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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: foul language, brief symptoms of PTSD, brief self-pleasure, obsessive / possessive Simon, suggestive themes

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: Part Four of Ink & Needle

Simon searches for you after you flee from Riot Room. Three years later, and your memory still has him in a chokehold.

Chapter Three // Chapter Five

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Then (Three Years Ago)

Gently, Simon guides you over one thigh. Once settled, he removes the condom and ties it off, tossing it into the nearby bin.

He is satiated. Happy. Every inch of him vibrates with pleasure. You are new and fresh, but so perfectly comfortable. Simon could stay like this forever.

Simon’s arms are around your waist, and his hands move in slow circles, caressing your body in gentle comfort. You are warm beneath his palms, and Simon focuses in how your skin feels against his.

It’s nice. Lovely. He could get used to it. He could get lost in you.

He nuzzles your neck, and discreetly inhales, imprinting your scent onto his memory. The two of you will linger here in this room for a bit. Once the euphoria of pleasure passes into calmness, Simon will suggest the two of you leave together. He wants you alone. Truly alone. He wants to take his time, and understand all the ways he can make you scream for him.

When you rip yourself out of his arms, it comes as a shock. Like a blow to the face or the burst of a hollow point on impact.

You stand on wobbly legs, facing the mirror. At first, all Simon can see are the backs of your thighs, and he has an intrusive desire to drag you to his mouth to suck on your supple skin. But he does not move toward you, he simply holds there, his arms extended like you’ll fall right back into them at any moment.

You tug on your skirt, putting it back into place. You adjust your top and smooth out the winkles. The movements are strange, and Simon doesn’t understand at first.

It’s like…

Are you leaving?

You slide a hair tie off your wrist and put your hair up into a messy bun. “I need to go,” you say sharply, grabbing your jacket off the floor and tugging it on.

Simon is silent for a moment, completely thrown off by your sudden declaration. Then it all comes roaring forward, and everything catches up in that moment. He tucks himself back into his jeans, quickly grabbing at his belt as you snatch up your purse and start to tug the folding chair away from the door.

“Wait,” he says, starting to stand.

The folding chair gives and you shove it aside. Your hand is on the handle in moments, pushing it open, striding through.

“Wait!”

You don’t pause or look back.

“Fucking hell,” says Simon as he almost catches some skin in the zipper of his jeans. He adjusts himself, and then his jeans are secure. He works the balaclava back into place and takes off after you.

By the time Simon rounds the corner, the basement door is slamming shut. He doesn’t make it there before it closes. Bursting through it, Simon takes the stairs two at a time, coming to a stop at the top. Scanning the crowd turns up nothing. The crowd has swallowed you up like a dark monster.

This is not what Simon planned out in his head. The two of you should be walking out of the club right now and to his flat. Once there, he planned on bending you over every surface and worshipping your body until the only thing you understand is his name.

Simon scans the dancefloor and does not see you. He doesn’t see your friends either which is just as irritating. You could be at the exit by now. You could be sliding into a cab at this very moment.

The thought of you leaving spurs Simon to action.

“Lt!”

Simon doesn’t falter. He ignores Soap, but the Scotsman steps into his path.

“Out of the way, Johnny,” snaps Simon with irritation.

Soap’s eyebrow arches slightly. “We’ve been looking for you. Where’d you go?” Soap’s mouth turns downward and he leans in, inhaling deeply. “Why the fuck do you smell like pus—”

“Piss off, Johnny,” mutters Simon, pushing past him and heading toward Riot Room’s front entrance.

Simon shoves himself through a dancing couple, not caring that they both give him nasty looks. He could give a fuck. Simon wants you. He needs you.

“Lt!” Simon ignores Soap. “Simon!”

He keeps going, descending the stairs even as Soap chases after him. Distantly, Simon hears Gaz and Price calling after him, but he doesn’t turn around to look.

“Simon,” says Soap, grabbing Simon’s shoulder in an attempt to stop him. It doesn’t work. Simon shakes him off, his gaze fixated on the cab that’s pulling away from the curb.

He watches you through the window. You’re looking right at him, and Simon suddenly feels incomplete, as if without you, his story is unfinished.

