeling an uncomfortable amount of space every night. You wake up as you have for the past 12 days, cold and disappointed.

You get out of bed to brush your teeth, hearing Frank's buzzsaw snoring cease about halfway through. Eye contact is avoided as you leave the bathroom, grabbing a change of clothes out of your dresser. Today, you thought, you were going to push it to the limit. The thing you knew would finally break him.

"Sweetheart, can we-" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Good morning to you too, Pete."

Oh. Now that got to him. He shuts up immediately, and with how fast he disappears into the bathroom, you wonder if you took it too far.

As per usual, you two hardly speak throughout the rest of the day. Frank grabs his lunch, which you have started to pack for him again, not saying goodbye before leaving for work. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

You're on edge all day at work. You snap at your coworkers, you drop stuff, you make mistakes with simple math. It's just out of the ordinary for you. What makes it worse is when you get a text from Frank about halfway through the day

Need to talk at home tonight.

Shit. God damn it. Of course he send a text so fucking unreadable in tone.

Okay you reply, putting your phone back into your bag. It feels like a live bomb, so it's a good way to make sure you aren't checking it while working.

You go through the motions of the rest of your work day, though you can feel the anxiety and nervousness boiling inside you like a soup that was left on the stove too long. It makes you feel nauseous, and you don't even touch your own lunch that day.

When you get home, you see that Frank has sent a single message.

5:30

Okay. That's fine, right? He's just telling you what time he'll be home, right? Maybe you read it in the wrong tone. What if he's super pissed? What if he hates you? What if he regrets marrying you? What if-

You are pulled out of your thoughts when a cold, wet nose presses against your leg. Max.

"Hi, baby..." You coo, petting him and watching the big dumb pittie smile spread across his face.

"You wanna go potty?" You ask absentmindedly as you reach for his leash and harness that hang by the door.

By the time you get back from your potty trip with Max, it's already 5. Only half an hour left. You take Max's harness off, making a mental note to give him a bath at some point within the week. Not knowing what to do with your time, you settle on putting the dishes from yesterday away. By the time you're done, it's 5:15. Fuck. Nothing to do but wait.

After the most tense fifteen minutes of your life, The front door opens almost silently. You might not have noticed it if Max hadn't barked and if you weren't actively watching the door from the table. Frank enters silently, petting the dog for a second before hanging up his jacket and turning to you. His gaze is heavy and intense, but you hold it. You are going to show him how much this affects you.

"So, you actually followed through this time." You speak pointedly

"For Crissake-" he huffs, running a hand through his hair

"No, Frank. Don't even fucking start with that. Do you know what that was like? For three fucking hours I got complete silence from you! You never do that! And then you don't even have the decency to reply? You left me on read, Frank! I didn't even know if you were fucking alive! You could have been bleeding out on the sidewalk, and I'd have had no idea!"

"Why would I be bleedin' out?"

"Because I know you, Frank! I know you walk into fights with minimal protection, and I've stitched up enough bullet holes and slashes and I've put your goddamn bones back into place, and- and-" you start to trail off, tears welling in your eyes because of how angry you are.

Frank goes soft for a moment, thinking you're crying because you're worried.

"No! Don't fucking do that! I'm just pissed off at you!" You clarify as you wipe your tears.

"You can't expect me to update you every second of the day, doll." He says in a neutral tone, putting a hand on his hip and the other dragging down his face

"Not every second, smartass. You know that all I ask is what time you'll be home. I don't give a shit about any reasons or other factors. Just tell me when you'll be home. I'd go fucking pick you up if you needed me to. But you and I both know very well why I worry. So don't act like the goddamn victim here."

Frank stays still for a second, processing that you're upset because you wanted to know that he was okay. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, which are chapped since you haven't been reminding him to put chapstick on.

You watch in silence as Frank makes his way over to you, his steps so quiet and yet so heavy all the same. You hiccup in a breath and wipe your tears again, opening your mouth to add another point. Before you can say anything, he had his arms around you and his face in the crook of your neck.

"M'sorry."

It's barely audible, and it doesn't even technically qualify as a word, but it speaks volumes. You want to make him say specifically what he's sorry for, but you also don't want to push it after 12 whole days of fighting.

"It's okay..." Your sniffled response is instinctual. that's just what you're supposed to say when someone apologizes.

"No, it's not." He doubles down

"I shoulda told you I was gonna be late. And m'sorry it took me this goddamn long to figure out why."

Wow. From anyone else, this would be the bare minimum. But coming from Frank? This was a big step.

"I just... I know what you've been through... And... I know who you've pissed off before... So I just wanna know when you'll be home, if at all. I feel like that's not too much to ask, right?" You sigh

"Never, doll. I shoulda been keepin' you updated from the start. That's my bad." He speaks softly, pulling back to cup your cheek gently.

You bring you own hand over his, pressing his hand further into your cheek as you press a soft kiss to the calloused skin of his palm. It's gotten worse since you haven't been reminding him to moisturize.

You two stand there for a moment, just holding eachother in your dining room. Then Frank presses the softest of kisses to your lips.

"M'sorry." He repeats as he rests his forehead against yours, your lips mere millimeters apart

"It's okay." You whisper back

"It's not."

"I forgive you anyway." You murmur before initiating another kiss, only breaking it to pinch his side

"- as long as you don't do that shit again."

Frank winces and lets out a gruff laugh, but he nods. He leans down to kiss you again, his hands trailing down to your waist. He paused for a moment, but when you gave him the go-ahead, he proceeded to spend the rest of the night making it up to you.

Frank made a promise to himself that night, that he'd never let a fight last that long again. Sometimes, he really didn't understand what he was apologizing for, but you would explain it and accept the apology anyway. Neither of you wanted to do that again.

(Three years later)

At your request (and because you hid the electric shaver), he had grown out his hair and beard. You absolutely loved it. When the two of you would watch a movie, he'd lay his head in your lap and you'd massage his scalp until he was sawing logs along with Max. His beard would tickle you when he'd press kisses to your neck, and when he'd bury his face between your thighs. His hair would also come in handy there, giving you something to tug and use for leverage as you ground your hips into his face. When you would tug it a certain way, he'd groan right into your sex, and it would rumble from his chest all the way to your core.

All was well in your guys' little world, living as Pete Castiglione and his wife. You had gotten Frank to adjust to a more domestic life, and he was more than happy to come home to a loving wife, man's best friend, and a home cooked meal almost every night (because some days you really do just need to order some takeout). Your guys' relationship was thriving, both in public and in the bedroom. He just had a way of making you a stupid mess that you couldn't get enough of.

If you asked Frank what his favorite part about you was, he'd say your smile. It was his home screen, his lock screen, the picture in the rearview mirror of his truck, everything. But inside the bedroom? It was the feeling of you wrapped around him, nothing in the way. Before you were married, he would always wear a condom just in case. But on your wedding night? He nearly came just from finally feeling you without the damn latex.

He loved to fill you up. He loved the way you'd beg for it, the way you shivered when he did, hell, he's even filled you up just to eat it right back out of you until you were crying. You were on birth control anyway, so there wasn't a risk. Right?

You notice it when you wake up one morning to the familiar notification on your phone.

A new cycle begins today!

You roll your eyes at the cheery message from your period tracker, making your way to the bathroom. But it's not there. Your app is never wrong, it adapts based on your past logged periods and adjusts accordingly. It's always right. But your period isn't here.

You decide not to panic, because for all you know, maybe it'll hit later today? Surely, that'll be the case. So you wait. But it didn't come that day. Or the next, or the day after that. On the fourth day, you're really starting to panic. You're officially late. And not the kind that can be excused by blaming traffic.

You don't tell Frank right away, not wanting to sound a false alarm. That night, you're sitting on the bathroom floor with a timer on your phone and a sleeping husband and dog in the living room. To say you were nervous was the understatement of the century. You weren't scared about being pregnant (yet), you were more nervous about Frank. You knew about Maria, Lisa, and Junior. You knew that was something he hadn't truly healed from yet.

What if he freaks out? What if he doesn't want it? What if he leaves you? What would you do? How would you pay the bills on your own? What if-

Your thoughts are interrupted by the timer on your phone going off. You quickly shut it up, lest it wake your sleeping husband. you're silent for a moment, glad to hear that he's still snoring like a chainsaw. Your hands are shaky as you reach for the small plastic device on the sink, and you almost don't want to see the results. You take a deep breath for your nerves before flipping it over. Two pink lines.

Oh boy.

Chapter two: No one knows (I wish she could)

[cryptidvaquero]

wip wednesday? don't mind if i do

here's an excerpt from a park ranger/bear shifter! john price/waitress! reader fic im writing

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You liked the evening shifts for a few reasons. Usually, the crankier older residents retired at 7 pm when the sun had barely started to set; thank God for that. Things were quieter, more laid back. You didn’t get paid shit, but at least no one would wish death upon you and your lineage for bringing them a plate with eggs over easy instead of garnished with liquid-fucking-gold.

And your final, favorite reason? You hear the jingle of the bell, and here he is.

“Hey John. Rough night?”

Your manager greets the rugged-looking man who walks through the door. Six-foot-something, brown hair and beard, built like a brick shithouse, and dressed like a damned lumberjack. Like clockwork, local park ranger John Price blesses your godforsaken job at 11:00 pm and leaves within the hour.

It’s the best 30-45 minutes of your shift.

John gives a rough grunt, nodding his head in greeting toward your manager before making a beeline to his favorite corner booth. Rough night indeed.

“He’s in your section, hon. Don’t forget he likes his t-”

“-Likes his tea unsweet. Yes, I know.”

He gets the same thing each time. Unsweetened iced tea, two waffles, a batch of scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon. The guy eats like he’s starving, yet he’s built like he climbs trees and catches fish with his bare hands. Hell, he’s a park ranger, he probably does.

You disappear into the back, pouring an unsweet tea before ushering it out to John’s table.

“Hey! How are you tonight?” Same song and dance, same fake smile. The life of a food service worker. John glances up at you, drowsy blue eyes sitting under thick eyebrows. The corner of his lips tilts up in a similarly forced smile, and he gives you a nod.

“S’Alright,” he grumbles. His voice is deep and growly - it’s like he’s perpetually stuck in a post-cigarette bedroom voice. Which, of course, you don’t mind in the slightest. He could read off a ransom note and you’d probably swoon. You place the unsweet tea in front of him and he eyes it like water in the middle of a scorching desert.

“Same as usual? Two waffles, scrambled eggs, three-”

“Ah- uhm. No, actually. A bit different tonight.”

Your eye twitches, an instinctual response to being interrupted by a customer. John doesn’t notice, he’s too busy looking out the diner windows toward the treeline. You’d think he’d leave work at work, but apparently, old pines are interesting enough to warrant his lack of conversational engagement. He’s a grown man, you tell yourself, it’s kind of how they are.

You tear off the ticket you were already writing down, stuffing the crumpled yellow sheet in an apron pocket before placing the tip of your pen on the new sheet. “Alright,” you huff. “What’s it gonna be tonight?”

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“Jesus fucking Christ, kid.”

The cook in the back looks at the ticket, his eyes growing as wide as saucers. An hour before closing, and he’s practically cooking a Thanksgiving feast.

“This is John’s order? John Price? The same guy we see almost nightly?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation.

“That’s what I was thinking, Phil! I wrote down his usual and everything, and he interrupts me and proceeds to order half the goddamn menu!”

  Phil hangs up the ticket in front of him, and you can see the chicken scratch you quickly applied to the paper, almost completely covering it. John had ordered… and kept ordering. It’s not like you’ve never dealt with large orders before, but from park ranger John Price? This was completely out of his norm.

The back door opens and shuts, and a younger line cook walks in smelling like cigarettes.

“Hey, Alex, come look at this!” Alex shuffles in, looking over Phil’s shoulder. You watch as his eyes go from indifferent to indignant. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s an hour till closing and

you’re serving a party? Tell them to go the hell ho-”

“No no no- this is John, man. Mr. Price. Can you even believe it?”

Alex looks from the ticket and to you. You watch as his lips move under his mustache, like he’s trying to get some sort of response out. Phil just pats him roughly on the back before hanging the ticket on the line.

“Let’s get started, bud. Mr. Shepherd’ll have our asses handed to us if we don’t close on time.”

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It’s about 11:45 pm. About 25 minutes ago, you had to pull out the old dolly like some sort of dumbass to push out the huge order to John. He owed you for that. He really fucking did. And now, 25 minutes later, the entire fuckass meal is gone. Nowhere to be found. He ate it all.

Perched behind the counter, you pretend to wipe things down while Alex comes out of the back of the house. He perches next to you, shoulders bumping together. He smells a bit like bacon grease and menthol.

“You think we can add gratuity to his check?” He murmurs.

“Do you wanna be the one asking Herschel ‘we-go-way-back’ Shepherd to upcharge our regular?”

Alex purses his lips, head nodding back and forth. Finally, he settles on a comfortable “no,” before stalking back into the kitchen. With a sigh, you toss the rag you were holding to the side and push yourself from the counter. You walk to the back of house to ring John up, emerging shortly thereafter and slipping it on his table. “You gonna need anything to go?” You’re not really sure why you asked - he ate enough to sustain a damned bear for the winter. If he asked for anything to go, you might punch him.

Lucky for you, he shakes his head.

“No ma’am,” he says, his voice gravelly.

You feel a bit guilty, then. All he was trying to do was order a meal, but you’ve been groveling all evening over walking a couple of plates in his direction. For all you knew, he could’ve missed lunch or something, too busy doing… whatever the hell a park ranger does.

He’s not very chatty tonight, either. Usually, you can fish a bit out of him if you bat your eyelashes and don’t look too busy. He doesn’t mind small talk if he doesn’t feel like he’s getting in your way. But this whole night has felt like pulling teeth.

“Alex made a joke about charging you gratuity for that meal of yours,” You laugh.

The joke quickly slips and falls flat when John looks at the check with a blank expression. Lord almighty.

“Sorry for the trouble,” He replies.

You want to tear your hair out. Does he actually think you were trying to guilt-trip him? Jesus Christ, you want to go hide in a hole and quit forever.

“No no!” You raise your hands to wave off his apology. “It was a joke. He was just being a dick, y’know?”

John reaches for his wallet, tucked away safely in a Carhartt jacket that’s seen better days. He slips his card to you, and you know that it’s time to run off before you say another stupid thing.

Alex and Phil are ragging on each other when you scramble to the back of house, and Phil flashes you a grin. However, your mood is soured. You punch in the numbers and get John’s receipt before they can try and drag you into one of their stupid conversations.

“Here you go,” You mumble, handing John his receipt and card back. Your throat itches with the compulsory ‘thank you for coming, have a good night,’ but you hold it back. Putting on another smile might just make you sick to your stomach tonight.

John rises from his seat, stuffing his card back in his wallet and then his jacket. He nods in acknowledgment, stepping from the booth. He’s taller than you by a long shot as he stands, and he’s even hunched over a bit. If he’d stand up straight, he’d practically cast a shadow over you.

“You have a good night, love. Drive safe.” The most words he’s spoken all night, and they’re telling you to be safe. In that growly accent of his. He’s not even making eye contact, practically bristling at the prospect of socialization, but you feel like your knees are about to give out just from his words.

“Yeah,” You breathe. “You too, okay? Watch out for animals in the road.”

Mentally, you compartmentalize a thought that says buying a book on local wildlife to talk about with him next time is a good idea. It might be a bit weird, but he’s a bit weird. He’d probably dig it.

John nods, finally meeting your eyes as that caterpillar of facial hair quirks up in a small smile.

“Bears right now, mainly. Most know better than to run around the roads, though.”

Why the hell is that little fact enough to make you starstruck? You barely muster a nod before he’s out the diner door, the bell ringing behind him and signaling that the last customer of your shift has left.

[andy-15-07]

Reunion of love

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader Word Count: 1335 warnings: a little smut Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The night was calm, a rare blessing amidst the chaos of war. The air carried the gentle hum of cicadas and the faint, fragrant aroma of blooming jasmine. The garden, bathed in moonlight, glowed with an ethereal radiance. Amidst the neatly trimmed hedges and the scattered marble statues, Y/N lingered in quiet contemplation, her thoughts a mix of longing and relief.

General Marcus Acacius, her husband, had been away for months, leading the legions of Rome in battle. News of his victories had reached her weeks ago, yet the uncertainty of war always lingered in her heart. Tonight, however, there was a strange anticipation in the air, a tug in her spirit that refused to let her retire to their chambers.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and gazed at the night sky, the constellations shining like scattered diamonds. A soft rustle came from the shadows behind her. Y/N turned sharply, her heart skipping a beat.

“Who goes there?” she called, her voice steady but wary.

From the shadows emerged a figure she would recognize anywhere. Marcus stood tall, his armor glinting faintly in the moonlight, his face rugged and worn yet undeniably handsome. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and the shadow of a beard framed his chiseled jawline. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had faced death and emerged victorious, but his eyes softened the moment they met hers.

“Did I frighten you, my love?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

Y/N’s breath hitched. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Then, as the realization sank in, she rushed toward him, her shawl slipping from her shoulders. Marcus opened his arms, and she threw herself into his embrace, the weight of months of separation dissolving in an instant.

“Marcus,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. “You’re home.”

“I am,” he murmured, holding her tightly. “And I intend never to leave your side again, not unless duty demands it.”

She pulled back slightly, her hands resting on his chest. “You’re safe?” Her eyes searched his face, looking for any sign of injury.

“I am,” he assured her. “The gods have seen fit to bring me back to you in one piece.”

Y/N smiled, though tears glistened in her eyes. “The gods must favor me, then.”

Marcus cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “No, my love. They favor me, for they have given me you.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a moment to savor the warmth of his hands. When she opened them, her smile had deepened, and her voice was playful. “You should have sent word of your arrival. I would have prepared a feast fit for the victor of Rome.”

“And miss the chance to surprise you?” he teased. “Never.”

He bent his head and kissed her, a kiss that spoke of longing, love, and promises unspoken. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them under the watchful gaze of the stars.

When they finally parted, Y/N took his hand and led him to a stone bench near the fountain. They sat together, the cool night air wrapping around them like a gentle embrace.

“Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me everything. How was the campaign? How do you fare?”

Marcus hesitated for a moment, then began to speak. He recounted the battles he had fought, the strategies that had brought victory, and the lives lost along the way. His voice was steady, but there was a weight to his words, a heaviness that spoke of the toll war had taken on him.