Simon rejects this outcome.

You. Are. His.

In the light, Riot Room is a bloody joke.

Simon observers the club from across the street, leaning against a light pole while he pretends to read the morning paper. Riot Room closed hours ago, and a few hours before that Simon was having it off in its basement green room.

You ran from him, and Simon didn’t even have the chance to secure your number. A first name and a face can go a long way, but if you’re not in a system somewhere, he might not be able to find you, and Simon is good at finding people.

He takes a long, final drag of his cigarette before putting it out and depositing it in the correct trash receptacle. Curling his fingers under the edge of the balaclava, Simon returns his mask to its proper place.

Tucking the morning paper under his arm, Simon glances both ways before strolling casually across the road. He does not walk up to Riot Room. Not directly. Instead of the front door, Simon heads for the alley where you made your confession.

The alley entrance to Riot Room is shut. The gate is in place and it’s all chained up, but that won’t stop Simon. Executing his mission and securing his goal drives him to break a few rules on occasion.

And you are the exception.

Moving like his namesake, Simon slides into Ghost, becoming one with the shadows. He hauls himself up and over the gate, landing quietly on the ground. The stairway to the basement is right there, and Simon takes it. When he arrives at the door, Simon tests the handle.

It’s unlocked.

Simon smirks behind the balaclava. The chained gate is a delusional sense of safety that makes people careless. And whoever closed last night is certainly that.

When the door opens, the overhead light flicks on. Removing his tools from his pocket, Simon starts picking doors until he finds what he’s looking for.

The security room is small, only big enough for the monitors and a small desk. Simon boots it up. But the moment it warms up, and its information is revealed to him, all his confidence goes out the door.

Over half of the cameras in this place don’t work. The ones that do all have grainy, almost indecipherable video. Simon checks each working camera feed, rewinding until he finds you entering Riot Room.

From there, Simon tracks your steps, but there is absolutely no fucking way he’s going to find a clear image of your face. In all the crowd shots, you are one with the masses. Unfindable.

The only other working camera is the one in the basement hallway, but even that is grainy. The few seconds your face is on the screen is when you were running from him, and your face is entirely blurry.

“Fuck,” mutters Simon. Then, louder. “Fuck!”

Growling, Simon downloads the videos. Once done, he goes back and erases all record of you from their achieve.

Simon holds the data in his gloved palm. He curls his fist around it, silently hoping that this will be the piece that leads him to you.

Now (Three Years Later)

When Simon opens his eyes, the wood panel ceiling of his bedroom grins back at him. The boards warp into a vicious, mocking smile and the nails are the teeth. Simon cannot look away. His gaze is glued to the ceiling, fixated as if obsessed with the slowly melting image.

Against the tips of his fingers, Simon senses something warm and wet. There’s a snort—a sound that seems so distant even in his room. Instead of the wood, Simon focuses in on the sensation against his fingers. It burrows, sliding all the way to his palm. His hand is lifted from the bed, and feeling returns.

Slowly, Simon’s fingers bend.

It’s a snout. A familiar one.

Bravo.

As if reading his mind, the all-black German Shepard whines. Simon blinks a few times and the wood panels in the ceiling return to normal.

“Hey, Bravo,” murmurs Simon, the raspy gruffness of sleep still clinging to his voice.

Using his head, Bravo positions Simon’s hand between his ears. Simon laughs and scratches the spot behind Bravo’s left ear that he loves so much. Oddly enough, it’s the same spot Riley always liked.

But Riley is gone. Has been for many years.

Simon hits a spot that sends Bravo’s tail into a whirlwind, spinning like a helo’s blades. The swirling tail kicks up the air and Simon shivers. He lightly tugs on the tip of Bravo’s ear which earns him a lick and a pathetic whine.

Shaking his head, Simon slowly sits up, groaning as he does. Everything fucking hurts. It always does in the morning. He sits up completely, leaning against the bed’s headboard. Simon runs his hand over his face before threading his fingers through his hair, tugging absently on the ends, reaching for his cellphone on the nightstand.

“Fuck,” he groans, and it’s for various reasons.

It’s early. Too. Fucking. Early. There’s still another hour before his alarm is set to go off. But that isn’t the only thing holding his attention.

Simon opens the unanswered text messages and frowns.

I had fun the other night.

We should do it again.

Below the texts is a half-naked photo of the woman he fucked a few nights ago. It’s a goddamn good picture, but Simon isn’t interested in her. They agreed on it being a one-time thing. It’s not like her or anyone else’s touch could ever replace what Simon truly wants.

It’s been three fucking years and yet Simon can’t get the fuck over it.

Simon locks his phone, deciding to deal with it later. He’ll politely—but forwardly—say that he isn’t interested. Because he isn’t. There are certain needs, specific urges that occasionally need to be satiated, but Simon never takes it further than that.

His right shoulder and upper bicep throb as if the burn scars aren’t scars at all but fresh wounds. They’re two years old now, and they healed well, but the nerves underneath still act up from time to time. The doctors told him the damage there might be permanent.

Other than his shoulder, his right leg is stiff and slightly swollen. It almost always is in the morning. This injury healed like shit, and Simon deals with it every day. He could take pain medication for it, but Simon isn’t interested in consuming narcotics.

Simon knows what that can do to a person. He’d rather be in pain than consume the things that made his father who he was. He refuses to be anything like that man.

Bravo’s wet nose pushes against Simon’s bare thigh. Simon tilts his head to the side and smiles. Bravo taps him again, the dog’s dark eyes nearly blending into his black coat.

“Ready to start the day?” Simon asks in a murmur, reaching out with his good arm to scratch between and around Bravo’s ears.

Bravo leans into the scratches, his eyes closing slightly with contentment.

Ever since Simon’s forced retirement, Bravo has been his constant companion. It’s not like Simon wanted to leave. Price, Gaz, and Soap didn’t want it either. But Simon took a beating—a bloody fucking awful one. He was out for months, and by that point, SAS was pushing for retirement.

The upside to that goddamn fucking mess is the tattoo parlor. The retirement package SAS offered Simon, along with a hefty incentive, finally convinced him to step back. SAS not only paid for the parlor and Simon’s flat, but the entire building.

He owns it. The property is his. And that has given him purpose again.

Simon tosses the blankets off his body and then immediately covers up the rager pointing up at him. “Fuck,” he mutters, slowly shifting to the edge of the bed.

Everything pops and cracks against each other. The crunching sound of his joints is loud in the quiet of his bedroom. Simon sits on the edge of the bed, both feet flat on the floor, hands on the edge, and his head down.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, not wanting to stand but knowing he has to.

Bravo jumps off the bed and pads to Simon’s side. He sits, head and ears indicating his alertness. When Simon doesn’t immediately stand up, Bravo lifts his paw and sets it on Simon’s good knee.

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches in a hint of a smile. “I’m ace, Bravo. Promise.” Bravo removes his paw but stays by Simon’s side.

Simon sits up, hands on his thighs, and rolls his shoulders until they pop, releasing tension. It’s instant pleasure, and Simon repeats the process until the muscles in his arms move without issue. He does the same thing with his elbow and wrist joints, finally reaching above his head to pop his spine.

Once his muscles are warm and relaxed, Simon pushes up off the bed. At first, he limps, but once he’s in the bathroom, everything is fine. It’s a temporary blip. Simon scrubs his face and then grabs his toothbrush, popping it into his mouth along with toothpaste.

He’s so absorbed in it that when he straightens abruptly to stretch a spasming back muscle, Simon accidently smacks his erection against the porcelain rim.

“Fucking hell,” barks Simon, bending over slightly, clutching his toothbrush in one hand.

Bravo barks from the bedroom, and Simon sticks his head out the bathroom door.

“You don’t need my permission to take a piss.” Bravo’s front paws tap repeatedly against the floor, the nails clack clack clacking away. “You have a fucking door, Bravo. Go.”

Bravo bolts from the bedroom. Simon waits until he hears the flap of the dog door before returning to the bathroom. Sighing, he leans against the doorframe and palms himself. If he clears his mind, this will be over quickly.

Several minutes later and Simon is gripping the toothbrush so hard he might just snap it in two. He spits into the sink and returns the toothbrush to its home inside the medicine cabinet. What Simon is about to do is a last resort. Not that it’s shameful, but that he wishes for the real thing and not the simple trinket.