Y/N listened intently, her hand never leaving his. When he finished, she squeezed his hand and said, “You carry the burden of Rome, but you need not carry it alone. You have me, Marcus. Always.”

He looked at her, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I know,” he said. “And it is your love that gives me strength.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sound of the fountain mingling with the whispers of the night. Then, Marcus stood and held out his hand.

“Come,” he said. “Let us not waste this night. I have been away from you for far too long.”

Y/N took his hand, her heart fluttering. He led her through the garden, their footsteps light on the cobblestone paths. They paused by a marble pavilion, its columns entwined with ivy. There, under the canopy of the heavens, Marcus pulled her into his arms once more.

“I dreamt of this moment,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Of holding you, of hearing your voice, of seeing your smile. The battlefield is no place for dreams, but you were my constant solace.”

Y/N placed a hand on his cheek, her touch tender. “And you were mine,” she replied. “Every day, I prayed for your safe return. Now that you’re here, it feels as if the world has righted itself.”

They shared another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate, a melding of souls that spoke of their unbreakable bond. His hands roamed her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The intensity of the moment made her gasp softly against his lips, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue exploring hers with a hunger born of months of yearning.

“Marcus,” she whispered when they finally broke apart, her cheeks flushed and her breath shallow. “Take me somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”

He needed no further invitation. Without a word, he swept her into his arms, carrying her through the garden toward their chambers. Her laughter, soft and melodic, mingled with the rustle of leaves as he quickened his pace.

Once inside, the door closed behind them with a quiet thud, sealing them in a world of their own. Marcus set her down gently, his eyes roaming her form with a gaze so heated it made her shiver. He began to unfasten his armor, the clang of metal filling the room as piece by piece fell away, revealing the powerful physique beneath. His scars told stories of battles fought, but to Y/N, they only made him more captivating.

She stepped closer, her hands moving to help him, her fingers brushing against his skin. “You’re more beautiful than I remember,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

He caught her hands and brought them to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “And you, my love, have haunted my every thought.”

Their movements became slower, more deliberate, as they undressed each other. Each touch, each kiss, was a rediscovery, a celebration of their love. When they finally came together, it was with an intensity that left no room for doubt or hesitation. His hands explored her curves reverently, his lips worshipping every inch of her skin. She responded in kind, her touch igniting flames wherever it lingered, her whispered declarations of love weaving into the heady atmosphere of their union.

They moved together in perfect harmony, a dance as old as time, their passion building to a crescendo that left them both trembling. Marcus held her tightly as they reached the peak of their love, his whispered praises and endearments filling her ears.

When the storm finally subsided, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts beating as one. Marcus brushed a strand of hair from her face and gazed down at her with an intensity that made her heart ache.

“You are my everything, Y/N,” he murmured. “My reason for fighting, my reason for living. I am nothing without you.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she cupped his cheek. “And you are mine, Marcus. You’ve always been mine.”

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, they remained entwined, their love a sanctuary against the trials of the world. For this moment, they were free, and nothing else mattered but the bond they shared.

[venomvalley]

MOUNTAIN MAN — WEEK 2

summary:

Genesis 6:17 Behold, I, even I am bringing the flood of water upon the earth, to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life, from under heaven; everything that is on the earth shall perish.

tags: detailed descriptions of dead animals, grief, more pining

notes: i wrote the post-flood scene before any other scene in this story actually. it means a lot to me.

here's how you can help appalachian hurricane helene victims

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Chris hates you. An opinion you almost guarantee as fact. He hates sitting with you, hates talking to you, hates even looking at you sometimes.

You understand, to an extent. He’s been burdened with caring for you, and he doesn’t seem the kind of man who appreciates his boat being rocked. A lone wolf cursed to an un-life of solitude.

He's mean, but not cruel. Barks at you while changing your bandages. Huffs in annoyance when you step into a room yet hands you NSAIDs every six hours (on the fucking dot) to stifle your pain. Asks about the depth of your stupidity as he picks you up from your fall.

The fall.

He stands outside the cracked-open bathroom door like a guard dog while you wash up your hands. Said something about taking chances the other day, how close you were to hitting your head on the very sink you lean over. So he stands outside and listens for your call, like a good man would.

The rain pitters light on the roof today. A blessing sent from a god you aren't sure you believe in anymore. But if there's any miracle to be witnessed in your life, it was falling into the man's arms that await you just across the thick pane of wood that separates you.

You open the door and the sight of him greets you, brawny arms crossed over his chest, scowl a permanent fixture on his face. He’s a big man. Broad-shouldered, thick around the waist. A full beard, a mop of dark hair. His stature makes you nervous, but not as nervous as it should. If he wanted to hurt you, he very well could, but he hasn't. A bad man wouldn't pass up the opportunity to pounce on an injured hiker squatting in his house. He should've done it the moment you walked through the front door.

But he's fed you, clothed you, put a roof over your head to shield you from the rain. Things a good man does.

So you accept his mean words and his scowls and his huffing for a man with a heavy chip on his shoulder. It must hurt a whole lot to carry.

You shuffle past him on the way out of the bedroom, and his heavy footsteps trail behind you.

Upon the small, worn coffee table sits a stack of books, each cover swathed with a layer of thick dust.

“What's this?” you ask, taking a seat on the couch to reach them.

“Something for you to do.”

You grab the book on top and turn it over to read the blurb. The word Detective jumps out. “A mystery?”

He shrugs before plopping down on the seat next to you. “Everyone likes a good mystery.”

“That’s true.” You point to the rest of the stack. “Have you read all these?”

“More times than I can count.”

“Which is your favorite?”

He sits forward with a huff, tilts his head to read each book’s spine. You stare at him as discreetly as you can manage given your proximity. This close, you spot the salt-and-pepper whiskers at his chin. He trimmed his beard some time between last night and this morning, still full and thick, but less lengthy than you remember—not like you’ve been keeping track. You’re just observant by design.

And you have eyes. Eyes that always find him the most interesting thing in the room.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Really?”

“Is that surprising?”

“You look like a James Patterson kinda feller.”

He shrugs, reclining against the back of the couch. “I appreciate the classics.”

“No, I respect it. When I was in middle school, I used to read Shakespeare in my free time.”

The glare he gives you is flat as a board, same as his tone when he says, “Bullshit.”

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, and you throw your head back from the force of it. “I’m serious, it’s all we had in the house to read.”

It feels good to laugh again, to bond over something besides suffering. You think he might need the distraction too, given his angsty fidgeting beside the radio all morning. He kept the volume low while you limped around the house to stretch out your muscles, passing by his hunched-over form on each revolution.

“How did you even understand it?”

“Oh, I didn’t.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, a smile looming in the hollow of his cheeks. “Not that I’m complaining, but you give me too much credit sometimes. Unfortunately, I perpetuate the uneducated Appalachian stereotype.”

“Yet you use the word perpetuate.”

“Saw it online once and thought it sounded pretty.”

With a shake of his head, he turns back to his collection. Starts reaching you various titles as he reads through each blurb on the back and sorts them out, setting aside the ones he thinks you might like. You notice a common, on-the-nose theme with each setting.

“They all take place in the mountains? How’s about the desert or something?”

“You would never read one of those.”

“And how do you know?”

He's completely right. Nothing scarier than murder coming to town, or a killer hiding in miles of untouched wilderness. You grew up with the mythos surrounding what lurks in these woods, find familiarity in the macabre.

At the sight of his glare, you offer a tight-lipped smile. “Ya know what, never mind. Thank you for the books.”

.

.

.

“The death toll has now risen to twelve.”

The statement from the radio sits in your stomach like curdled milk.

It happens every few years, the same exact way. The hollers fill up like cups of water, people die, nothing is done about the situation. You fend for yourselves. Twelve people dead and counting, thousands homeless, dozens more missing—and by next week, the national news will be discussing a politician’s choice in tie.

You don’t cry. The people here have always been expendable to the rest of the country. Toothless fools living off methamphetamine and welfare. Harbingers of their own destruction. Good riddance.

You don’t cry. There’s enough water filling these valleys for a lifetime.

Chris doesn't get it. He’s an outsider—the mountains his escape, not his home.

Still, he sits with you. Absorbs your grief, shares in it. Says that he’s lost people, too, but you can’t help, selfish as it is, to think that his loss and your loss are different. Two opposing pinpoints on a radar. Disconnected.

He brings you outside to sit on the porch, huffing about fresh air doing you some good, and extends his hand, cigarette held between thumb and forefinger. You haven’t smoked in years. Quit after your daddy died of lung cancer from working in the mines. When he was on his death bed, he said I don’t want this to be you one day.

Now he’s dead, and you might not even have a home to come back to, so one smoke won’t hurt.

And still, Chris sits with you, chair pulled up right alongside yours, ashtray balanced on the armrest of his chair.

You think he might know a thing or two about disaster. About death and mortality. So you ask him.

“Earlier, you said you lost people. What’d you mean by that?”

He blows the smoke from his mouth at the same time you do, turning the air between you opaque, like one of them fancy glass windows from the nice church in town. That church was for the rich people, with their fancy clothes and sturdy pews and in-house architecture. Folks like you—straight from the holler—were confined to single rooms with no air conditioning and red carpet floors.

And yet everybody dies all the same. When the water starts rising, stained-glass windows don’t seem to matter much anymore. You wonder if the church in town still stands, and if you look too hard, you see your daddy in the smoke.

“I can’t tell you. For your own safety.”

You nod your head. “I get it.”

A beat of silence, another inhale, before he speaks again. “I wish I could.”

It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said, and yet you haven't felt this small in a long time. Fragile. Maybe if you step out into the rain you’ll dissolve like sugar.

At least the rain stopped.

You finish your cigarette then head back inside. Chris runs you a bath and settles into bed with a book from the coffee table stack he left you, remaining within earshot should you need the help.

A bath will help the same way a warm hug would. The way curling up beside him beneath the covers would help the grief that settles an ache in your bones. As if you’d ever ask. Maybe you just wanna feel his big hands on you again. The rough of his palms, weathered by years of guns and training. No doubt he’s killed before—you saw the way he held that knife. More hunter than you or your daddy could ever be.

Once reclined beneath the steaming water, you close your eyes, and you dream in abstracts. Ideals. Suffocation, cold. The softness of a belly, the shade of blood, forest canopy darkness.

The thudding of a fist against the door wakes you same as the water that burns up your nose. You sputter and cough as your elbow hooks on the lip of the tub, pulling you over the side and onto the floor.

No, wait. Those are hands dragging you out. Hands that don’t belong to you.

“Do you have a goddamn death wish?” He kneels over your starfished body, fingers spread along your side where your lungs heave for breath. Face bathed in shadow, eyes hollow pits.

You turn your head to the side and expel a cough, dislodging the leftover water built up in your throat. “I fell asleep.”

“You almost killed yourself.”

“Thanks. I wasn't aware.”

For a split second, you think he might slap you upside the head, and you wouldn't blame him. You've always been trouble.

But he sits you up. Heads for the cabinet beneath the sink.

“I'm sorry,” you say as he throws a towel over your naked shoulders. “Again.”

He doesn't respond. Instead, he dries you off by scrubbing your skin raw. Your back then arms then legs. Fully avoids your chest and belly, the apex of your thighs, and you get why, but a part of you wishes that he would brave the uncharted waters. (The very selfish part of you that just wants to feel good.)

He passes the towel to you then stands. Turns toward the sink as you finish drying yourself off.

“From now on, you're getting sponge baths.”

Each swallow you take likens to razorblades, but your near-death experience has lit a fire within you. The stubborn kind.

“Why? I was doing fine ‘til you pounded on the door.”

“Because I knew you would do something stupid like this.”

You fall silent, humiliation burning at the nape of your neck. All that work you put into bonding, snuffed out by your incompetence and his responding temper. Your personalities clash like water and oil on a good day, and you’re starting to believe that this situation was never meant to work out.

When the tide recedes, you need to leave. A best case scenario for both parties.

He drops a pile of clothes in your lap, and you’re sure you look pitiful from where he stands. Towel wrapped around your shoulders, the corner fisted in the hand shielding your mouth. A protective barrier between your thinning psyche and the harsh world.

Suffering is a long-time friend, and you’re old enough to shy away from more pain. Two things can be true at once, after all.

Chris leaves the bathroom to let you dress in peace. The faded flannel is soft and comfortable and stereotypically red, if not a bit warm for the weather. He gives you another pair of boxers, the seam of the waistband frayed. Hand-me-downs.

You’re grateful.

When you enter the living room, Chris is nowhere to be found. Most likely cooling off on the front porch, and you know when you tread the line of biting the hand that feeds you, so you settle in on the couch and pick up the closest book to read.

Beside the stack sits a glass of water and a bowl of seeded grapes still interwoven by their stems—smaller, more bitter than their store-bought counterparts, but a welcome treat after the day (week) you’ve had. Maybe that was the point.

For some reason wholly unknown to you, the gesture pools saltwater on your lower lash line.

He’s a mean man, not a cruel one.

Biting into each grape reminds you of the forest. Of foraging with your gran on the trail behind her house, and catching crawdads in the creek out back, and fighting the bugs off your bare legs with two hands and a quick prayer.

You wonder where Chris grew up, what kinda stories his inner child has to tell. If he had a good upbringing or a big family. You’d never ask him outright, but the privacy of your mind allows the comfort of exploration. He was probably some latchkey kid raised in a suburb out west. An only child, too, given his familiarity with solitude.

Or maybe he’s none of those things—a purgatory between fact and fiction that you’ve gotten real used to at this point.

When the sun begins to set, as you light the big candle on the end table, Chris walks in. Says, “I listened to the radio. No more rain for the rest of the week.”

When he passes by the coffee table, he snatches up your bowl full of grape seeds, stained purple from their skin.

“Thank you,” you say, voice small and weary. Pitiful. You just hope he understands what you mean.

Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for the reassurance. Thank you for giving a shit.

In return, you receive only silence.

That’s okay. You don’t mind.

.

.

.

For some godforsaken reason, Chris stands out in the yard and chops wood for two hours. The ding of metal splitting a solid object wakes you from a deep sleep, the sun not nearly bright enough through the curtains for this type of manual labor.

You watch him through the kitchen window, perched on the counter. The broad span of his shoulders, the softness of his belly, the thick curls of his chest hair that tapers off into his jeans—

He’s deliciously shirtless, and you need to be sedated. Immediately. Just stir-crazy from all the time spent inside. That’s all this is.

But then he meets your eye and approaches the back porch and panic pounds against your ribs. It was a bad idea to stare.

He stumbles inside, dripping sweat and huffing. “I need water.”

You swing your legs off the counter and limp over to the fridge where a pitcher of filtered water sits. “Hot out?”

“You could say that,” he replies, tone a flat grumble that shows he hasn’t moved on from last night’s incident.

He snatches a stained towel from the kitchen table that he uses to wipe down his face and neck, reaching for the glass of cold water you offer.

The air stagnates, bloated and heavy. Unspoken words settle on your tongue like broken glass—daring you to interrupt the silence with empty words that would only serve to sever the already-frayed thread of your relationship.

His aloofness stings, and yet you can’t even be angry. He owes you nothing, yet has given you more than you deserved. Even worse, he’s a glorified stranger.

You sit on the couch just as he heads toward the bedroom. The pipes creak within the walls as he readies a bath, and you listen for the thump of his footsteps as they move back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom.

And then silence.

The morning wanes on and Chris confines himself to the four corners of his sanctuary, where you never dare to cross the threshold. You lose yourself in page after page of the novel you’ve been reading, and just before the final reveal—

“Alright,” the squeak of his door jolts you from your concentration, and he steps out with a first aid kit in hand.

You dog-ear the page in your book, frustration simmering beneath your skin at the interruption, and set it on the coffee table. “You know I could do this myself, right?”

“Really?” There’s a hint of apprehension in his voice that makes the stubborn part of you bear its teeth.

“You think I’m helpless?”

He looks you over, as if the consequences of your fall might answer your own question. Then he scoots out the coffee table to take a seat, and from the way it groans, you think the poor thing might break under his weight.

“I got shit luck. There’s a difference.”

“Sure.” His beard twitches with the threat of a grin, and your muscles relax on your next exhale.

“You’re an asshole.”

Once your wounds are clean and the bandages are finally left off, Chris shares with you the good news: your ankle isn’t actually broken. A pretty bad sprain, yes, but you’ll take lingering tenderness over the threat of surgery any day. Pop two ibuprofen every six hours and you should be good to go out and explore again.

Perfect timing, given his want to survey the wreckage.

Of course, he presses back against the idea. And then you remember that you’re an adult with free will who knows a hell of a lot more about these hills than he does. You’ve been coming out this way since you were tall as his knees.

As if you’d let him leave you here.

So you stand at the door and wait for him, already dressed in your hiking clothes (thankfully washed now), shoes on, foot wrapped exactly how he showed you. He walks out of the bedroom and spots you with a heavy sigh, but says nothing. Just throws open the door and waves a hand for you to go first.

Outside, the storm displays its aftermath. The thick mud and felled trees. A wheelbarrow that used to sit nearby, missing. The damage is minor, but still, your heart sinks. Chris’s land has the advantage of elevation—the areas down the mountain do not.

It takes half a mile of following the trail toward town for the extent of the flood to rear its ugly head.

You stand over the body of a dead goat and stare.

When the water receded, mortem swarmed in, engulfing the forest floor in a snare of rotted flesh and maggots.

The aftermath is devastating.

Animals from a farm nearby, decomposing on the riverbank. Broken-off fencing, wooden siding from a home (who knows how far away that home once stood), a child's twisted bike. A baby blanket caught on a low-hanging branch. Pieces of lives now devastated, unlikely to be fully rebuilt.

But you can't stop staring at the goat. Body bloated to bursting, fur swathed in a layer of dried mud, swollen tongue hanging from its open mouth, a wriggling beneath its skin.

The goat will be gone by morning, feasted upon by the surviving creatures that live in the woods. Nothing more than crisp white bone by sunrise. A small offering to the Appalachian wilderness. Give and take, a flat circle.

Nature is no respecter of persons. You learned this at an early age when you ventured too far into the creek, the water a bit too deep and a bit too angry for your little legs to outswim. You woulda drowned if not for your mammaw dragging you out of there. It was the first time you ever had to pick a switch for a whooping, and it was the only time you ever had to learn your lesson about respecting the nature that surrounds you.