Simon steps back into the bedroom, his gaze falling on the dresser in the corner. Slowly, he strides across the floor, pausing once he’s there. His hands hover just shy of the handle of the drawer before he yanks it open.

What Simon seeks is right there, staring back at him. Simon reaches in and lifts the shredded, lace underwear. The image of it tearing away from your body as he pulled lives rent free in his head. He plays it on a loop.

The woman it belongs to is long gone, and not finding you again is one of the biggest regrets of his life.

Simon had one night—no. One night is incorrect. The two of you had only a moment together. An hour or two at the most.

No. Not a full night. If the two of you actually had a full night together, you would be in his bed right now. It would be your hand stroking him and not his own.

That is what Simon intended when he was inside you. In his head, he planned on taking you away from Riot Room and the crowd. To get you alone. To go somewhere private where Simon could fuck you properly without the fear of being interrupted. He wanted to understand your delicate lines, and where they ended. He wanted your harshness. Your attention.

The moment you bumped into him; you were his.

Simon still feels that way. In the dark, when sleep is an absent companion, Simon imagines what it would be like to possess you. To know that you alone belong to him.

But you are not his woman.

And you are not in his bed.

You are…wherever you are.

You ran from him, and Simon remembers every detail of that flight. The shaking of your hands as you adjusted your skirt bothers him still even after three years. In the moment, Simon thought he hurt you, but right before you left the green room, you glanced at him. And Simon knew—he knew—you wanted to stay with him.

But why didn’t you? Why did you run?

Simon rolls the delicate lace between his fingers. Your scent is long gone from the material. That is of little significance to Simon. The memory of you brands him. Like his scars and tattoos, you are amongst them, but under them, buried deep within his body. Every angle, every curve, every soft sigh and sound are their own ink.

Defeat is bitter. He tried. Really, he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most about it. Not that you left him but that Simon couldn’t find you after. You evaporated like rainwater.

Simon will never be rid of you. You are a ghost. A haunting that dwells within himself.

He returns to the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, clutching that lace underwear in his fist. Simon recalls the encounter like it was only yesterday. He licks his lips, imagining your taste, and how he learned your flavor from more than just your mouth.

The groan Simon lets out as he finishes into his hand should only be for your ears. But you’re not here, and the reality of that settles over him as he washes off his hand. He dries off and pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants.

Simon exits the bedroom just as Bravo comes back in through the dog door. Simon’s flat is right above the tattoo parlor which makes his trip to work a short one. Bravo follows along behind as Simon enters the second bedroom. The space is now a personal gym, and this morning, Simon needs to rage.

Using his phone, Simon engages the Bluetooth speaker. Shredding, heavy metal comes blasting out of it and Simon sets to work on the boxing bag. When that doesn’t quell the burn under his skin, Simon takes Bravo for a run.

None of it helps. Not even in the shower when Simon has to jerk one out again.

Simon lies to himself. It’s the picture on his phone that has him worked up and not the remembrance of you. That is what he tells himself as he enters the kitchen and pauses at the dining table.

Resting on top is a small box. Simon received it yesterday. It’s open, and Simon reaches inside, smiling down at the note he holds in his hand.

Looks like you got that brag rag, Lt. Congratulations, you’re a winner.

“Cheeky bastard,” smirks Simon, tossing the plain, white notecard onto the table.

Inside the little box Soap sent is one of those cheap coffee mugs that you can get engraved with whatever you want. On this one, it’s a photo of Soap and Gaz doing a very serious thumbs up pose next to a snoozing Price.

At the bottom of the box is a magazine. UK Ink it reads at the top. On the cover is Simon. But not Simon. No. It’s Ghost on the cover. That’s the face of 141 Ink. Simon’s customers don’t know him by any other name.

In the photo, Ghost wears all black everything except the balaclava. The skeleton mouth at the bottom of the fabric is the only splash of color on him, but they have enhanced his eyelashes a bit, highlighting the paleness. Simon doesn’t mind the creative freedom.