Chris doesn't. He bullies his way through the trees, leaves forage to rot, never watches his step. A lifetime ago, maybe he owned the world. Maybe the life he used to lead bowed to him. Maybe he never knew the weight of consequence.

You can question his motives until the river runs dry and still, you'll never be able to figure him out. The past he runs away from, so devastating it left him a hermit squatting in bumfuck nowhere.

His presence approaches at your back, the weight of a dying star. (If his light dims any more you fear him collapsing the universe.) He rests a hand on the curve of your shoulder, thumb a burning brand against the side of your neck.

“Are you alright?” he asks, more gentle than you’ve ever heard him.

Grief is your closest friend, isn’t it?

You blink and you’re ten again, riding a shiny new bike around the grassy bottom of your uncle’s farm. He treated his animals better than he ever did his family, and your daddy always joked that his brother was raised by wolves. He hated kids but had three. When awake, he spent all his time in the barn, grooming the horses and cleaning their pens and talking to them into the late hours of the night. Your aunt said one time that she wished she could be a horse so her husband might love her again.

You blink and half a foot of mud swallows up the livestock.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Really?” Skeptical, as he should be. The remnants of your town washed twenty miles down the river and you can’t even shed a tear.

“I’ll get over it.”

“Don’t do that.” His response is immediate, fingers tightening around your shoulder. “Trust me, it doesn’t help.”

You wonder what he’s thinking. What memory popped into his head to lead him to such a conclusion, because getting over it is the only way you’ve managed to survive this long.

He leads you away from the scene with a hand on the back of your neck, much like an owner scruffing an unruly dog, but he’s gentle in how he handles you. A shepherd guiding his flock back to the safety of their barn.

The goat will be gone by morning.

There's no getting into town on foot, and you don't think Chris would let you go anyway. Better to wait it out (you might die before then from your own anxiety) than risk getting stranded.

Ambivalence drives you back to Chris’s cabin beneath a blue, cloudless sky. Not even a bird chirps for the whole half-mile. No rustling in the bushes from a fleeing rabbit. The storm left and took all life with it.

When you get home, you take off your shoes and find your mourning place on the soft cushion of his couch. He sits next to you, a quiet comfort. A bright orange buoy for you to cling to—so you cling to him with arms tightened around his waist. You shiver like you’ve caught a fever, like your whole world has been wracked by disease.

“I’m sorry. I just—“

He shuts you up with an arm slowly wrapped around your shoulders.

It feels right, and something thick and warm swirls in the pit of your belly. The comfort you've been craving. The first time he's ever seriously touched you.

You curl into his chest, his shirt smelling like tree bark and petrichor and long-gone decay. A piece of you never wants to leave the safety of his arms. They’ve been far less cruel than the outside world.

“I’m real scared, Chris.”

A beat of silence. “I know.”

“And sad.”

An intake of breath. “I know.”

“What do I do?”

A sigh. “There’s nothing you can do. Not right now.”

You press yourself harder against him, halfway in his lap, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. You need the sensation, the touch of another—anything to pull yourself from the flood waters.

He must understand, because he wraps you up in a hug, a hand searing the skin of your lower back through your shirt.

You can't ask for more than this, no matter how badly you want to. You have roots settled elsewhere, a home to rebuild, a family to go back to—

Do you? Could you afford to entertain the idea, even a little?

He holds you until your pulse slows. Until the numbness fades from your hands. Until the water drains from your lungs.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper against the side of his neck.

“Why?”

“It ain't like me to be like this. I just…” you inhale a breath, tasting him at the back of your throat. “I don't know.”

How to explain what you feel when you don't even know yourself.

But you've been lonely a long time, and it's taken you disaster to realize it. Forced proximity. Kindness from another for once in your life.

From an outsider, no less. Funny how life works, ain't it?

A wickedness unfurls in your gut. The acid-burn of temptation. He hates you, hates you, hates you—no matter how many times you tell yourself, the belief never sticks. Things would be easier that way. You could have a place to lay your guilt about wanting a man who's been nothing but kind to you.

But lord, this loneliness.

“Can I ask you something?” you mutter, cheek pressed to his shoulder. He hums his agreement. “You ever get lonely all the way out here?”

He swallows. “I'm sure you know the answer.”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

A long, stagnant silence. The air grows thick as if holding its breath. He doesn't have to answer, and you'd never force him, but you need to know and you aren't sure why that is.

“Of course I do.”

“Is loneliness what you want?”

“I thought it was, but…” He trails off as if he changed his mind, the thought left unfinished.

“And now?”

His beard rasps against your temple, chest expanding from the weight of his breath. “I haven't figured that part out yet.”

You exhale a shuddering laugh and relax against his bulk. “Yeah. I get it.”

Chris lets you hold him for a long while. Long after the sun has set, and the both of you begin to yawn, and your bellies cry out for food. He cradles you like a baby bird cupped in his palm long after he needs to, and you stay in his lap long after your head clears.

Neither of you say a word when you follow him to bed, or when he makes room for you beneath the sheets. When he cups the nape of your neck as you nuzzle at his cheek, holding you steady against him—neither pushing you away or pulling you close, unsure of which action to take.

“Stop thinking so much,” you whisper.

He turns his head, nose ghosting over your cheekbone, the bristles of his beard rough against your skin. Butterflies furl and flutter in your stomach, his mouth so close that your teeth itch. Your muscles coil in anticipation.

And then he turns away. Disappointment drenches you in ice cold water, all the blood draining from your face in one swift motion.

“We should sleep,” he says, dark lashes fluttering over his cheeks.

Humiliation.

‘Is loneliness what you want?’

You have your answer.

But maybe you misread the situation. Correlated his kindness with attraction. It's not his fault. A piece of you actually finds relief in his rejection. Evidence of his self-control, of loyalty to his beliefs (however stubborn they make him).

You're spiraling. The you from twelve hours ago would never have made advances toward him to begin with. Tomorrow, you might have woken up and regretted it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, as your gran used to say.

But grief does crazy things to a person, and when was the last time you had been held like this?

He cradles you as you fall asleep, thumb following the curve of your spine, still nourishing your comfort. A sweetness that incites an ache deep in your marrow. More than you deserve right now.

But you'll worry about it all in the morning, when the dust has settled and the events of today finally transition to memory. You’ll grovel at his feet and beg him to let you stay.

[bloodygnqv]

Oh Say Can You See

John Price x fem reader

cw: smut!! minors dni!, size difference (reader is described as small but dw there’s no infantilization), uuuh i think that’s it??

A/N: fuck the national anthem it’s a lana song. it’s been a while since i’ve written smut hope you enjoy anyway bless you all xx 🙏🏻

“Are you okay, love?” John asks you from where you’re laying on your side.

He’s all warmth and comfort, musk and tobacco and leather, a stark contrast between the feminine fruits and spring flowers and candy you enjoy wearing.

His voice is a quiet rumble, the crackle of a fireplace, the roar of an engine, the step on snow.

“Mhm, yeah,” you reply, sleepy and pliant, “Just really missed you.”

John lays on his side as well, cuddling you from behind. He’s always been the bigger spoon, arms and hands so large, so strong he can fully wrap them around your waist, cup your breasts in his palms, keep you to himself. His greed for you and your affection lodges in his throat.

You can feel him hardening against your back, and you stifle a small smile. “Go ahead, John, I’ve been waiting all day,” you whisper, your own desire sparkling in your belly, black milk and rose red and the veil of longing.

“God, you’re soaking. That needy pussy just needs some attention, huh?” His fingers slide against your slit gently as you whimper an affirmative and lift your leg a bit to give him access.

“I can take you, John, really, you can just slide in,” you mumble, stroking at his thigh greedily.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? You’re so small and I haven’t prepped you, you know it might hurt…”

Concern laces his voice like poison ivy. It almost makes you melt — he’s always been like this from the moment you two got together, soft care and love so strong it almost suffocates you.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I played with myself earlier..”

“Okay then,” he permits. He taps the head of his dick over your pussy, still not going in, syrupy whines escaping your throat.

And then his cock notches at your leaky entrance, slowly going in, and every little nag and annoying pesky thought hide somewhere in the back of your head.

“Oh,” you gasp and look down to where you two are connected.

John isn’t very long, but he’s thick, thick enough that you feel the stretch every single time you have sex. He carves out a place for himself in you, Galatea and Pygmalion, gentle marble across your legs (his large hands completely envelop the expanse of your thighs, leaving galaxy marks in his wake).

“Yeah,” John breathes, heavy, grunting out a response, “That’s it. Almost there, love, you can take it. Shit, you’re tight…”

You mewl, hands scraping for purchase against the duvet as he runs his fingers through your hair, his beard tickling your neck, whispering cotton candy filth in your ear. You know he’s already pushed in as you feel his heavy balls snug against your ass.

“There you go. Feels good, eh?”

“It does,” you whimper. There’s the slightest touch of too much, tiniest specks of pain, but they’re quickly chased away by the time John starts thrusting lazily. You’re not gonna last long, and if John’s satisfied grunts are anything to go by, he isn’t, either.

You grab his thick arm from where it’s perched over the gentle curve of your waist, delicate wrist teasing the underside of his palm and intertwining your fingers.

You’ve never felt more at home. You’re exactly where you need and want to be, ballad-like moans and late comfortable nights, devoted eyes and lust as a virtue. John’s filling you up just right, quenching the thirst that has simmered in you all day, pushing you off the edge.

John’s other hand reaches around and starts playing with your clit, just enough pressure in circles to bring you over the edge. He always goes the extra mile when it comes to expressing his love through pleasure, making your legs shake, newborn fawn, you are, seeing constellations and new planets beneath your eyelids.

“I’m gonna cum,” you murmur.

“Go ahead, baby. I missed you so, so much, my beautiful girl,” John rasps, peppering small kisses on the canvas of your neck.

There it is — the explosion of feeling and love and pleasure in your tummy, crawling down your legs and up your arms, making you moan and fist the sheet under your body.

Your orgasm pushes John to the edge, and you can feel his spend spilling in the crevice of your cunt, loud groans echoing in the corners of your ears, arms tightening around your small frame. That’s his favorite place to cum in, warm velvet around him, all that love that burns like a motor in his skin.

John pulls out slowly and lovingly cleans you up as your consciousness slips away from you. It’s been a long, long day, and the great sex is but your favorite way to release tension and put you in that space between wake and sleep.

The afterglow sneaks its way in your vein as you lay across John’s thick, hairy chest and close your eyes. This is your favorite time of day, all warm and snug and happy.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

His caress always feels like a blanket, a balm to soothe your wounds, a hazy morning dream you don’t want to wake up. It makes you all the more grateful, lying with the man you love in a space you two made.

[dujour13]

Knight-Commander Raqim Ag Adar

art by the wonderful @mooreaux! 💕

character summary below the cut, with some pwotr spoilers

If I Betray My Heart on AO3

The Dragonmarked / Favored Son

Race | Human

Class(es) | Firewarden Ranger

Mythic Path | Angel -> Gold Dragon

Nationality | Rahadoumi

Ethnicity | Qadiran

Religion | Atheist

Gender | Cis straight man, he/him

Profession | Pure Legion scout

Sweetie | Seelah

Skills | Knowledge: Nature, Knowledge: Arcana, Perception

Appearance | Dark olive skin; neat beard; long, thick, black hair usually wrapped in a tagelmust. Eyes so dark brown they’re almost black. He wears the white-and-gold light armor of the Pure Legion but in Avistan rapidly adopts a thick fur cloak.

Personality | Dutiful, responsible, compassionate, rational, gentle but also fierce. A do-the-right-thing kind of guy you can trust. A zealous Rahadoumi atheist and not above some arrogant eyebrow-raising, but this is because he has something to prove to himself. He can’t otherwise rationalize how he treated his father.

Polite but surprisingly warm with those he gets close to. Dry sense of humor—only his eyes laugh. He likes to party more than he lets on. Prone to smoldering temper. No patience for religion but in need of spiritual healing. As the Favored Son and a former refugee he hates being chosen, special, different. Desperate to fit in. He willingly, unquestioningly shoulders burdens placed on him. He has always carried so much. He is a man whose regrets eat him alive.

Arc | How can you forgive yourself when the people you hurt are gone, and you can’t fix what you broke?

Quotes | “You people are dogs. I will join you, as always.”

“Let no man be beholden to a god.”  - First Law of Kalim Onaku

“A Rahadoumi laughs at death—but it’s a shared laugh, not a defiant one.”

“We will find our way.”

“My brother died. I was young. I didn’t understand. I ate what I was given, not noticing he was given nothing. Do not blame my parents. They had a terrible choice: to watch both of us die slowly, or only one. I was chosen to live, and he to die. If I could find him again I would share my food and we would live or die together.”

Story |

Childhood – Born to a family of goatherds in the interior highlands of Qadira, as an infant Raqim was chosen as an offering to a dragon that lived in the mountains to the south. Most children offered to the dragon were never seen again, but every now and then, one was returned to his family bearing the mark of the dragon’s blessing—in Raqim’s case, bronze scales across his shoulders and back. This did not bring his family the luck they had hoped for, because drought and famine swept the region, and when Raqim was six, they were forced to flee across the desert and the sea. Raqim’s mother and brother perished on the voyage. His father heard talk of the prestigious schools of magic in Rahadoum and worked on board a ship in exchange for passage there, with the hope that his dragonmarked son could someday realize his full potential.

Upon arrival, Raqim’s father was forced to hide his Sarenrite faith and accept poorly paid laboring jobs, shoveling sand in Manaket, or later working in the tanneries outside Azir. In the meantime, Raqim went to Rahadoumi school and unlike his father rapidly assimilated, making friends and learning the language and customs.

His father, once his greatest hero—who had brought him across the desert, who knew everything about the sun, the wind and the beasts—now became dependent on him, an old, superstitious god-worshipping refugee Raqim had to help for everything. In his teen years the contempt he felt for his father grew into resentment.

Adulthood – At eighteen, Raqim began his apprenticeship, training as a ranger with the Pure Legion.

Seven years later, his company smoked out a Sarenrite enclave near Botosani. The Sarenrites refused to cede and were put to siege. Raqim’s captain used him as a threat, claiming he was a fire-sorcerer who would burn down their compound if they didn’t hand themselves over.

The Sarenrites panicked, rushing the Pure Legion scouts and killing two of Raqim’s best friends and comrades. Cornered and desperate, Raqim destroyed them with fire, incinerating the compound and killing all the remaining Sarenrites within. When it’s quiet he can still hear their screams. The last thing he remembers is being gutted by a Sarenrite scimitar.

Areelu’s Experiment –

The dragon Raqim was offered to as an infant was in fact under a geas to provide children for Areelu Vorlesh’s experiments. Most of the children perished, until she attempted to graft draconic essence into one of them in the hope it would help the child resist the extreme heat of the stitching process. It did. Raqim was returned to his family and kept under observation.

When he came of age, it was time for the next stage of the experiment. She made sure he would not recall his kidnapping or the horrific process of the graft, which also expanded the Worldwound. He was fourteen, like her child.

Ten years later, when as a scout with the Pure Legion he attacked a Sarenrite enclave and was almost killed, she whisked him away to her laboratory to revive him. She then kept him in stasis in the lab for seventy-seven years to continue work on the Nahyndrian power she hoped would stabilize the graft.

Until Targona, an angel Areelu had taken captive, succeeded in escaping, and freed Raqim into the Worldwound, urging him to save himself. Areelu recaptured Targona and punished her for this setback in her experiment; still, she noted that Raqim was not only alive and stable, but gifted at surviving on his own in the wilderness. She bade Suture leave his clothing and weapons for him, and then kept a close eye on him as he traveled to the banks of the Sellen and southward toward Mendev. The wound on his chest reached critical instability not long afterward, and she was forced to knock him out and drag him into Kenabres on a stretcher to be healed by the dragon, and then fetch him a dose of the N.

[cyborg-franky]

Can you make a HC about what they do when Luffy is King of Pirates, the One Piece is found, Mystery of "D" resolved and so on? I mean if they stay Pirates, settle down, marry or do another profession. 👀 When there 35 plus or older. Please with Zoro, Sanji, Law and Kid 😍

Ooooh how fun! I did a bunch of chars including the ones you wanted : D

Sanji Sanji finds the all blue and makes his own floating restaurant. Luffy always comes to visit and always eats him out of house and home. Sanji has long hair he keeps in a ponytail, and he has a beard he keeps in a braid, just like his old man [Zeff <3] Sanji is tough love with teaching his chefs but they all love and respect him. He’s married to his work and also every pretty person who steps foot in his restaurant. He calls it ‘The All Blue’ and he charges people with alot of money but helps out those in need. Thanks to Luffy being not just the pirate king but also a yonko his place is considered untouchable by the marines and thus everyone can come and eat here fearlessly with no worries. 

Zoro He’s the greatest swordsman in the world. He never leaves Luffy’s side, always sailing the high seas with his captain. When he does eventually settle down he gets married, and everyone is invited, even Sanji. He runs his own dojo now in Kuina’s memory, he teaches kids how to fight. He doesn’t turn away people who are female-bodied/identify as girls because he knows how strong they can be and would never play the sexist card. Everyone who trains with him are equal and valid. He would teach his own children how to fight too. He’s a firm but fair teacher. He still has that short mossy hair of his, maybe he’s got some ink now.

Nami Fame, wealth, power! Some say that’s just for the Pirate king, but Nami would disagree, Nami has everything she’s ever wanted. She sends back loads of money to her home island which have repaired all the damage that the Arlong Pirates ever did. They become a thriving community. She even makes sure there is a lovely orphanage, in memory of Bellmere with orange trees all around where young women can grow and learn skills and become strong and anything they want to be. Nami gets her short hair back.

Robin and Franky Together, but not married. Neither wants to get a piece of government-approved paperwork to say they are married. Robin can piece together all the mysteries of the world, the void century is her’s and she passed on everything she can to her students. She makes sure the next generation of the world will remember everything that happened both good and bad and as long as there are people alive who know what happened, who have seen the devil and god history can avoid repeating itself. Robin has her bangs back, and wears her long, long hair in a braid. 

Franky becomes a teacher himself! He passes on the amazing shipwright skills he learned from Tom to anyone who wants to come and learn from him. Both are a blessing to the generations after. Maybe Franky has toned down his look a little and he’s more like he was in pre-skip? 

Brook Still a hecken popular musician who is going around touring, loved by many, and as long as his music keeps touching people's hearts and he always has fans, he won’t ever truly be alone. He obviously reunites with Laboon too!

Jinbei Retired, living his best life back at Fishman Island, and has a spouse now. He keeps an eye on Fishman island though there is nothing but peace. After all the island and his people are protected by the pirate king himself.

Usopp Usopp goes off and becomes a pirate captain himself! But it doesn’t last very long, it’s just not the same so he retires and goes into writing books. He writes stories of all his fantastic adventures and inspires the hearts and minds of many young people who all want to be pirates. He also takes up art as a more serious profession. He writes and does his own artwork. Usopp’s Fables. Maybe he goes back to his village, him being a famous writer brings good things for the sleepy village.

Chopper Goes back to DRUM and helps the people, bringing back doctors to the island. DRUM once again becomes well known for how amazing its doctors are. He’s a good teacher for those wanting to be in the medical field.

Luffy THE PIRATE KING HIMSELF? Every night is still a party, he only settles down when the last of his crew wants to seek their own fortunes. He visits them all. Spending his time traveling between them and going on adventures. He never truly settles down. Just married to his love of life. 

Law Still a pirate, still with his crew because they are and always will be his family. He did everything he set out to do, take people down, and get revenge, he didn’t ever see his life past Dressrosa to start with so everything is a bonus. The only difference is now the heart pirates have less of a reputation for their captain being scary and cruel but the best place to take anyone with a rare illness. He specializes in learning about them and healing them. Totally rocking more tattoos everywhere and a ponytail maybe. Or an undercut…

Kid IGNORING CANON Him and his crew are still an issue for the world government, even in their 30s, 40s, hell even when they're 70 they are wild and causing chaos all across the world. Kid loses his violent streak and is just out here with his boys having the time of his life. Maybe he has a partner or two, he and Killer going polyam at last.

Marco Marco even at like 80 still looks younger, still a doctor on Sphinx but this time he’s not so honour bound to the memory of Whtiebeard and Ace. He sometimes leaves the island to go on adventures. He visits his partners, finally allowing himself to date again. He becomes a vet as well as a doctor, helping out people on islands he visits while seeing his partners. He’s enjoying his retirement, he has so many people in his life again that it heals his heart. Still, he aches for everything he’s lost, he always will but now he’s not shackled by it.

Sabo Thanks to his efforts and the RA the world is a more equal place, he makes sure of it. Aside from all of that. Maybe Sabo has a partner, maybe he’s allowed himself to have a few kids that he raises to be good and just and to never see the world as black and white but all the greys that the world is built up of. Making sure the next generation has a strong sense of their own justice. Sabo also wrote a huge book documenting Luffy’s travels after listening to his brother tell the stories over and over. The book becomes the legend of the Pirate King. The story inspires another era of pirates.

[lightdancingwords]

Second Chances - Part Two of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: A chance meeting in a grocery store brings a second chance for you and for Beau. The only thing standing in your way are your respective pasts... and a tiny little roadblock.

Word Count: 3708

Tags/Warnings: Profanity, fluff, minor injuries, bad food, minor car accident.

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! I couldn't resist--I gotta have me some Beau while writing Dean! This is a brand new story of Beau and female reader!

Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter Two: First Date Disaster

Beau was in trouble.

He stared at his minuscule closet, of the clothing he had, and would be damned if he knew what to wear for his date tonight. It wasn’t fancy; he didn’t want to go overboard. That’d make it seem he was overcompensating. He also didn’t go too casual; Mama Arlen would skin him alive if she found out he took a girl to a McDonald’s or something for the first date.

No, he was going to take Y/N to a decent restaurant in Big Sky. It was new, so he hoped it was up to snuff. He just didn’t want to do shirt and jeans. Nor did he want to go with a fancy suit.

Fuck. Dating wasn’t supposed to be hard! When he courted Carla, it’d been easy. He’d charmed her with a picnic out in Austin by the lake, and it ended with one hell of a kiss.

He hadn’t been on a date in… shit, twenty years. He felt old. Out of touch.

With a mutter, he grabbed a button-up shirt and a pair of his best jeans—look, ma, no holes! Then tugged on his best pair of boots. A Texan in Montana. God help him.

It’d have to do. He looked his reflection over and felt those first date jitters. He liked what he knew of Y/N. Her daughter—God, what a kid—charmed him with her ferocity. He only hoped they felt the same about him.

With a quick check of his beard, pleased that it was looking decently trimmed and no food trapped in the bristles, he went to his truck and headed off to pick up Y/N.

The texts between them had been cute so far. Once he got home from his grocery run and initial meeting of her, he'd texted her right away, choosing to be adorable (in his mind):

Hey, hope this isn't too late to bother you. Hope you got home safe with the little wolf-child.

He didn't have to wait long. Y/N got back to him, replying with:

She stayed asleep the whole time I was bringing groceries in. She’s still asleep. You must have the magic touch.

Absurdly, that made him smile. He liked to think so, given how difficult Emily had been as a baby. Colicky, they knew now. But then, Beau was always a charmer. He couldn't resist with:

I try to reserve it for special occasions. Don’t want to lose the magic.

He didn’t know what inspired him to do that, but Y/N's response had him nearly dropping his bottle of beer into the campfire.

Oh? I hope I get the special occasion soon.

Goddamn. He liked her already.

Beau thought back to that exchange, bit back a grin. He normally didn't like to rush the flirtation, the dating, the warm buildup to taking a woman to bed. Y/N was making him rethink that after that little bit of flirting.

Then his tire blew out. Wildly the truck swerved, and he swore up a storm as he fought to keep it from flipping over. He counted his blessings as it stuttered to the shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest. Sweet Lord... that was too close.

Grumbling, Beau sent a quick text to Y/N to let her know he had to replace a flat—another one, dammit!—and would be there as quick as he could. At this rate, he was going to have to have the other tires checked be replaced before this happened again.

He grabbed his jack and lug wrench and went to work. His luck was spectacularly bad tonight. The lug nuts wouldn’t move. He swore, shifted his stance and thank God it moved—!

He tried again and it loosened so fast he stumbled forward and scraped his knuckles across the road. The pain was furiously bad and he saw his knuckles bleeding. Just fucking great.

He grabbed a bandana, wrapped up his hand, and went to work. After swearing and sweating, he finally got the tire switched out. Thank God he paid for a full sized spare so he wouldn’t have to worry about the spare blowing out in the long drive from his trailer to town.

Then he looked down at his shirt. His white shirt… was no longer white. It was smeared with tire dust and oh great, blood. Now he’s a mess.

He debated going back to his trailer to change, then opted not to be even later. He could stop by the sheriff’s department and grab his spare there instead.

He texted Y/N to let her know he’s on his way and apologized for being late. She responded so quickly he worried she’d been impatiently waiting for him. Then he read it:

I’m glad to hear you’re all right! Please, don’t rush. I’d rather be late than have you get into an accident. I’ll see you soon.

He smiled. An understanding woman. He was lucky. Relieved, he headed back onto the road and made the detour to the sheriff’s department to change out his shirt and bandage up his hand. His knuckles looked raw; that was gonna leave a scar.

He sighed. Wouldn’t be the first.

He got to Y/N’s home only 35 minutes late, which made him cringe. He liked being prompt. Damned tire.

He knocked on her door and called up his best smile. She opened it and oh my God—she was gorgeous. She did something to her hair that just made him want to run his fingers through it and pull her in for a kiss.

He fought the urge. Barely.

She looked him over, and something sparkles in her eyes as she zeroed on his face. “Beau… you have a smear of oil or something on your cheek.”

“Aw hell,” he muttered, lifting a hand to feel the stickiness.

That was when she saw his bandages and her smile dropped, replaced with concern. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

“I’m a klutz today, apparently,” he said. “Lug wrench slipped and my knuckles saved me. I’ll be all right. You’re sweet to worry, darlin’.”

She smiled faintly. “Well, let’s get your face cleaned up and then we can go, how’s that?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She had to use Dawn. Thank God that soap was a miracle worker because it was either that or some powerful Orange cleaner which usually stank to high hell. Once his face and hands were thoroughly cleaned and his hand re-bandaged—she’d insisted and he wasn’t about to say ‘no’—they were off to the restaurant.

Y/N glanced at him as he drove. “Tell me about the restaurant.”

“Well,” he said, tapping his thumb in the steering wheel, “it’s a new place. Hadn’t heard much about it, to be honest. Opened up last week. It’s Italian. Hope ya like it.”

“I love Italian,” she said with a smile. “I actually studied in Rome abroad for a semester when I was in college.”

“No foolin’,” he said with a surprised smile. “Got ourselves a well-traveled woman.”

She laughed. “Not really! Just one semester but God, I loved it. The food, the atmosphere. Walked the Coliseum. I wouldn’t mind going back.” She slanted a look at him. “What about you?”

“Never left the country if that’s what you’re asking about,” he said, and smiled. “Does coming from Texas count?”

“I had a suspicion you weren’t a Montana native,” she teased and he laughed. His accent was a dead giveaway.

“Been in Big Sky all your life outside of Rome?” he asked, intrigued. He liked her. She was easy to talk to.

“No. Moved a bit around for a while. Originally from Billings,” she replied. “My parents are still there.”

“Yeah? Nice to be close by,” he mused. He thought of his parents for a moment, still in Texas. He called them often, especially his mother.

“It is. I moved to Big Sky a few years ago. I rather like it,” she went on. “How about you?”

“Came here two years ago,” he answered, turning down the road to the restaurant. “Followed my daughter when her mother decided to come here. Ended up working at the sheriff’s department and decided to stay.”

“Emily, right?”

He liked that she remembered. “Yep,” he pulled into the parking lot. Beau couldn’t decide if he was happy to see a small number of cars or if he should be concerned. It was prime dining time, after all. “She’s still here, just at university now.”

“Oh yeah?” She unbuckled as he parked. “What is she studying?” She laid a hand on the handle when he made a sound to stop her. “What? What did I do?”

“A gentleman helps the lady out of the car,” he said in an aggrieved tone.

She blinked in surprise. “As a feminist I can’t decide if I should be flattered or offended.”

“Flattered,” he told her as he got out of his side and circled around. When he opened her side, he added, “It ain’t about taking away your autonomy. It’s me treatin’ ya right.”

She smiled at him as he helped her out. “Let me guess… you’ll want to get the door and pull out my seat too?”

He returned her smile, green eyes warm. “Damn right.”

She chuckled. “You surprise me, Beauregard.”

”I could offer you my arm too,” he said, walking beside her. “If ya like.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, and actually paused for him to open the restaurant door. He appreciated her willingness and opened it for her, following her inside.

It seemed pleasant enough, he decided. The interior of the restaurant wasn’t heavily decorated and he had the sense it was struggling to decide how to make its appearance appealing. The servers seemed… to just stand around. Crap, that worried him.

The date had a bad start and he wanted it to end on a good note. He was now wondering if it would even crack neutral.

He cleared his throat loudly to get one of the server’s attention. They glanced over at him boredly and said, “Yeah?”

Beau considered a number of reactions, almost none of them suitable for the sheriff of Big Sky and for the public. He clenched his jaw, bit back his temper, and managed, “We’d like a table. Or would you prefer booth?”

Y/N glanced at the bored server, then at Beau. “Booth,” she said at last, with a tiny smile.

Beau straightened, pleased. It meant they could sit next to each other, really close, too. The server rolled his eyes and walked over to the first booth available. Beau allowed Y/N to sit first, watching as the server set down menus.

Within moments of sliding in, Y/N yelped and pulled her hand away, revealing some half-dried ketchup. “Um... the seat needs to be cleaned.”

“Oh, sorry,” the server said, still sounding as bored as heck. It was starting to irritate Beau. Y/N moved back out and the server wiped it down with a dirty rag. “There you go.”

“No.” Beau’s tone brooked no argument. “New booth. A clean one.”

The server met Beau’s gaze, then his eyes widened. “Uh... sure. Give me a second.”

Y/N glanced at Beau, then at the server. Her final glance at Beau was full of veiled curiosity. “What did you do to him?”

“Just gave him a look.” Beau smiled. “Just makin’ sure he does his job.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh. “God, Beau. It was just a dirty booth. Not a big deal.” She glanced down at her hand and wrinkled her nose. “Let me go wash my hands. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” Beau watched her walk away and smiled to himself as he watched her hips sway slightly. He liked her. She was patient, easy-tempered.

Then he turned a chilling look at the server as he wiped down a nearby booth. Beau understood restaurant work wasn’t easy. He had dim memories of himself as a teenager being a bus boy for a local cafe in Dallas. God, that was hell. But he did his damnedest and appreciated the hard work. This just bordered on sheer unwillingness to even half-ass the job.

He rubbed the back of his neck, watching. He made damned sure Y/N would have a clean booth to sit and dine. Bad enough he had a blown tire, scraped knuckles and oil on his face. Y/N had a handful of half-dried ketchup. He really wanted it to end on a good note.

By the time Y/N returned, the booth was clean, new utensils were set down and menus were set aside.

“Ya know, I never got around to answerin’ your question,” Beau said to Y/N as they studied the menus. Y/N glanced at him, puzzled. “You asked what Emily was studying.”

“Oh! So I did.” Y/N set the menu down and put her full attention on him. Beau liked that.

“She’s studying film and media. Fancies herself a future director, I think,” he said with a smile. “Ya should’ve seen her. She’d be carrying around her cellphone and recordin’ everything under the sun with wild commentary.”

“Give me an example.” The fact she leaned forward with intense interest warmed him.

Beau smiled at her. “We spent the summer with her followin’ me around, describin’ every borin’ thing I did at the sheriff’s department.”

“Boring? I never would consider the law enforcement boring,” she said with surprise.

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Normally, I’d agree. This was a rare bout of a borin’ week where she actually, at one point, sat in my chair, feet on my desk, looked at me and went, ‘Dad, your job is boring’.”

Y/N laughed and shook her head. “She sounds like quite the character! I hope my little wolf-child isn’t going to be that bad.”

“She certainly made a good start of it,” he quipped. “I ain’t about to forget nearly being conked with Chef Boyardee cans.”

“Oh God. I’m still sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. She showed a lot of strength of character in that moment.” He had to resist brushing away a loose strand of her hair. “Embrace it. You’ll want that to stick around when she gets older.”

Y/N softened and aw, hell, he gave in. There was a flicker of surprise as he brushed that strand of hair away, tucked it behind her ear. There was a look in her eyes that made him want to kiss her—only to have that moment shatter because the server came over.

Beau resisted the urge to cuss out the server. He was doing his job, even if it ruined a chance to kiss Y/N. Once the orders were given and menus taken, Beau knew the moment was gone. He sighed internally, and tilted his head back to Y/N.

“Ya mind if I ask ya a serious question?”

Y/N’s gaze zeroed on him and he felt surprisingly vulnerable. “You want to ask about Eliza’s father.”

Beau’s brows rose. “Huh. You’re good.”

“After a few rounds of bad dates, I start to figure out it’s one of the bigger questions.” She fiddled with the fork and hesitated a moment. “So… I said I have parents. It’s my mom and step-dad, actually. My parents split when I was young. It wasn’t bad. Just different. And um… three years ago, my father came down with cancer.”

“Aw, darlin’,” he breathed, his heart aching at the way her voice thickened, the way she kept staring at the fork.

“He didn’t make it. I was… we were close. I get along okay with my step-dad, but it’s my father that was like my whole world.” Her gaze flickered to him and he saw the wetness. “Losing him was hard.” She cleared her throat. “There was this guy who came around a lot. We kind of flirted, danced around it for a long time before I lost my father.”

It clicked for Beau. “You found comfort in him.”

Y/N nodded. “We weren’t serious, but it softened the edges. I know that makes me sound easy—”

“Darlin’, it ain’t my place to judge.” She seemed surprised. “I mean it. Not everyone finds the one they’re supposed to be with right away. Sleep around, be celibate, it ain’t my place to decide what’s virtuous.”

Her expression softened. “Thank you for that.” She took a deep breath. “We hung around for a while, then he stopped showing up. I didn’t think too much of it… until I had the positive pregnancy test.”

Beau winced. Grieving her father, man she was sleeping with disappeared, and a positive pregnancy test sounded like a bad combination. “You decided to keep her.”

“I did.” Y/N took a deep breath. “I know it sounded like a bad reason, but I was feeling so lonely and missing my father.” She smiled faintly. “I don’t regret having Eliza. She’s the best thing in my life. She just wasn’t planned.”

“You’re doin’ well with her.”

Y/N smiled at him and he felt his heart do a little flip. “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “That means a lot.”

Dammit. He wanted to kiss her again. “Darlin’…”

“Here are your orders,” the server said, bringing their plates down.

Beau contemplated murder for a long moment. He took a steadying breath and glanced at the server, gave him a tight smile. “Thank you.”

The food at least looked good. In silent agreement, Beau and Y/N dug in. Within the first bite, they both choked. The food was vile. Beau decided his tasted so unappealing he couldn’t even finish chewing it. He grabbed the napkin and spat it out. Y/N did the same.

“Oh my God,” she said in disgust. “That was just…”

“Yeah.” He grabbed his water and took a long drink to wash the taste out of his mouth. “Dear God.”

“That was…” She shook her head. “Three day old food doesn’t even taste that bad.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had anything this bad.” He coughed. “That’s it.” He waved down the server and snapped his fingers before he gestured down at the table. The server wandered over. The moment he was within hearing distance, Beau began. “This stuff is terrible—”

“Yeah, we know,” the server said, and for the first time that night, his voice sounded like it had life.

Beau stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

Y/N glanced at Beau, then the server. “Y-you know?”

“Yeah.” The server shrugged. “The chef’s terrible.”

Beau blinked, confused. “Then get a new chef!”

“Can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s the owner.”

Beau heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. “Right. Lemme guess: ya can’t comp the meal either.”

The server shook his head. “Sorry. All I can do is tell you to please tell everyone that we’re not worth eating at and that way it can close faster.”

Beau narrowed his eyes at the server. “The owner’s your father, isn’t it?”

The server shrugged, sighed, and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Christ.” Beau rubbed his face, then reached back to grab his wallet from his pocket. “What’s the total?”

Y/N quirked a brow at Beau, surprised. The server quoted the estimated cost, and then did a double-take when Beau dropped twice the amount. Even Y/N wasn’t sure how to take it. Beau divided it in half and shoved it to the server.

“Your tip.”

“But… I did a shitty job.”