It’s a special edition of UK Ink, and Simon won top prize of “Best Tattoo Artist.” It’s certainly deserved—Simon has worked hard over the past two years. While Simon appreciates the recognition, it’ll only add to his already busy schedule.

Stuck to the bottom corner of the magazine is a sticky note with another message from Johnny.

Make sure to sign this for me, Lt.

Simon carries the mug to the kitchen counter and makes himself his morning tea before setting Bravo’s breakfast out. The German Shepard munches contentedly while Simon chugs down a protein shake. The texture is shit and he doesn’t understand how anyone could enjoy it, but he has to drink them now.

Technically, Simon’s body is still healing. It’s a fucking shame, but at this point it’s simply a fact of life. He spent the first couple months of recovery trying to figure out where the fuck it all went wrong. It only got worse when SAS started pushing for retirement.

Simon believed he fucked up, and that they didn’t want him anymore. He passed all the psych evals and even some of the physical tests. But he didn’t pass all of them, and some he couldn’t do at all.

It was Price that convinced Simon to finally put his service aside and do something else.

My job is to look after you, Simon. Listen to me on this.

Simon rinses out the mug and heads back to the bedroom. He dons his persona, slipping into Ghost like a second skin. Bravo waits patiently in the hallway until Simon emerges, the two of them taking the back stairway into the parlor’s backroom.

Simon flips on the light and then steps through the curtain that acts as a partition between the backroom and main parlor. He disengages the alarm system and unlocks the three deadbolts. Once done, Simon opens the door, guiding the doorstopper with the toe of his boot. The shop is often stuffy in the morning, and the fresh air always seems to add a bit of lightness to the space.

When Simon steps away from the door, Bravo promptly makes a home in the early morning sun.

The aroma of coffee, freshly baked bread, and sugar form the bakery two shops down floats in from outside. It tingles Simon’s senses, and he briefly considers going down there to snag a chocolate croissant before they’re all gone. Bravo can watch the shop.

Opening his work laptop, Simon checks his calendar, taking note of all the clients he’s seeing today. Simon is the sole artist and piercer for 141 Ink. He’s been booked up for months, and him on to cover of UK Ink is only going to make that schedule even more cramped. A second artist or two would be helpful, but Simon doesn’t trust easy, and the process alone to hire someone is already a daunting task.

Simon opens up his business email and grimaces. The number of emails in his inbox doubled overnight. It’ll easily take him a week or more just to sort through it all, especially if more pile up on top of it.

Sighing, Simon pushes off from his desk and starts to set-up for the day. He checks through and tests all his guns, takes a quick inventory of his needles, and sanitizes all customer surfaces just in case he forgot the night before. He never does, but at this point it’s a habit.

Standing next to the tattoo chair, Simon sets a metal tray on top of his rolling cart. It clanks loudly and Simon winces, the sound sending a momentary spike of adrenaline through his body.

“What the fuck is wrong with me today?” mutters Simon, the agitation still lingering on his senses.

As if answering his question, the air in the room shifts. Simon freezes, his hand hovering just above one of his tools. Slowly, Simon turns, checking out the rest of the parlor, unsure of where this unease is originating from.

Bravo moved but that’s it. The dog is calm.

Frowning behind the balaclava, Simon pivots fully and the entire world comes thundering down around him.

There is a woman standing in the doorway. She clutches a coffee cup in one hand and a brown bag in the other. Simon can smell the butter from across the shop. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted slightly in surprise.

He knows those lips. He’s kissed them, tasted them, watched as they opened to swallow him down.

It’s you. And that is impossible. Of everyone it could be, how could it possibly be you.

Fuck thinks Simon. Bloody fucking hell.

You take one step back as Simon takes a step forward. His hands fall to his sides and his back straightens. Every muscle within him is coiled like a serpent ready to strike. If this is you, he’s not letting you go again.

Simon won’t allow it.

Everything about you is the same. The only difference Simon notices is the slight tiredness under your eyes. He wants to rub it away, to chase away whatever it is that kept you up in the night.

You shake your head and take another step backward.

Ghost takes two.

You turn on your heel, and bolt.

The moment you disappear, the moment you sprint past the door, Simon is off like a shot. Sliding onto the pavement, Simon pauses, the hunter in him focusing on his prey. Bravo barks but Simon ignores him.

Simon’s gaze zeroes in, and then he’s running, even when his bad leg screams out in protest. You round a corner, and Simon is closing in.

When he comes around the curve, Simon slams into someone. He ricochets off, the force of it throwing him into a nearby flower bush.

“Watch it you FUCKING WANKER!”

Simon growls and hurls himself to his feet, snarling as he brushes off leaves, flower petals, and tiny twigs. The person he ran into, the man who hurled the insult, immediately pales upon seeing him emerge from the flower bush. Simon doesn’t even apologize.

He searches the street in the direction you ran.

Nothing. You are nowhere.

Simon turns on the man and grabs him by the collar. “Did you see a woman?”

“What?”

“Just. Now,” growls Simon, growing agitated.

The man shakes his head and Simon drops him. Before the man’s feet hit the pavement, Simon is already jogging down the street, searching for any sign of you.

All he sees are houses, cars, and strangers’ faces. You have vanished yet again.

Bravo’s cold nose pushes against the palm of Simon’s hand. He glances down at the German Shepard. “You’re supposed to be watching the shop.”

Bravo whines and Simon turns his back on the street, questioning whether he actually saw you at all.

Chapter Three // Chapter Five

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @lialacleaf @sharkbitesblog @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666

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chaotic-orphan · 5 months ago

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Delirious Villain x Hero Caretaker (4)

TW: family abuse, abusive older brother, sick fic, sick whumpee, weak whumpee, PTSD, whumpee afraid of being sick, neglect, vomit mentions, flu-like symptoms, violence, rough beating, callous whumper, sadistic whumper

Read part one here // continued from here

This part is dedicated to @sausages-things!!! Thank you for your comments, I hope you enjoy!!

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hero woke up in the same position they went to sleep in, Villain in their arms cuddling into their chest. They smiled at Villain who was still sleeping soundly for the first time in days. No late-night vomit trips to the toilet, or night terrors, or throwing the blankets off and stripping to fight the cold sweats. Hero let out a soft sigh. They could stay like this forever.

They pressed the back of their fingers against Villain’s forehead. No fever. He wasn't terribly hot or cold, just warm — a normal, human temperature. Hero let out a breath of relief. Then started carding their fingers through Villain’s hair, pushing the damp strands off their lover’s face. Villain even looked less pale, raising Hero’s spirits that hopefully Villain would be on the mend after all the heartache of the last few days.

Hero’s phone rang from somewhere in the house and Hero stifled a groan. They really didn’t want to move or disturb Villain in their arms. Maybe if they ignored it, the caller would give up on their endeavour and Hero could stay in bed with Villain. Besides, it wasn’t anyone important. Hero booked time off in work so they could wait on Villain hand and foot, look after everything Villain couldn’t. It’s what partners were for, to be there for each other.

The ringtone stopped and Hero smiled, glancing down at Villain again. Their peace only lasted a fraction of a second, before their phone started ringing again. Hero seriously contemplated waiting it out, but what if it was something important? What if some new villain was decimating an entire city block? Villain would understand if Hero had to go and stop them.

Well, understand, yes, but Villain wouldn't let Hero go alone. Hero blushed as they remembered the last time they tried to leave to stop a new villain fresh in the city.

“I really have to go, Vil.”

Villain slammed his hand out on the opposing wall, stopping Hero from leaving Villain's room, back when they were initially dating. Hero rolled their eyes at Villain, crossing their arms across their chest.

“What if I say no?”

“Villain—”

“What if,” Villain continued, stepping in front of Hero and crowding them so Hero was pushed back a step. “There is another villain who wants your complete attention?"

“Is this same villain acting like a complete child right now?”

Villain chuckled in reply. The deep chuckle that wound a knot in Hero’s stomach and set their heart aflutter. He forced Hero back a step, then another until Hero was backed against the wall.

“Vil—”

Villain reached a hand up to cup Hero’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting their head up to look Villain in the eyes. “Do I have to threaten an orphanage, or kidnap the mayor to get an ounce of your attention?”

“I’ve given you attention all night.”