“Language.” Beau slid out of the booth and offered his hand to Y/N. She took it after a second to realize what he was doing. “Yeah, you did a shitty job, but you had a problem ya couldn’t do much about. Look for another job before your father kills this place. But do me one favor.”

“Uh, yeah, anything,” the server said, still astonished.

“The job may be crappy but don’t half-ass it.” Beau stopped when he realized he used bad language, gave up, and kept going. “Dedicate yourself to it. Nobody deserves bad service off the bat. Don’t take abuse, sure, but don’t give bad service.”

Y/N slid a look at Beau, thoughtful. He still had her hand in his and seemingly didn’t realize he was still holding it.

The server stared at Beau, then nodded. “Yeah… yeah.”

Beau led the way back to the truck. He waited until they exited the restaurant before letting out a huff. “Well, that was a waste. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“What? Why?” She paused, then added teasingly, “Are you the father, Beau?”

He snorted and laughed. “No. I just… it felt like a whole damned waste.”

“I don’t agree.”

He stopped and looked down at her. There was a faint smile on her face that had him pausing. With the moonlight silvering her hair, she looked almost ethereal. “You surprise me, darlin’.”

“Not many people would actually pay such a nice tip after bad service and a bad meal,” she said. “And you gave good advice on top of it. That’s rather admirable.”

He lightly touched her cheek. “May I kiss you, darlin’?” She barely said ‘yes’ before his mouth was on hers, capturing her lips in a slow, sweet kiss. She began to return it, sliding a hand up his chest. He felt her warmth, and deepened the kiss for a moment. It was tempting, God, to go even further. In the truck. In the parking lot. Slowly, he broke it, and let out a breath.

“No offense, Beau,” she whispered, “but your breath stinks.”

Beau chuckled. “Yeah, yours didn’t taste that good either.”

“That food was really awful,” she said with a laugh. “Never again.”

“Definitely not. You’d do better with me cookin’ dinner, and Emily says my steaks are like rubber.”

Y/N laughed. “I may want to try them one day.”

Beau smiled. “Despite this being a bad first date… you wanna try again?”

“A do-over,” she agreed. “And it wasn’t a bad date, Beau. The food might’ve been awful, but everything else? Fantastic.”

He walked her back to the truck, and they spent the drive back to her home—with a detour to McDonald’s, sorry Mama Arlen—in easy conversation. He gave her another kiss at her door, and felt as though he floated on Cloud Nine.

Bad first date. Great girl.

Tag List:

@spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl @nancymcl @deans-baby-momma

[sylvesterelle]

A few months ago I knew fuck all about Call of Duty. Then I saw one (1) TikTok of John Price, hallucinated an entire novel-length slow burn poly!141 fic on a 12-hour drive, then wrote the first 60k of it for NaNoWriMo. To get myself going again, I'll be posting chapters here as they're edited! Estimating 100-120k when complete and aiming for a chapter a week (though best laid plans of mice and men and all that).

ok love you enjoy

The Fallout Zone - Chapters 1 & 2

Poly!141 inc. Price/OFC, Gaz/OMC, Soap/Ghost, Price/Gaz/Soap/Ghost/OFC, and various other combinations within that

Images: X, X, and X

Sure, a murderous multinational network had very recently tried to bury them under a mountain, but lots of people had wanted to kill Price for some reason or another. He’d had the good pleasure of offing each and every one, and didn’t doubt he’d do the same here. The truth of the matter was that his boys were tired, he was tired, and this was the exact fucking break they needed. Heat off their back, a spacious—if fucking odd—safe house to shelter in, and a thoroughly enchanting enigma of a host he could already feel himself itching to take apart. A right bit of luck indeed, and John had long since learned to appreciate his blessings. Or: a poly!141/found family fic in which deaths are faked, hearts are healed, conspiracies are uncovered, and home is found in the most unlikely of places.

Chapters 1 & 2, 7.4k, general audiences (rating will go up), cw: canon-typical violence

Read on AO3 I Chapter 3 I Chapters 4 & 5

Chapter One - Price

John Price had had better days. 

The captain tugged his gloves off with his teeth and dug his thumbs into his aching temples. God, his fuckin’ head hurt. Maybe not a concussion, but his bell had been rung but good.

The drone of the rotor blades was the shit icing on a shit cake, but Price was too grateful for the chopper’s role in their escape to take it personal. 

Might actually kiss the old bird out of gratitude, really, delivering them from the apocalyptic shitshow they’d been stuck in. Definitely owed Nikolai a good snog for saving their bacon, Kate too—though she’d box his ears for trying.

The woman in question was currently sat up front, consulting a map and muttering directions in Nik’s ear. “Somewhere safe,” was all she’d said when he’d asked their heading, but that was more than enough for now. 

Price scrubbed a hand over his beard, letting out a low hiss when he prodded the split in his lip, the blood throbbing angrily below. Dove when he should have ducked and took it straight to the gob like a right fuckin’ muppet, as Ghost would say. 

The man in question was dead asleep between the bench seats; he’d collapsed from sheer exhaustion shortly before they’d boarded and it’d taken all three of them to heft his bulk on to the helicopter.

No one had gotten much rest in the past days, but Ghost least of all—the underground cave too much a reminder of things he’d rather forget. Three days they’d spent hidden away like rats under a peak in the Caucasus. Unsure if their desperate call for extraction had even made it through before running for the hills with a god damned army at their back, so many bullets in the air it looked like rain. 

The snatch-and-grab mission should have been a cakewalk, especially for a team like the 141. A separatist leader with ties to a global arms network they’d been tracing, lying low with his personal guard in a remote lodge. Small team, minimal support. In, out, extract the target, bring him to a nearby base for questioning. Nothing Price hadn’t done a thousand times before on less intel and worse odds. 

Maybe it was too easy, in hindsight. Maybe he should have expected a trap. But the 141 had been run ragged this past year, barely time to catch their breath and tend to their hurts between missions. No time to realize they’d missed the forest for the trees.

They’d been chasing their shadow network over five continents in nine months, with fewer successes than a man like John Price typically enjoyed. The enemy was diverse in their investments: funding a politically ambitious cartel leader here, facilitating a military coup there; illicit chemical and mining operations in half-a-dozen countries and a penchant for disappearing weapons transports that gave Laswell more than one sleepless night.

Wherever they went chaos followed, but for the life of him Price couldn’t figure out the pattern, the underlying goal. Every instinct told him there was a piece of the puzzle he was missing, something that would make it all make sense. 

So when Laswell called with lead on a target, one with exactly the kind of information they needed and tucked up in a secluded valley all snug for him, well. Like dangling a bone in front of a starving dog, wasn’t it. 

And so the trap had been laid, and laid well.

They lost comms the moment their boots touched ground, too swift and complete to be anything but planned. Took only a fraction of a second for Price to realize they were expected, a half-heartbeat more to shout a retreat, already ripping the emergency satphone from his vest. 

Could only hope that Laswell was listening as he bellowed their destination, the line going dead moments later. The rest was a little hazy. John’s head throbbed painfully when he tried to recall the grisly path they cut to the hills, each body seeming to be replaced by three more. 

A bloody fucking miracle they made it, in hindsight.

The 141 were built to be Hail Mary team. The knife’s edge was where they performed best, a unit uniquely suited to excel at the precise moment when all seemed lost. But their survival this time involved no skill, no strategy, no plan of mouse or man. This was a shitshow; this was a run for their fucking lives. 

The only reason the men of Task Force 141 were still among the living was a quirk of geology, a labyrinth of natural caves spiraling through the mountains of the Chechnyan border. They’d discussed the caverns as a contingency early in planning, but it was so far down the list of plans that it might as well have been another fucking alphabet. Not something they should waste time and resources LiDAR mapping, not on a mission as straightforward as this. 

It was a decision Price cursed repeatedly over the next three days, holed up in a dead-end tunnel close to the surface and waiting for a rescue that might never come.

Seventy-two excruciatingly long hours of near-constant shelling, nerves frayed to breaking and blood clotted with mortar dust from jagged rockfall. Small comfort knowing your enemy didn’t have your precise location when they seemed happy to level the entire mountain. In different circumstances, John might have been impressed.

As it was, by the first night he was seriously considering if death by gunfire wouldn’t be better than waiting for the hit that would finally bring the walls down on them. Certainly better than wandering the tunnels in the dark, just running out the clock until their bodies gave out.

If their faces were anything to go by, his men had been thinking much along the same lines. Ghost didn’t utter a single word the entire time they were underground, back pressed to a wall and eyes drilling holes into darkness—creeping in around the light of their rapidly-dying flashlights. Price spent most of his time sitting next to his lieutenant in silence, grounding him with a hand on his neck and a thigh pressed up against his own. Watched as Gaz paced a rut in the floor and Soap shadow-boxed violently against the wall.

Price had near made peace with the fact they were going to die in that hole when a faint whistle had come from one of the branching tunnels deep in the mountain. The three-note song of a wood thrush; a bird native to the eastern United States, just like someone else they knew.

They followed that sound like the salvation it was, squinting as they emerged into a too-bright twilight. Price was so sick with relief to see Laswell and Nikolai standing there that he didn’t pay much attention to the corpses at their feet. Wasn’t until Gaz made a strangled sound that he looked close enough to realize they wore familiar uniforms, no doubt lifted from their bags back at base. Hell, they’d even found a skull plate to complete the picture.

John was already pulling his dog tags up and off before they asked, his neck tingling with its absence. Wouldn’t be surprised if he looked down to see the letters seared into the shape of him, time-worn into his skin.

A few discrete charges was all it took to bring the tunnel down with sufficient force to disfigure the bodies, the sound blending with the chorus of shelling and camouflaging their takeoff. 

They’d been flying nonstop since, long enough that the dawn was creeping its tendrils over the horizon.

John groaned and stretched his legs out as far as he could, avoiding Ghost’s prone form. He could feel the weight of the past days in every aching bone, the lack of sleep burning acid in his veins.

God, he’d give his left bollocks for a cigar. Couldn’t even smoke it with his mouth all prettied up like this, but maybe the smell would steady his nerves, force down the acid in his gullet. 

Price had been in some truly shit spots in his life. It was a necessity of the job he’d been doing for nearly two decades and the job that would probably kill him in the end. So shit spots…well. He’d had plenty of those.

But rarely, rarely had John Price run away from a fight.

On this mission he’d felt like prey for the first time in his life, and it left him nauseous in his very bones.

In truth, they’d gotten lucky none of them were hurt worse. So lucky he’d call it divine intervention, the part of him that still believed in that sort of thing. 

Gaz got the worst of it: a dislocated shoulder yanked back into place on the cave floor, arm wrapped in a temporary sling. Ghost, like Price, had taken an unlucky blow to the head and bore a souvenir in the crack that spiderwebbed through his mask, threatening to shatter the whole thing. And Soap, well, Soap had been so soundly battered he looked like one huge bruise. But he was still breathing, snoring like a chainsaw into Gaz’s unhurt shoulder. 

Battered, but not broken. A bloody miracle by anyone’s count.

His moment of relief was interrupted when Ghost gasped into consciousness on the floor. His lieutenant jackknifed violently, his weight shifting the craft and sending John clutching at his chest like his granny after a good scare. 

Stunned into his own wakefulness, Soap moved faster than John could follow, gripping the back of Ghost’s vest and saving him from tumbling out into open sky.

“You daft, spooky bastard,” Soap yelled as he yanked the larger man back to safety. “Don’t go dying after we went through the trouble of haulin’ your carcass in here.” 

He settled the lieutenant against his legs, releasing his vest with an affectionate pat. 

“That’s no mean feat, ya ken. There’s a bloody lot of you.”

Price shook his head, amused in spite of himself. Soap was good for that; seemed to bounce back faster than the rest of them. Got into trouble faster, too, but it kept Price from getting too maudlin—no mean feat in itself, he could admit.

He reached forward and tapped twice on his lieutenant’s knee pad, gaze assessing. “You broken, son?” 

It took a worryingly long moment for Ghost’s eyes to focus on him, but the nod he gave was steady, and Price wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Laswell chose that moment to lean back, gesturing impatiently for them to grab the headsets off the wall. One arm out of commission, Gaz leaned over so Soap could slip the headset over his ears. Did the same for Ghost after, ignoring the man’s upraised hand and the little growl that followed. 

John donned his own, turning to the front.

“Hello Kate, good to see you, wish it was under better fuckin’ circumstances,” he greeted her, adjusting the mic. 

“You and me both, John,” she replied. “It’s good to see you boys mostly in one piece.”

Price snorted derisively. “In spite of all efforts to the contrary. You wanna tell me what the fuck that was? They were waiting for us with a fucking army, Kate. Four men against a bloody army.”He leaned forward with a finger punctuating his words, temper burning unchecked after the strain of the last few days. She’d understand. “You told us you the source was good, that the information could be trusted. You delivered us right into the mouth of the fucking tiger, Kate. What. Went. Wrong.” 

She ignored his accusing finger and met his gaze, serious and heavy with guilt. They hadn’t had much cause to apologize to each other, but he knew real regret when he saw it.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she said, “I had no idea the danger you’d be walking into.” 

“Danger, danger, she says,” Soap muttered beneath his breath, “more like a two-step with the grim bloody reaper.” 

Kate kept her eyes on John. “The orders came from above, cream-of-the-fucking-crop of actionable intel, or so I was told. But I confirmed it two days ago—the target was never there.”

She leaned forward, eyes intense. “It was always about you, John. They wanted to put the 141 in the ground.”

Price’s fists tightened on his knees, knuckles creaking painfully. He forced himself to take a breath, spread them out. Stay calm, stay clear for his men.

“Who gave you the intel?”

“The director himself, John. Told me it came from a trusted counterpart in another branch, asked me to put my best on it. The director, John,” Laswell said, “That’s not an order I can ignore.” 

“You think he’s in on it?” Gaz frowned. 

Laswell shook her head, certain. “He has no reason to get rid of your team—you’ve gotten us too many wins. Even if he did, this isn’t his style. I’m not going to pretend I like the man, but he’s not wasteful, and he’d never okay a plan that drew so much attention.” 

“So someone noticed the carpet bombing, then?” Ghost asked dryly, the grim humor a strangely reassuring sign.

John scrubbed his fingers through his scruff thoughtfully. “So we’re looking someone else. Someone high up enough that his intel wouldn’t be questioned. Someone who does have a reason to get us out of their way.” 

“You boys? Making enemies?” Nikolai chimed in from up front, “I can’t believe it.” 

John acknowledged the point with a low chuckle, “No shortage of enemies, but not that many with the power to call the director of the CIA to heel. That means top brass, someone protected. We’ll need to be delicate with this one, lads.” 

“Oh wonderful, your strong suit,” Laswell said wryly.

His two-fingered salute was instinctive and drew forth her usual laugh. 

“Delicacy takes time, which is a luxury we don’t often have,” Price said. “The stunt with the bodies—clever bit of work that—buys us time. We use it to rest and recover, to gather everything we know, then go at this with our heads on straight. We very nearly did not survive this mission, and that is on me.” 

John held up a hand, silencing the immediate protests from his men.

“That is on me. I know damn well I’ve been pushing too hard. Too set on the fucking mystery of it that I forgot the most important thing: we change no lives from the grave. I’m sorry, and I won’t make the same mistake again,” he promised solemnly to his men.

Soap opened his mouth to argue, but the bite of Ghost’s nails in his leg cut him off. “Oh aye, you’re just gonna sit there and pretend he’s not talking bollocks?” he said to Ghost, casting him a frustrated look.

Gaz’s elbow to his stomach cut off any further comment. Gaz gave his captain a solemn nod to continue.   

John hooked his fingers in his vest and leaned back against the wall. Let a little smile play at the corner of his mouth; something that might look friendly if you didn’t look too close. 

“Here’s the good part, lads: while we take our little holiday, fix all our broken parts, our enemy is going to deliver himself to us. The way I see it, all we need to do is lie low for a bit and see who gets a little bold in our absence. Who gets a little big for his britches, now he thinks mother isn’t looking over his shoulder.”

John let a little, pleased growl slip into his voice, already anticipating the pleasure of the hunt. Of the kill. “Maybe gets a little sloppy, our birdie. And there we’ll be, ready to clean up the mess.”

Even tired as they were, John could feel the energy shift in his men, hounds pricking up for the hunt. They would recover, they would recoup, and they would scorch earth on their return—that was a fucking promise.

“Alright boys,” Laswell said, “The more people we can convince that you died on that mountain, the more time we buy to uncover the whole rotten shape of this thing. That means you’ll have to go dark; lie so low you’re practically underground.”

“Too soon,” Gaz muttered under his breath.

“I’m taking you to stay at an old friend’s place—off the grid and not on any agency’s radar, as far as we’re aware. This is no crawl space safe house, boys, and I expect you to use every resource available to you. Whatever fight is coming, I’m going to need all of you at your best.”  

Up front, Nikolai tapped Kate’s shoulder, signaling their final approach. 

“Now, you boys ready to see your new home?”

Chapter 2 - Price

They’d put down in a small clearing a couple miles out from their destination, hefting duffle bags through dense forest. 

It should have been peaceful, all mossy green trees filtered with sunlight, a sky so blue it hurt to look at it, and birdsong the only sound on the breeze. 

But there was something…off about the woods. 

The fucking talismans, for one thing. They spotted the first only a few moments after they landed, woven with birch and something that looked suspiciously like hair. Hung at irregular intervals through the trees, catching in John’s periphery when they moved in the breeze and making him feel like there were bodies in the trees, moving just out of reach.

They were probably just a folklore thing, superstition, John tried to convince himself. Gettin’ himself all worked up over nothing. 

But then there was a flicker at the corner of his eye, a flash of blue and black and bone slipping through the trees. John startled like a babe when the image resolved into a fuck-off massive horse, all powerful legs and sweat-slicked black coat, steam rising from its nostrils in the early morning light. 

John had barely begun to process its rider when his men caught sight. Ghost dropped to one knee and had his eye to the scope in a moment, but horse and rider were already gone.  

Kate and Nik were entirely unphased.

“It’s just Jack,” Laswell said, like that meant anything to him. “Probably scouting the woods to make sure we weren’t followed. Now c’mon, we’re almost there.”

Price didn’t know of any asset of Kate’s by that name, but Laswell was a black box at the best of times; he’d gotten used to her seemingly inexhaustible resources and secrets alike. Whatever kind of man or beast this Jack was, they’d find out sooner than later.