“I don’t like sharing,” Villain said, stepping forward and closing all remaining distance between them. “What if you chat with this new villain and he sweeps you off your feet?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Hero said, ignoring the sudden, breathless quality of their voice.

“Am I? That’s what happened with you and me.”

Hero grabbed Villain’s wrist, not trying to dislodge his hold on Hero, but instead rubbing soothing circles over it, their other hand reaching to Villain’s cheek.

“This new villain isn’t you.”

“Damn right he isn’t.” Villain all but growled, smashing his lips to Hero’s, melting any words that still lingered on Hero’s tongue. The kiss was hungry, Villain deepening it quickly, forcing Hero’s head back against the wall when Hero tried to return the passion. This wasn’t a loving kiss, it was passionate, possessory. Villain showing Hero exactly who they belonged to; drawing a distinct line between Villain and all other villains that Hero had to fight.

Villain pulled back, pecking Hero once more before he nodded and stepped back. Hero blinked dazed up at Villain. Villain smiled wolfishly down at Hero, a flash of white and smouldering eyes.

“Come on, Hero. We have a villain to get rid of.”

Hero nodded stupidly, then shook their head, eyes narrowing as clarity hit them like a smack in the face. “Wait! What? You’re coming?! What if someone sees?! What if they—”

“What if they somehow think we’re dating? Darling, I’m not suggesting we arrive at the same time. You can swoop in, save the day, be the Hero I adore,” Villain said, brushing a stray hair from Hero’s eyes. “And I will dispose of this new villain once you rescue the hostages, hmm?”

“Villain—”

“I do love it when you say my name.”

“I don’t want you to kill—”

“Who said anything about killing, my dear? I’ll simply share my experiences and push them down the path of the righteous. To use their powers for good.”

Hero agreed at the time, but the other villain from that night never showed up again, and Hero didn’t think it was from Villain’s persuasive argument.

Hero cursed under their breath before slowly disentangling themselves from Villain and slipping out of bed unnoticed. Villain stirred briefly, but just snuggled into the pillow Hero was leaning on and settled again. Hero held back a groan as they opened the door to their bedroom and quickly shut it again so the noise wouldn’t disturb Villain.

Hero marched towards the counter, grabbing their phone and yanking it off charge, not even bothering to look at the caller ID when they barked: “what?”

“Hero! I’ve been trying to reach you for the last twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, Superhero,” Hero said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of their nose, leaning heavily against the counter. “Listen, I have the rest of this week booked off.”

“I know, but Hero I need you.”

“Get Other Hero.”

“Have you not watched the news?” Superhero asked, almost heartbroken down the line. Hero’s heart seized in their chest. “Hero… Supervillain struck again last night. Other Hero and Sidekick were out on patrol when—” Superhero’s voice caught, and Hero lurched forward. “They… uh… they don’t think Sidekick’s gonna make it, Hero.”

“What?” Hero whispered.

“Please,” Superhero pleaded. “There’s not enough— I need you here, Hero. Or even to protect —”

“Of… of course, Superhero. I’m, I’ll be twenty minutes, but I’ll be there, I promise.”

“I’m so sorry. I know that your partner—”

“It’s okay,” Hero cut in. “Honestly, Superhero. Twenty minutes.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll see you then.”

Hero cursed checking the time. They had to get ready. They had to leave Villain a note or something, shit they had to get ready. They paused at the door to their bedroom, not wanting to wake Villain up. They pivoted on their heel, turning to the laundry room and praying that — yes! Clean clothes! Perfect. They wouldn’t have to disturb Villain at all, and Villain could get the rest he needed.

Hero was pulling on their runner, half hopping around the living room, eyes scouring every inch of the place for the other one. Their eyes drifted back to their bedroom door and cursed under their breath. They didn’t have time to worry about it, it would be fine. Just in and out, and oh fuck they needed their keys to get back in.

“Hero?” Villain asked the moment Hero stepped into the room. Bleary eyes raised above the duvet to Hero who was frozen mid-air reaching for their runner. Hero smiled bashfully at Villain and straightened, apologising as they walked over to the bed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know I said that I had booked time off but something big happened and Superhero called, and he needs—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Villain said softly, putting his hand on Hero’s arm. “Don’t worry about me, I’m feeling loads better.”