John rested a broad palm on the back of his lieutenant’s neck and squeezed warmly. Bone tired and still protecting the rest of them.

“Good lad,” Price said softly, “let’s get you home.”

This thought proved less comforting in practice.

“Steamin’ Jesus, did you bring us to fucking Chernobyl?” Soap’s accent sharpened on the last two words, dragging them out in disbelief.

It should be a ridiculous question, but, well. The second they’d stepped out of the woods into a small clearing, all eyes went immediately to the narrow cement tower rising from the center of a dark structure, striped with red like a coral snake. A huge chunk was missing from one side, caved-in likely, and the sight of it did nothing for John’s nerves. 

Warning, every inch of it said. Hazardous to your health.

“Can I just say,” Soap drawled, “I do think the safety of a safehouse is somewhat in question when it’s in a fucking nuclear reactor.”

“It’s decommissioned,” Nikolai said. “Very safe. Scout’s honor,” he promised, eyes glinting with mischief. Price sighed in resignation. He had trusted Nikolai with his life more times than he could count and he’d trust him again, but Soap had a fair fucking point.

He scanned the rest of the surroundings with an appraising eye.

The forest air became tinged with salt as they’d neared the clearing and sure enough Price could see glimpses of gray-blue beyond the trees. Probably used seawater to cool the reactor when it was live, he reasoned. Quietly hoped that it was not and had not been for some time.

All of it was enough for Price to get a rough estimate of their location—likely somewhere on Russia’s northern coast, Kara Sea maybe. He frowned slightly, something niggling in his mind about nuclear testing on the nearby Novaya Zemlya. Ah well, beggars and choosers and all that. Could certainly appreciate that the threat of radiation poisoning might be effective in keeping visitors away. But who the hell would voluntarily live here full time?

Price swept his gaze over the dark, Brutalist façade of the structure built around the tower. Two, maybe three stories. More windows than he expected and a surprisingly charming study in contrasts, blocky concrete lines softened by the glossy, sprawling vines that covered its surface and crawled partway up the tower. With the forest surrounding it on all sides, it looked like the building was slowly becoming one with the wilds. He even spotted some quaint wooden structures through the trees—probably a stable for that damn demon horse.

All told, if Price ignored the distinct feeling of menace coming from the tower, the place could be something from a fairy tale. Maybe a princess waiting for rescue inside, he thought idly, uncharacteristically silly with exhaustion. Just as likely to be the kind of place a Bond villain would hole up, mustache twirling as he plotted world domination. If they found an underground submarine launch for a clandestine escape, John would happily stay there for a time, radiation or no. Maybe even grow out his whiskers to complete the picture.

Kate led them through the clearing into the open mouth of a concrete tunnel, Nik bringing up the rear. When the sea air blew the right way, rattling the metal lights above, it almost sounded like the tunnel was breathing. John wasn’t too proud to admit it brought up the hairs on his neck, especially after their little jaunt through the forest.

The discomfort didn’t abate when they reached the end of a tunnel, an eye-wateringly yellow metal door barring their way. John’s Russian was a little rusty, couldn’t quite translate the bold red Cyrillic on the door, but he knew a warning when he saw one.

Kate didn’t hesitate a moment, punching in a code before leaning over for the thumbprint and retinal scan. The resulting grind of dozens of locks went on long enough that Ghost muttered an impatient “fucking hell” under his breath. When the keypad finally flickered green, he grunted in the way that communicated reluctant respect. Price had spent enough time with Simon to learn he had a whole vocabulary of the things.

“There’s a more discrete entrance closer to the stables, but I wanted you boys to get the full effect,” Kate said with a knowing smile, heaving the door open. “Welcome to Wichita.” 

The first thing John noticed was the noise. 

Someone was playing music and loud. Christ, how thick must those walls be, that they couldn’t hear it even just outside the door? The sound was echoing off the curved walls of the large atrium they stepped into, flooded with light from a massive, circular skylight above.A casual glance around showed no visible speakers, but there must be a subwoofer the size of tank somewhere, heavy bass rumbling in Price’s chest as he swept over the three visible stories.

Not another person in sight.

Kate motioned for them to drop their bags and follow her down one of the halls leading off the atrium, following the noise.

“This some kind of sick CIA torture protocol, Laswell?” Ghost called over the music.

“Ol’ Dirty Bastard!” Soap crowed at him, and Price raised an eyebrow.

“Gonna let him get away with that, Simon?” he asked.

Soap rolled his eyes. “S’the artist, sir. Though now that you mention it…”

“That’ll do,” Ghost cut him off firmly, though with that undercurrent of amusement he always seemed to develop around Soap.

“‘Shimmy Shimmy Ya,’” Gaz piped up. “Fucking banger, that.”

“Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nothing to fuck with,” Soap said, nodding sagely.

“What do you think, Kate?” Nikolai’s warm, rumbling voice called from behind. “Good mood?”

Laswell tilted her head, listening thoughtfully. “Good mood,” she confirmed after a moment. “It’s that godawful emo crap you have to watch out for.”

“Don’t go giving away all my secrets now,” a light, amused voice came from down the hall.

John’s head snapped up. Christ, the thought came unbidden, a princess after all. 

But that thought only lasted a moment.

Price had seen a panther once, hunting below the sniper’s nest he’d built at the edge of a thick forest on a mission in the Cordillera de Talamanc. He’d been holed up in the perch for a few days, waiting on the target’s caravan, when he caught the glint of eyeshine in the undergrowth: a black body well-camouflaged in the night.

For all that Price would consider himself a fairly dangerous man, the sight had sent a wave of instinctual, hind-brain fear through him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as he tracked the cat from his perch, watching as it patiently stalked a wounded deer through the edge of the forest for hours.

It wasn’t the size or muscle of the animal that made an impression on him, but the way it moved. Sinuously, even gracefully through the brush; all that potential energy coiled and waiting as it tracked its prey with complete, unwavering focus.

It was that panther he suddenly thought of as he took in the lass standing in an open doorway off the hall, one hip propped against the doorframe as they considered each other. Eyes bright for all she pretended ease, a coiled tension in her limbs just waiting for release.

She was somewhere in her late 20’s, if he had to guess. Tall for a woman and built strong--he knew a fighter when he saw one. Especially when they were dressed like goddamn Zorro, Price taking in her all-black outfit with a trickle of amusement. It was charmingly anachronistic: billowing linen shirt open at the neck, suede breeches curving along powerful thighs, wicked leather boots laced to the knee and flecked with mud.

Our forest rider, then, Price internally confirmed.

But for all the fright she’d given them this morning, her face held surprisingly more mischief than malice. He should know better; how many fools had failed to look past his own easy smile and paid the price for it? But still, there was something…disarming about her. She’d made a heroic attempt at tying up her dark hair but wonky curls sprung out to frame a face speckled with more freckles than he’d seen on one person, layered like stars on the darkest night. She had a rosebud mouth that sat incongruously above a stubborn chin, and a clear spark of humor in her eyes as she looked over the men in their tactical gear and black balaclavas—donned as an extra precaution on their trek through the woods. 

“Aw Kate, you brought me a stripper-gram? It’s not my birthday but you’re very sweet. I accept,” she said with a grin.

“Maybe if you ask them nicely,” Laswell snorted. “Meet Task Force 141. Captain Price’s men,” she said, nodding toward him. “They’ve run into a spot of trouble and need a place to lie low. Maybe some help to whip them into shape,” Kate tacked on with a grin, ignoring the noises of offense from Soap and Gaz.

“You don’t say?” the girl said with a curious glint in her eyes. “How very exciting. C’mon then, you can explain while I finish breakfast. No offense, but they’re looking a little…well-used. When was the last time they were fed and watered?”

“Too long,” Ghost muttered darkly.

Soap groaned in agreement. “My stomach’s cannibalizing itself.”

The girl led them into the room beyond, and John was pleasantly surprised to find it didn’t immediately give him the heebie-jeebies like the rest of the place.

It was welcoming, even—especially when she tapped a few times at the device strapped to her wrist and the pounding bass was replaced with something soft and classical that slipped into the background and calmed his nerves.

Price lingered in the entry, taking in the space. While the atrium and hallway had been constructed with the same Brutalist vision as the outside of the building, all concrete and stark lines, this space clearly must have been added later on.

The floors were a rough hardwood, the same material as the wood beams that braced the high ceilings and little lighter in color than the brick walls. Several massive, arched iron-paned windows were set into the far wall, flooding the room with early morning light and highlighting a few lazy specks of dust floating in the air.

It reminded John a little of a place he’d saw once on leave, years ago. Friend of a friend’s party, some factory-turned-loft on Brick Lane. Never cared much for the poncy shit who lived there but remembered thinking he’d like a place of his own like that one day. Somewhere open and warm, almost heavy with light. Like as not Price wouldn’t live long enough for real estate, but a lad could dream.

On the right side of the room was the kitchen, open wooden shelving interspersed with tall glass cabinets and a wrought-iron ladder on a neat track to reach it all. Glassy, emerald tile gleamed between the cupboards and the wooden countertops, the same material that topped an island roughly the size of a Fiat. On the far wall stood a bright red cast iron stove, big enough to feed a family of twelve (or roughly four SAS operators).

Price didn’t spend much time in kitchens, more used to shoveling down whatever high-protein slop was served on base and palate shot to hell from cigars. But even he could tell someone had poured a fortune into the space, all top-of-the-line appliances and gleaming copper cookware on the shelves, glass jars filled with ingredients Price couldn’t even begin to name.

The opposite side of the room was no less stunning. A long wooden table stretched under a cluster of pendant lamps that hung suspended from copper chains—green, petaled glass glowing in the sun. There were benches in place of chairs, but they looked wide and sturdy enough to hold even Ghost. Price also made mental note of two doors set into the wall behind it—pantry or storage, like as not, but he’d feel better once he could get a proper layout of the place. Not knowing his exits made him itchy.

Impressive as the space was, what rightfully piqued John’s curiosity was what lie beyond the kitchen. Moving further into the room, he realized what he’d taken as another set of arched windows in the far wall were actually doors, the slightly warped glass revealing verdant plants crowding beyond when he started forward. From what Price could see of the size of it, something less like a domestic greenhouse and more like a full-blown conservatory. 

Unusual that, for a nuclear reactor. 

Price’s curiosity would have to be sated later, as Ghost’s questioning presence at his shoulder had him up and moving, joining the others in the kitchen proper. He accepted the bottle of water and protein bar Nikolai pressed into his hand with a warm smile and leaned against the island, tuning in as Kate finished summarizing the legendary cock-up that had been their last mission.

“All that said, they need somewhere to disappear for a while,” she was saying to the lass, “and someone they can trust to aid in what comes next.”

“Oh, I do love a good resurrection,” the younger woman said, leaning by the range. “But I rather remember someone telling me I was retired.”

“Benched,” Laswell replied with the weight of an argument long held. “And, with any luck, your immediate threats will resolve well before theirs. I’m ‘thinking positively,’” she said, making quotations with her fingers.

The girl snorted. “Bea?” she asked, correctly ascertaining the source.

“The very one.” 

Price marked the mention of Kate’s wife; few knew she was married, much less the name of her spouse. Hell, Price had only been allowed to meet Bea for the first time only a few years prior.

The girl hummed, taking a moment to check on something in the oven and sending a wave of deliciously-scented warmth into the space.

“Alright, then,” she said good naturedly, straightening up to face the men. “Introduce me to the puppies.”

Price took that as his cue, pulling off his balaclava and scruffing down his hair a touch self-consciously.

“Captain John Price,” he said, nodding in greeting when Jack met his eyes, a lovely hazel threaded with blues and greens that caught the sunlight.

“These are my men,” he said, broad hand coming to rest warmly on Ghost’s neck. “Lieutenant Simon Riley. My right hand, though you’d do better to call him Ghost.”

Ghost grunted his acknowledgement, and the girl smiled at him, clearly undeterred by the cracked skull mask he still wore.

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick,” Price continued, moving down the row.

His sergeant had already removed his balaclava and gave her a charming smile and a wink, hurt shoulder or no. “Call me Gaz,” he said affably.

She gave Gaz the same warm smile she did Ghost before her gaze snagged to the side, eyes going wide as a newly-unmasked Soap rubbed a hand over his mussed mohawk.

“And this is Sargeant—”

“Johnny MacTavish,” she said in disbelief. “You devious little shit, is that really you?” 

Soap was clearly surprised, but Price could see something flickering in his gaze as he looked closer at the girl, eyes lingering on the wide smile that split her face. It was the deep dimple that finally did it, carving out of the girl’s right cheek as she grinned, waiting for Soap to catch up.

“You, you—” Soap stuttered, momentarily struck dumb with recognition. “You bonnie wee menace, get over here.” 

He moved even as he spoke, gathering her up and spinning her in dizzy circle as she hugged him back tightly, their exclamations and laughter overlapping. John shot a questioning look at Ghost, but his lieutenant seemed as in the dark as he was.

“I cannae say why or how you’re here, but I’m mighty fucking glad to see you, hen, really I am,” Soap returned her to the ground, running a hand wonderingly over her curls. “I didn’t recognize you with hair. Never realized you were hiding such bonnie curls under that buzzcut.”

“It’s called change, Johnny, it’s good for you,” she said, scruffing a hand over his own signature cut. She made a face when it came back covered in dust, wiping it on his shirtsleeve.

Soap didn’t react, too busy roving his eyes over her face. “Change indeed,” he said, tweaking the half-moon of hammered silver at her septum with delight. “Lookin’ like a wee highland cow and ev’rything.”

She batted Soap’s hand away only for him to grab her cheeks instead, eyes taking on an almost feral light as he squished them together until her lips pursed and she had to hold back a laugh. “D’ya still have it? Show me, show me, show me,” his sergeant begged, miles from the focused weapon of a man he was on the battlefield.

She rolled her eyes but obligingly poked out her tongue, revealing a matching glint of silver in the center. Soap crowed his approval, shaking her head a little as he grinned. He let go when she went to smack him in the stomach, stepping back with a laugh.

Price caught his eye with an amused smile. “Care to share with the class?” he asked his sergeant.While intellectually a recommendation from Kate was hard to beat, seeing the affectionate way Soap treated the lass—the way he was with no one but his team—set Price more physically at ease than he’d been since they landed. Bleeding out some of that tension inevitable with unknown quantities in their line of work.

“Oh aye, Captain,” Soap said grinning. “The lass and I are acquainted, sir.” 

“I gathered as much,” Price said dryly.

Soap spun the girl around to face his teammates, one arm slung proudly around her shoulders. “Her da was stationed at the same base as my cousin. Spent the summer wreaking havoc together fucking what, twelve? Thirteen years ago now? Christ. Thought I’d never see you again, lass,” he said, squeezing her tightly. “Let me introduce you properly. Lads, this here is—"

The girl slapped a hand across his mouth, cutting him off. “Nickname only these days, I’m afraid,” she explained over Soap’s muffled protests. “Just call me Jack,” she told the men with a smile.

And oh, Price should have guessed. Not like they’d seen anyone else here, after all.

“Jack?” Ghost asked, gaze resting on where Soap’s arm still curved around her shoulder.

“Of all trades, naturally. Blackjack if we’re being formal. But if you call me BJ, I’ll stab you in your sleep,” she told Ghost pleasantly.   

“That's my little Ripper,” Nikolai said fondly as he came forward to greet her, one big hand ruffling her hair. She tilted a cheek up to receive his kiss, smiling warmly.

“Jack is an artist with a knife. You’d like to see her work, Ghost,” Nikolai said with a nod to his lieutenant, who looked a touch skeptical, but at least not outright hostile. Ghost could be a right stuck-up bastard about his knives, Price knew well.

“I’m retired, remember, Nicky?” The lass—Jack—said, shooting an expectant glace at Kate.

“Benched,” the woman muttered right on cue. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Price saw Gaz mouth Nicky to himself in surprise. Fair point, that. John would consider Nikolai one of his closest friends—closer than that even, a time or two—but he still wouldn’t venture that nickname without expecting a swift punch to the gut (or more likely a titty-twister that would have him aching for days—Nik fought dirty as hell.).

Soap, now unmuzzled, had more questions.

“No’ a fan of your proper name anymore, then? It’s a fair pretty one,” he asked Jack, giving her the same pout that had gotten him out of trouble with Price more than once. Ghost every time.

Laswell answered him, brooking no room for argument. “Jack’s got as much heat on her as you do right now, maybe more,” she said firmly. “It’s as much for your own protection as hers.” 

“That right?” Price said, quirking an intrigued eyebrow.

Jack flashed him a grin, holding his gaze as she called to Nik. “What’s the current count, Nicky?” 

“Eh, twenty-seven, last I checked,” the man squinted, thinking. “Might be twenty-eight now, Mogilevich just found about those accounts you drained in Tambov.”

Her eyes shot to Nik, pleased. “Took him long enough,” she said.

Price found he didn’t much like the loss of her attention. “Twenty-eight what?” he queried, feeling little hum of satisfaction when her gaze flicked back to him.

“Contracts, of course,” Jack informed him with a proud smile.

“You’ve got twenty-eight hits out on you?” Soap said, outraged. “Are you out of your bleedin' mind—” he started to form something Price thought might be a name before Jack elbowed him in the stomach. Hard.

She ducked out from under his arm while he wheezed, grabbing the oven mitts off the counter and pulling out a couple trays trailing maple-sweet steam.

Soap glared pointedly at the seated men as he caught his breath. “Some back-up you are. Just gonna let her get away with that?” he groused, hooking a thumb in Jack’s direction.

“You earned it,” Ghost said, and Jack shot him a bright grin.

“Children, play nice,” Kate said, gathering plates and utensils together. But she, too, sounded more amused than angry.

Though Kate had been growing more comfortable with Price’s men, softened no doubt through the many years of their friendship, she was still somewhat…reserved with them. But this, well. This was as friendly and open as John had ever seen her, and he couldn’t help wondering about the nature of her relationship with Jack.

Kate wasn’t close with any of her family—had shared the details of that particular story with John long ago, a few fingers deep into some shitty whisky at a shittier bar. So not a blood relative likely, but she was clearly fond of the girl. Easy with her in a way she was only with Bea, Nik, and himself. But it’d taken him almost two years to get Kate to smile at him like that. Another year or two before she’d ever tease him back. She must have known the lass a long time, but then why wouldn’t have Price heard of her before now?

A stacked plate slid under his nose and drew him back to the present, the mouthwatering smell suddenly reminding him he was near fucking delirious with hunger.

“Hope you like French toast sticks,” Jack said, distributing plates to the rest of the men. “I figured quantity over quality would be paramount based on the fuckin’ size of you lot. These are my favorite though, so you better enjoy them.”

“I am going to kiss you on the mouth,” Soap told her seriously, earlier gripes forgotten.

“So fickle, Johnny,” Ghost chided, his lieutenant plainly enjoying himself.

John reveled a bit at that, at the sheer fucking luck of it all. Simon didn’t always…take to new people. And with the stress of that fucking cave still fresh in his mind, well. Not even Price’s best-case scenario had been this good. But Jack seemed to be capable of a trick only Soap had previously perfected—making Ghost laugh.

“Oh, Nik, before I forget—new batch for you,” the lass in question said, grabbing a tin on the counter. “You know the rules, no more than two at a time. Don’t pout,” she chastised him. “Remember what happened last time?” She gave Price and his men a look of exasperated fondness. “He locked himself in the tank for two hours because he thought the KGB was coming for him. Lots of fun, let’s never do it again,” she said to Nikolai, patting him on the chest.

Soap perked up at that. “Fuck me, you got a tank in here?”

“Oh, Johnny, you’ll cream your shorts when you see what I’ve got stockpiled, you little pyro,” Jack said with a toothy grin that did nothing for John’s nerves. Just what Soap needed, another accomplice—like he and Gaz didn’t give John enough headaches (and paperwork) as it was.

“Fucking hell, there’s two of ya,” Ghost drawled, but he had a light in his eye that Price recognized as, well, not displeased.

“Eat your breakfast,” Kate told the men sternly as she pulled Jack from the room—like as much to do their own catching up as it was to give the men privacy. Nik stayed behind, snatching a French toast stick from Gaz’s plate and promising them showers and clean clothes after they ate.

As Price surveyed his men, happily tucking into their breakfasts and barely coming up for air, he found that he was rather pleased with the way their ship had turned ‘round.

Sure, a murderous multinational network had very recently tried to bury them under a mountain, but lots of people had wanted to kill Price for some reason or another. He’d had the good pleasure of offing each and every one, and didn’t doubt he’d do the same here.

As for the fiction of their death, well. Most everyone who would mourn John Price sat right there at the table. None of them had much in the way of family or friends. Wouldn’t do this job if they did. 

The truth of the matter was that his boys were tired, he was tired, and this was the exact fucking break they needed. Heat off their back, a spacious—if fucking odd—safe house to shelter in, and a thoroughly enchanting enigma of a host he could already feel himself itching to take apart. A right bit of luck indeed, and John had long since learned to appreciate his blessings.

Thus resolved to enjoy his afterlife, the captain tucked gratefully into his breakfast.

Read chapter 3.

[liminalpebble]

Stray: Part 9

Masterlist link

Stray: Part 9

“Brother! I knew you would show yourself once again and we would find you. You can't run forever, you conniving little snake!”, Thor bellowed across the tiny space as great gusts of wind billowed around him, sweeping into the apartment and leaving it in disarray.

Loki shot up from the couch, and held onto you protectively, his tall body guarding you. “Now hold on just a minute! You were the one who instigated this whole game, brother. In fairness, shouldn't we both face consequences? Or are you too golden and blessed in our parents' eyes to do any wrong?”

The wind subsided and Thor seemed to deflate slightly, then spoke more plainly, “Shut up, Loki!”

You giggled, you couldn't help it. The Norse god of thunder was standing in your living room, dominating the space one moment, then looking like a scolded overgrown toddler the next.

Loki glanced to you and smiled. Then beamed his grin to Thor “Oh dear brother...” he said in faux-shock, “you didn't tell them your role in all this, did you? How ignoble for a future king!”

Thor stepped closer and scoffed. “You dare to judge me? As if you have any morals of your own, you slimy little....” .

You interrupted, sliding between them and putting a hand on both of their breastplates, trying in vain to push them apart (a woefully useless attempt). However, the two princes were raised properly to respect a lady and, therefore, did take the cue to step back.

“If I might interject gentlemen...” you said calmly.

Thor flinched as if slapped, realizing his impoliteness, and took your hand to kiss it. “Oh dear lady! I apologized profusely for my entrance, and for putting your residence in disorder. I must have frightened you terribly.”

“Not really,” you said lightly, and Thor flinched, almost insulted by that. “But listen, I uh, I understand some of this. Loki's told me some things and...”

“Has this weasel been keeping you hostage, fair maiden, or deceiving you? I shall...”

You put your hands up. “No! No no no! Please...just listen. I'm sure there's some kind of solution here if you would only talk to each other and....”

Before you could finish your sentence, a brilliant multicolored beam rained down on all three of you from overhead in a kaleidoscopic blaze. Loki held you closer again and said, “Hang on, little mortal. Heimdall is calling us home.”

“What?!” you shouted over the blast of the portal fluttering around you. Before you knew it you tumbled through space and were hurled into a golden dome occupied by a single gilded guard with a sword. Unlike the two Asgardians, you immediately lost your balance and Loki had to catch you.

“I feel dizzy. I think I'm gonna puke,” you warned.

“It's alright, darling, give it a moment. It'll pass. It happens to everyone the first time.”

Thor rounded to his brother, pointing his hammer to his chest, and Loki's eyes went wide. “Why did you bring us back?”

“It wasn't me, you stupid oaf!” Loki hollered back, arms up in surrender.

Heimdall's deep commanding voice echoed around the dome. “It was the order of King Odin, your majesties.”

-----

Your heartbeat ramped up higher and higher as you made your way through the palace. By the time you'd finally made it to the vast throne room, flanked on all sides by guards, you felt as if your heart might beat right out of your chest.

“Lokiiii?” you hissed, in a concerned whisper.

“Yes, darling?” he replied, his long arm still cradling you.

“Should I be afraid?”

“Nooo. No. It'll all be just fine. I know this must be terribly alarming and baffling for you, but I assure you....”

“WHERE ARE THEY?” a voice thundered through the throne room. “Where the Hel are my arrogant, troublesome, unruly, infantile sons!”

A red-faced stately man, with a full white beard and gleaming armor rushed to stand before his throne and slammed the base of his golden staff upon the floor. It reverberated through the entire room and your every bone. You felt a primal kind of fear, and could barely breathe. Instinctively, you tried to hide your much shorter body behind the two towering brothers, but to no avail.

Odin's scathing blue eye, found you quickly and bored through you. The Allfather shouted, “Why is that HUMAN in my throne room, or in Asgard, for that matter? What are you ungrateful shits playing at now? Which one of you has done this?”

Just when you felt about to dart away or pass out in abject terror, a melodic feminine voice reached your ears, slicing like a subtle knife through the high tension. “I have, husband,” the regal woman said, pushing effortlessly past her husband, and gliding down the steps to where the three of you stood like confused students who had landed in the principal's office.

She waved a hand wordlessly, commanding her sons to step away from you. You felt a clutch of panic in your throat as Loki relinquished his grasp, leaving you exposed and small in a world of gods. The queen smiled sweetly to you, said your name slowly, deliberately, then said, “Welcome to Asgard, child. I am Frigga, the Allmother.”

Unsure of what to do or say, you curtsied to the best of your ability in jeans and said, “Your Majesty, I'm honored.”

She gave you a knowing smirk and a wink (so much like Loki's that it made you feel immediately more at ease and familiar). “I apologize profusely for the behavior of the men of this royal house.” She gave a warning glare to both her sons and her husband. “Shame on all of you!” To your surprise, all three of them readily deferred to Frigga's judgment of them, heads hung in embarrassment.

She held your hand with her bejeweled fingers. “I wanted to meet you, my dear, and it will be my pleasure to speak with you soon. For now, please allow my ladies in waiting to attend to you. For now I must attend to some family matters.”

“Yes...yes ma'am,” you said, with another little curtsy.

Loki rushed to your side and kissed your hand, saying quickly, “It'll all be just fine, darling. I promise. Just relax.”

Unsure what else to do, and completely disoriented by this entire chain of events, all you could do was nod as the ladies whisked you away.

----

As soon as the human girl was out of earshot, Odin continued, “You idiot children and your stupid...”

“Oh shut up, Odin, you old windbag,” Frigga said with annoyance, and he immediately obeyed. She turned to the princes, arms crossed. “My sons, I know you've both been up to some mischief among the Midgardians, is that correct?”

Thor stuttered out, “Loki was...”

“I said 'you both', Thor. I'm not a fool.”

Thor hung his head like a scolded Labrador.

“Yes, Mother,” Loki said, “I'm afraid we have. It was all meant in good fun. Just a silly bet between us and it seems to have gotten rather out of hand. I apologize and take responsibility.”

All three of them stared at Loki, wide-eyed with overwhelming shock. They expected many things from Loki, but never a direct and sincere apology.”

Thor said, “Norns, you mean it, don't you? What happened to you on Earth?”

Loki rolled his eyes at his brother, but blushed nonetheless.

Frigga nodded knowingly, “And have either of you harmed or killed any mortals in the course of this...prank?”

“No, mother,” they answered in unison, as if they were 8 years old again.

“Alright. And Loki, have you made amends for any chaos you might have caused on Midgard? Have you done at least some good works as penance?”

“I...I think so, Mother. I hope I've done enough. But you might ask the human her opinion on that matter.”

Frigga smiled and nodded with a twinkle in her eye. Like her son, she was impossible to fool; a powerful sorceress, raised by witches. “And so I shall.”

She stepped closer to Odin, whose face had now calmed down to something approaching flesh tone rather than an apple. Offering her hand gently to him, she said, “Husband, I think that is enough of this matter, isn't it. Might we simply call the whole affair settled? Are there not more important matters to attend to than this squabble?”

Odin sighed. “Indeed, my sagacious wife, your wisdom always seems to win the day. And in any case, I can deny you nothing. So be it.” He kissed her hand then began to leave before turning back to his boys with softened eyes. “My sons, I am glad to see you again. I...I was concerned for you both. Please, desist with this foolishness, for the sake of an old man who no longer finds it entertaining.”

They both smirked and said, “Yes, Father.”

----

“Well,” Thor said, looking to Frigga and Loki, “that could have gone worse,” and shrugged.

Loki sighed out, “Thor you are an insufferable imbecile,” but pronounced it with a fond smile.

He winked and smiled in return. “You're just jealous. Farewell, brother,” he declared sauntering away.

Once it was only Loki and his mother, he hugged her and said softly, “I've missed you. Thank you for placating him...again.”

She pinched his sharp cheek playfully. “You're lucky I love you so much, my sly little raven. Come with me, we're not finished talking yet. I want you to tell me about this girl.”

@averagetmblrusser @primrosesposts @fruityfucker @arunabrak @mischief2sarawr @ladyofthestayingpower @acidcasualties @unlucky-number-13 @goblingirlsarah @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokihiddleston @chokeanddagger @lokischambermaid @lokisgoodgirl @marcotheflychair @smolvenger @alexakeyloveloki @littlespaceyelf @little-wormwood @loopsisloops @joyful-enchantress @eleniblue @loz-3 @the-haven-of-fiction @sweetsigyn @muddyorbs @icytrickster17 @holdmytesseract @thenerdyoldersister @thedistractedagglomeration @sailorholly @coldnique @sarahscribbles @peaches1958 @infinitystoner @peachyjinx @mischiefmaker615 @jennyggggrrr @tripleyeeet @itsybitchylittlewitchy @mochie85 @huntress-artemiss @madi0987 @buttercupcookies-blog @annoyingsweetsstranger @anukulee @aesonmae @angelofasgard16 @salempoe

[readychilledwine]

The First Noel

Summary - Rhysand knew he could never live up to the standards the Winter Court had for Solstice. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Warnings - Pure. Fluff.

You can take a peek at Broken here

Happy almost Christmas, my loves ❤️

The first problem with courting someone from the Winter Court, Rhysand slowly realized as he walked around the market currently being decorated and set up for Solstice, was he would never live up to the standards she must have had for their most sacred day. The second problem? If this was what the High Lord of Winter set up for his fae, higher or lesser, Rhysand could hardly begin to imagine what he did for his beloved children, Kallias and Aelia.

The latter of whom was holding his hand, taking him to her favorite hot chocolate and cider vendor. Azriel and Cassian were not far behind them, both already holding a bag of chocolates and treats they excitedly took in the sights before them. Rhys took a heavy breath as they finally reached the vendor, eyes pleading to his brothers for help. Aelia was to spend Solstice with them in Night, and all Rhysand could think about was how disappointed she was about to be.

Aelia packed her bags with a smile etched into her face. Leaving Winter for SOlstice was a huge milestone in the long courtship she and Rhysand had been going through. The two normally spent Holidays and events in their own courts and with their own families. Aside from Starfall, they had bridged this gap, and she was anxious to see how they decorated, what foods and treats were made, what traditions they held.

She smiled as Azriel appeared behind her, silently taking her bags. “Before we go back to the Night Court, could we possibly get more of that peppermint hot chocolate?” The two of them smiled at each other, eyes sparkling in mischief. Rhysand made a mistake allowing Azriel to be the one to pick her up.

Or was it a calculated choice?

“Is she coming to look at ornaments or be with us, Rhys?” Mor rolled her eyes for the fourth time as Rhysand adjusted every single ornament on their tree again. “If she’s coming to see decorations, maybe you need to step up your game.”

Cassian chuckled in the corner of the room, his eyes trained on perfectly wrapping the gift he had gotten for Azriel while the Shadowsinger was away. “Did you label any of her gifts as being from that bearded guy who breaks into houses?”

Mor immediately sat up, “What?”

Amren sighed as she set her glass down. “There’s several legends in the Winter Court regarding two twin brothers. Both ancient high fae. One was blessed by the Mother, his joy and happiness spread to faelings every solstice eve during the dead of night to leave them with gifts for good behavior. The other brother was cursed by the Dark Mother and Death Gods to punish naughty children. It is unknown what he does to them, but the belief is he rips them from their homes never to be seen again.”

Mor paled slightly, taking a long sip of her wine. “I see.”

“It’s no different,” Rhys paused, brushing a fleck of glitter from his cotton shirt, “Then the Court of Nightmares using your story to force young females into fear and submission.” He stepped away from the tree, bending down slightly to angle one present just right. “And no, Cassian, I did not want to bring up Aelia’s trauma and trust issues with her father by labeling her gifts as being from Santa.”

“Just figured you might with how often you call her a good girl,” Cassian shrugged, giving up on wrapping the gift perfectly and settling for the jumbled mess of ribbons and paper. “I’m paying someone to wrap my shit from now on.”

Mor nodded in agreement, handing Cassian the bottle of wine they had been drinking from. “When will her and Az get here?”

As if on cue, loud laughter could be heard from the balcony. Shadows moved more presents, all immaculately wrapped with bows and ribbons under the tree as Aelia and Azriel entered the room. Mor was instantly up, running to hug her and rushing to speak about the latest Kal and Viv gossip as Aelia took in the room.

Tinsel hung from garland and wreaths, faelights twinkled brightly in a variety of colors, and a tree sat in the corner near a bare fireplace, making her smile wider, knowing she had the stockings to decorate it hidden in one of her bags. “It’s so pretty,” she didn’t see as Rhysand’s shoulders fell in relief, relaxation setting in immediately. “Do you all always do this much?”

None of them answered, looking away immediately as she moved to study the hand blown glass ornaments. They were clearly new, still intact and colors setting in. “Rhys, you didn’t have to do this for me.”

The inner circle all laughed slightly. They had spent the past week cleaning and decorating this specific room and little spot in the House of Wind on Rhysand’s true high lord’s orders. “I wanted it all to be perfect for your first solstice here. Living up to Winter’s standards for this was.. challenging?”

Aelia shook her head, hugging Rhysand tightly and resting her head on his chest. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

When the house had gone silent, Aelia snuck out of her bed, bag of stockings in tow and moved to the cheerful festive room again. She began to place them along the fireplace, smiling as she did.

Azriel's was full of candies and new leather gloves.

Cassian also had a variety of candy and weapon oil Kal had carefully wrapped and boxed the container of.

Amren, the hardest of the bunch, required a delicate hand. She had paid a decent sum of money to have blood chocolates made, explaining to the crafter who they were for. He had promised his best, and if the smell was anything to go off, he delivered. She had also wrapped a few raw gemstones native to Winter in the stocking, knowing the ancient female sat on a stash of exquisite and expensive gems and jewels like a fire drake.

For Mor, she had purchased a bottle of her favorite pear wine, placing it above the stocking. In the stocking itself laid skin care and a new shade of red lipstick she had told Viv she wanted to try.

And for Rhys, her lovely, kind, and handsome partner, she had purchased a stargazing and mapping kit as well as had someone who shares his love and interest of the galaxy draw out the night sky on the date of their first kiss. A few chocolates sat on top of the rolled parchment, hiding its contents.

Aelia stepped away, smiling before jumping as arms wrapped around her waist. “What are you doing, darling?” Rhysand's voice was heavy with sleep, his face burying into her shoulder. “Come lay with me.”

Aelia allowed him to sleepily Pull her away from the room, sighing as he gently kissed her neck and pulled his blankets over her body once they were in his bed. He had worked so hard making his visit perfect for her, knowing it would be hard to be away from Winter and her family. She snuggled into him, anxiously waiting for morning, and fell asleep within an instant.

Aelia woke up to shouting and laughter, feeling the empty side of the bed as a loud “Fuck you!” rang through the air. She moved to the balcony, taking a blanket with her and just watched in silence. Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel were hidden behind forts, snowballs being launched at the slightest sense of movement.

She felt her lips twitch as she leaned on the railing, then laughed as Rhys was hit in the face due to being distracted. “You should pay better attention, brother!” Azriel ducked back down as Cassian tried to hit him. “She's pretty, but is she worth accepting your 100th defeat for?!”

Rhys looked up again, smiling at the sight of Aelia. “Yes. She is.” He held up his hands, walking inside of the house as Cassian and Azriel shouted in victory then began hunting each other's movements.

Cold hands found her waist again, “Happy Solstice, darling.”

“Happy Solstice, Rhys.”

[real-fire-emblem-takes]

I'm back with more dad rock takes! Still focusing on non-lords, and this time I have a playlist to go with it -- it contains every favourite song mentioned in every dad rock post so far in the order they were brought up, so now you get to listen along while you read each one!

Ilyana. I don't know what it is, but she comes across as a Steve Miller fan. Gotta have the right soundtrack to go with all that weed making her super hungry. Ironically though, her favourite song isn't a Steve Miller song at all. Just like yours truly, she went years thinking it was a Steve Miller song only to find out fairly recently that it wasn't at all. Go figure. Favourite song: Sausalito Summernight - Diesel

Oifey. Remember how I said he and Echidna would make great friends? Yeah that's cos this guy's also a ZZ Top fan. In fact, he actually got mistaken for Frank Beard a few times and he found it hilarious. Just look it up, trust me on this. Favourite song: Doubleback

Brendan, Linus, Lloyd, and Nino. The family that jams together stays together, and none have any clear favourite groups. Brendan's a member of the old-enough-to-remember-when-it-first-came-out club and his taste rubbed off on Linus and Lloyd when they were growing up. Nino sorta picked it up by osmosis once she joined the family. Road trips were a source of annoyance for Sonia. Favourite songs: Simple Man - Lynyrd Skynyrd [Brendan], Twilight Zone - Golden Earring [Linus], Roll On Down the Highway - Bachman-Turner Overdrive [Lloyd], and We Built This City - Starship [Nino]

Caspar. Once again, hear me out. This isn't any hipster nonsense or his dad's taste rubbing off on him. Really, he just played way too much GTA. He knows a total of jack and shit about the bands, but he knows the music slaps -- and really, is he wrong? Favourite song: God Blessed Video - Alcatrazz

Scáthach. Just like Caspar, too much media influence, but this time it was watching every episode of Supernatural to his sister's annoyance. He agrees with the fanbase at large that the show's quality declined after season 5, but he kept watching anyway, even when it stopped being enjoyable. He just couldn't bring himself to abandon the show until it was over. Favourite song: Carry On Wayward Son - Kansas [did you expect anything different?]

Finn. Okay so when he was younger, he didn't have much in the way of any actual taste in music. In fact, he didn't really care. But then one day, he snuck into a showing of Heavy Metal [y'know, that weird ass cartoon movie] and needless to say, it changed his life. Favourite song: Heavy Metal (Taking a Ride) - Don Felder

Jesse. Maybe it's the hair, but he's got a whole Hall and Oates vibe about him. He's gotten ragged on for it, but he'd like to show you his give a damn meter and he wants you to note how broken it is. You can tease all you want, he's gonna have the time of his life. Favourite song: Out of Touch [bonus points if this goes live on a Thursday]

Sedgar. You wouldn't know it by just looking at him, but he's definitely got a soft spot for classic rock. He nominally keeps this information to himself, but Kris managed to find out. He didn't know anyone had found out until he received a Styx album as a present one day. Kris hadn't pegged him as a Styx fan, so it was interesting to say the least. They also figured out he likes Damn Yankees as well. Maybe it has something to do with Tommy Shaw? Favourite song: Crystal Ball

Felix. Because apparently 80s heavy metal counts as dad rock to some people -- then again, I guess any rock/metal music becomes dad rock once it's old enough, eh? Either way, you can pry Judas Priest from Felix's cold dead hands. Favourite song: You've Got Another Thing Coming

I'll stop here for now, but more will be coming

.

[rollofleaf]

Owlcatober Day 17: Parents

The start to Hilde's backstory! Someday I'll finish the rest.

In many small tribes in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, it was customary for the chieftain’s wife to assist in the delivery of newborns. When the chieftain’s wife was the one blessed with child, all the women of the tribe repaid the debt and aided her. So it was when Astrid, Daughter of Muses, had her firstborn. Every woman of the Wolverine’s Claw huddled in the small seer’s tent, providing water and comfort and guidance until at last the wailing of a newborn pierced the air.

“Chieftain, the child is born!” Chieftain Svalk had been waiting just outside the sacred space, tapping his foot impatiently until a woman poked her head out to deliver the news. Most of the younger women shuffled out as he walked in, the sight of his wife holding their child bringing a tear to even the grizzled warrior’s eye.

Astrid held her daughter close, gently shushing her cries. She held her out just enough for Svalk to see. “Look!” The infant opened her eyes, the bright glow of her peach eyes making clear her heritage. “We’re blessed by the spirits! Blessed by my mother… Oh, gods, she’s beautiful…”

She… Svalk frowned in disappointment at that. A girl, then. But that mattered little. She was strong, healthy, hungry. Astrid deserved a daughter to raise. She would bear him a son to carry his lineage another day. He smiled and leaned forward to press a kiss to Astrid’s forehead, then one to the baby’s. Astrid giggled from the bristle of his beard. “That she is… A blessed, wonderful girl.”

She looked up at him with weary, dewey eyes and held the newborn out to him. “It is your right to name her. Have you settled on something?”

Svalk carefully took his daughter, and she began to let out soft little ‘waa’s. He rocked her gently and answered with a smile. “I think… Hilde. Daughter of Svalk and Astrid.” He slowly turned to an older woman, the seer of the tribe, respectfully avoiding her gaze. “And what do you see in her?”

The elder took Hilde and sprinkled some dust in her face. Hilde sputtered and let out a cry. “I see… Much. Her song shall shatter boulders, and her light may save the lost. There is greatness and disaster in equal measure in her future, though in a form we will not expect. Be careful.”

Life was good for the Wolverine’s Claw for a while after. The newborn brought joy into the chief and chieftess’s life, and they were happy. Years passed, until the winter after Hilde’s third birthday. The sky darkened as the frigid winds of Baba Yaga blew from the east. Animals fled and the earth froze, and it became harder and harder for the tribe to find food.

Astrid sighed softly as she tried to quiet Hilde’s wailing. The poor thing was hungry, but they did not have the food to spare. “Hilde, my star, if I feed you now you won’t be able to have dinner. Don’t you want dinner?”

“Wan dinna! Now! Hungwy!” Astrid chuckled softly at her response. She sighed and glanced over to the wall where her armor and spear were kept. 

Astrid nodded and kissed Hilde’s forehead. “We all are, love. Don’t worry. Mama will get some food for everyone. But you might have to wait a while.” She walked over to a small shrine and knelt before it. “Erastil, Great Hunter, I beg of you. My people starve. Please, grant me the strength and luck to feed them. If there is any game left in your woods, let it fall upon my spear. I will give whatever you ask in return.” With that, she slipped on her armor and grabbed a bow and a spear. Hilde waddled up and tugged on her leg. Astrid smiled and picked her up, whispering conspiratorially. “Perhaps… Let’s not tell your father about this. Mama will be back soon, and he’ll only worry after me. You just sit there and be good until me or Papa are back, okay?” She set Hilde down on some furs and slipped out the back door of their longhouse. She went unseen into the forest, swiftly disappearing behind snow-covered trees.

Her father did not return for several hours, off on his own unsuccessful hunt. He stumbled back inside their home, shivering and dejected. “Still nothing. Baba Yaga curses us, the gods forsake us… Bah, but I shouldn’t speak ill of them. My love, we’ll…” He trailed off. Astrid was nowhere to be found, Hilde was idly playing with some wooden animals, either making them fight or trying to eat them. “Hilde. Where is Mama?” The toddler glanced up at him, pointed towards the weapons on the wall, and made a noise. Sweat beaded on Svalk’s brow. “Oh no… She went alone? And she’s still not back?”

He gritted his teeth and ran out of the house. A stillness had fallen over the tribe as everyone watched a figure emerge from the sleet.

Astrid stumbled out of the woods, bloodied from her struggle but dragging a freshly-slain buck on a sled behind her. The beast was larger than any Svalk had ever seen, it alone could feed the entire tribe for at least a month. Yet all he saw was Astrid’s face through her helm, her cheeks almost blue. The woman was shivering madly as she released the sled and collapsed to her knees. “S-sorry… I’m s-sorry that it took me s-so long…” 

It was a happy evening for the tribe as the meat was butchered and divided, everyone eating well for the first time in weeks. Only Svalk’s joy was dimmed as he watched his wife shivering near the campfire, which seemed to do nothing to warm her up. When they went to bed, her skin was almost lukewarm and her breathing was shallow and strained. Only two days later she was bedridden and barely able to move. Blankets and heated water seemed to do nothing to warm her up, and she was growing weaker by the hour.

Hilde waddled up to her bedside, squeezing her hand. “M-mama… S-sowwy. I asked for food…” She tried to fight off the guilt she was feeling.

Astrid chuckled weakly and tried to squeeze back. “Hilde, my star, there’s no need to apologize. I… I just regret that I didn’t die in battle. At least I could feed you. Please, my daughter, be brave and be strong. I’ll still be here with you, forever.” Hilde only looked confused.

Svalk was silent, watching her. Hilde had demanded food, that’s why Astrid had gone out hunting. Of course. She was always so soft on the girl. He brushed his thoughts away and looked to the tribe’s healer. “Take my daughter away. She shouldn’t see the rest.” Hilde whined in protest as she was led back to her home.

Svalk came home hours later, his face haggard and empty. “Hilde.” His voice was devoid of emotion. Hilde looked up and crawled towards him. “Your mother… H-has gone away for a while.” He commanded the tears in his eyes to stay where they were. “She won’t be coming back. It’s… It’s only us two now.”

Hilde started to tear up. “M-my fault?”

Svalk winced. “Don’t cry, it’s unbecoming of a chieftain or his child. Just… Come, let’s get you to bed.” Once Hilde was sleeping, he slumped back into his chair and began to weep. How was he supposed to raise a daughter alone without her? How was he supposed to handle anything without her?

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

September 18th

Today’s entry looks pretty long! Let’s do this!

THE ESCAPED WOLF.

PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER.

Oh oh.

but I waits till they've 'ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the ear-scratchin'.

Wolf Care 101

"Without offence did I tell yer to go to 'ell?"

"You did."

I LOVE THIS MAN

There wasn't much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a 'ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin' through it. He had a 'ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was 'im as they was hirritated at. He 'ad white kid gloves on 'is 'ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says: 'Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.'

"'Maybe it's you,' says I, for I did not like the airs as he give 'isself. He didn't git angry, as I 'oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. 'Oh no, they wouldn't like me,' 'e says.

"'Ow yes, they would,' says I, a-imitatin' of him. 'They always likes a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you 'as a bagful.'

ICONIC

"God bless me!" he said. "If there ain't old Bersicker come back by 'isself!"

GOOD BOY

He went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it seemed to me. I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us; a personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea.

Reasonable.

Anyways back to the murder scene —

Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching poor Lucy's breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:—

"It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy!"

WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S NOT TOO LATE I ALREADY MOURNED MUST WE REALLY DO THIS ALL OVER AGAIN

"What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl's life won't be worth an hour's purchase. You are exhausted already; I am exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have courage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his veins for her?"

"What's the matter with me, anyhow?"

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris.

YEEEEEEEEEESSSSS 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

It’s always darkest before the dawn

"A brave man's blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in trouble. You're a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against us for all he's worth, but God sends us men when we want them."

VERY COOL SPEECH

"It dropped from Lucy's breast when we carried her to the bath."

When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked him: "In God's name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad; or what sort of horrible danger is it?" I was so bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying:—

"Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall know and understand it all in good time; but it will be later."

I think now’s a pretty good time

"Jack Seward, I don't want to shove myself in anywhere where I've no right to be; but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her; but, although that's all past and gone, I can't help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that's wrong with her? The Dutchman—and a fine old fellow he is; I can see that—said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have another transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know what they consult about in private. But this is no common matter, and, whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that so?"

"That's so," I said, and he went on:—

"I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did to-day. Is not that so?"

"That's so."

"And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his own place he looked queer.

HE IS SO SMART TOO look at my handsome cowboy. So so so so smart.

I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires —

Oh.

One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn't enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay.

Oh.

"And how long has this been going on?"

"About ten days."

That felt like a lot longer with all the dread…

"There has been a series of little circumstances which have thrown out all our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall not occur again. Here we stay until all be well—or ill." Quincey held out his hand. "Count me in," he said. "You and the Dutchman will tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

I love you

Quinceyyy 🎶

I ain’t never gonna stop loving you

QUINCEEEYYYYY 🎶🎶🎶

Towards dusk she fell into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped over and took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on with the action of tearing, as though the material were still in her hands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering the fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as if in thought, but he said nothing.

🥺😔

Now back to the happy couple —

Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very suddenly.

Oh come ooon

Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my troubles in the midst of your own happiness; but, Lucy dear, I must tell some one, for the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here that I can confide in.

Oh come ON

< Prev 🦇 Next >

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

The Chosen ABCs of Romance | John the Baptist

Chapter list

Activities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

Everything about John is out of the ordinary and so are your dates. Needless to say, expect unconventional activities like catching bugs to eat or finding good places in the Jordan River to host baptisms. He also loves to help you tend to the garden at your house.

Beauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

John’s unapologetic and unwavering faith in spite of what others may think of him is something that characterises him. You admire his resilience and ever-positive attitude no matter what. What he adores about you is your willingness to be with him in spite of his constant reminders that his ministry may become dangerous one day.

Comfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

When it comes to panic attacks, John is not really sure how to deal with them. He would start panicking with you, really. However, when it comes to generally comforting you, he is quite decent at it, holding you whilst asking you what you need.

Dreams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Honestly, John has always had this gut feeling that he wouldn’t become old with you. Even though he is sure that once Jesus gets to work, things will radically change regarding your way of living, deep down he wonders for how long he can get away with things in the face of the evil trying to fight his ministry. After all, he knows that living close to God and being one of his chosen people does not equal having an easy life, so he fears that one day he will not return to you after one of his trips. And sadly, he is right.

Equal - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

Jesus’ cousin tends to be overbearing at times even when he doesn’t mean to. He can get carried away in his enthusiasm and can be very intense during these moments. Whenever you slow him down a bit, he feels a little guilty, but you reassure him that you’re not mad at him or anything. He tries his very best to come off a little less strongly at times.

Fight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

Your time together is way too short to spend a lot of time fighting, and you both know it. Whenever an argument looms over you, either of you addresses it to the other and it is resolved before it can even develop into a real conflict.

Gratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

You were a welcome surprise in his life that John never dared to dream of receiving on top of his other blessings. He thanks Adonai for you every single day when waking up and going to bed. Every single moment with you is locked away inside his heart, cherished forever.

Honesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

This man can’t keep his mouth shut even if he wanted to. Frankly, he can’t even keep the gifts he brings you a secret for long.

Inspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helping them overcome personal problems?

You have taught the Baptist to take things one step at a time. Sometimes, he wants to go all in when it comes to certain things, but you remind him to take a step back and enjoy the process and to find joy in the small things, like the sunset or soaking your feet in the river.

Jealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

John hardly gets jealous, really. He is very confident when it comes to you and knows that you’d never as much as consider someone else no matter how much they’d try to win you over. Envy is not an emotion found in his system.

Kiss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

Oh dear. If it isn’t for his beard being in the way, it may just be his breath. You have embraced this as part of him, but that doesn’t make it a very pleasant experience, no matter how much you love him.

Love Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

You had been hanging around the Jordan River to help out with his baptisms for quite some time, assisting in queuing people up together with his other students. You had been sweet on him for a while due to his unapologetic energy. He found this out whilst accidentally overhearing you talk to Andrew and Philip one night about the topic of eventually finding love, and you had confessed to them that you were convinced the man you liked was married to his duty to God. John somehow immediately realised it was about him and pulled you aside the next day, telling you he felt the same towards you.

Marriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

John and you have often discussed the topic of marriage. The Baptist has been very clear that he feels like the two of you will never get the chance to marry due to his ministry, but that doesn’t take away the fat that you want to be with him every step until the very end, even if it means him dying.

Nicknames - What do they call their s/o?

He sometimes calls you ‘my little locust’ or ‘my wild honey-bee’ which you think is quite funny. 

On Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

John won’t push you as a topic of conversation, but the love he feels for you is clear in his eyes whenever you are mentioned. His eyes will glitter and his smile will grow, his face growing softer.

PDA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

In front of others, John will refer to you as ‘my love’, but he won’t touch you in public. Maybe a hand on the arm or shoulder at best, but don’t expect a kiss or him holding your hand. You understand this, understanding his position towards others and that he doesn’t want you to get in potential danger because of him. After all, John is very much aware that he’s got enemies all over Judea and Galilee.

Quirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

John is your greatest hype man. He will forever make sure that you feel seen and loved and wanted by him no matter what you’re going through, and since he’s someone who wears his heart on his sleeve, you will know it loudly and clearly.

Romance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

Something that he has been doing for a while is collecting flowers and drying them between two heavy rocks somewhere along the Jordan River. He’s saving up enough flowers to make a bouquet for you that will last forever, even if he happens to be gone one day.

Support - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

The Baptiser has always urged you to keep on chasing your dreams and also look for your own place in the ministry other than following him around and helping out wherever you can. Of course he appreciates the help greatly, but he wants you to have a life outside of him, too.

Thrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice up your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

Nothing about your relationship is conventional so it is thrilling by definition. This means that no day is the same even if you wanted to, but this keeps things very interesting.

Understanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

It’s no secret that John is great at reading people and you are no exception to the rule. He is quite good at figuring out what you need even if you don’t have the right words for it. Sometimes, he even knows what you are looking for without you even realising it yourself, making you extremely grateful to have such an empathetic man in your life.

Value - How important is the relationship to them? What is it worth in comparison to other things in their life?

It has always been presupposed that no matter how much he loves you, the ministry is his main purpose in life and you know this. He would always pick God’s calling over you and honestly you wouldn’t have it any other way. What greater honour than to be with a man who was called by God to prepare the way for the Messiah?

Wild Card - A random Fluff headcanon.

He will allow you — only you — to try and sort out his unruly wild hair. Secretly, he enjoys is whenever you’re trying to get out all the tangles, melting in the way your fingers gently scratch his scalp.

XOXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

Whenever you’re not in public, John takes every moment to pull you into his arms and pepper you with affection. He knows that your time together is short, so he takes every opportunity to keep your close.

Yearning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

John has learnt how to deal with your absence, knowing it’s important he has to focus on his ministry and not wallow in his misery about how much he misses you. He can’t help letting his mind drift to you every so often, though, and he hopes you are thinking of him just as much.

Zeal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

You know that this man won’t stop at nothing when it comes to fighting for what he believes in. This includes you, of course, making it so that he’d do anything in his power to make sure you’re safe and comfortable wherever you are, be it close to him or back at your house whilst he’s on mission trips.