Hero almost let out a sigh of relief. “Are you? Or are you just saying that, so I’ll go like yesterday?”

“Hero—”

“Villain.”

As if to make his point, Villain sat up in the bed and leaned over to kiss Hero’s knuckles. “Hey, crimefighter. Look, I’m fine. I feel great.” Hero tilted their head, and Villain pressed on, “you are going to miss a lot of sexy sleeping while you’re gone, though.”

Hero laughed.

“I’m serious,” Villain told them. “Oh, I’m gonna have a day in bed, full of sexy snots in tissues and shitty daytime TV, oh, how will I survive without you?”

“You’re such an idiot,” Hero told them smiling. Villain’s hand tightened in Hero’s.

“I’m your idiot.” Villain replied. “I’ll order soup or food or whatever, I’ll be fine until your home.”

“But if it’s a new Supervillain—” that meant long hours and possibly working multiple shifts to—

Villain’s gaze hardened as he cut in, “I’ll be fine. Go. You saved me yesterday; I can’t hog the city’s Hero twice in a week.”

“What about that time you held me captive in that warehouse?”

Villain’s cocky smile made an appearance on his tired face. It didn’t make as much as an impression as it usually did, with the bags under Villain’s red rimmed eyes and his pale, lacklustre skin. “Darling, that was a weekend getaway for the two of us.”

Hero leaned in and kissed Villain’s forehead. “If you need me, call.”

“I will.”

“Okay, I love you,” Hero said, gathering everything they needed as they left.

Villain reclined back into the pillows on their bed. “I love you too.”

*~*~*~*~*

Hero went straight to the Hero tower, rushing in and bolting to the lift, heading straight for Superhero’s office. When they got to the floor, Hero speed walked the corridor until they found Superhero in his office. His desk was in disarray, holding his head in his hands as Hero opened the door.

“Superhero.” Superhero looked up.

“Hero,” Superhero said, getting to his feet and walking around his desk. “Thank God you’re here. I’m so sorry about your partner. I just—”

“Nevermind that now,” Hero said with a wave. “What can I do? How can I help? You’re not usually this stressed. Tell me everything.”

“It was just — there was no rumours or hints at anything yesterday, or in the past month. It wasn’t disturbingly quiet or unusual, so we thought that it would just be a regular patrol, but Other Hero and Sidekick were hurt bad and they’re in the hospital getting treated…”

“Do you know what villain did this?”

Superhero’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know for sure. It could be a new Supervillain for all we know, but it reminded me a bit of Villain’s MO as well.”

Hero stiffened, a furrow forming between their brows. No way could it have been Villain, they’re home, sick in bed and Hero spent the entire night with them.

“Oh?” Hero asked. “Have you been to the hospital?”

Superhero shook his head. “I’ve been too caught up here. All I know is scraps from other heroes reports but I need someone I can trust to guard them.”

Hero’s frown deepened. “You don’t think a hero had anything to do with it, do you?”

Superhero’s eyes were desperate as he shrugged helplessly, turning to scan the papers on his desk. “I don’t know, Hero. I don’t want to rule out the possibility that a villain may have charmed one of us and somehow manipulated us to give up sensitive information like patrols or something.”

Hero was glad Superhero had his back to them, otherwise he would have seen the pain that crossed Hero’s expression. Villain… Villain would never do that to Hero, would he? He wouldn’t— I mean, Hero knew Villain wasn’t— he wasn’t friendly with other villains, so Villain wouldn’t betray Hero like that. Never.

“I’ll go to the hospital,” Hero said, voice firm. “I’ll get some of the heroes I trust most and recruit them as well. I won’t let anything happen to Other Hero or sidekick; I promise.”

Superhero turned and smiled. He placed a hand on Hero’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Thank you, Hero. You are one of the only heroes I trust would never converse with a villain. That will help everything run smoother here.”

“Of course, Superhero.” Hero forced out, guilt threatening to clog their words. They left as quickly as they had come, leaving Superhero’s office in a flash, back down the corridor to the lift. It was empty when it arrived, something Hero was grateful for. The moment the doors closed they pressed their back flush against the wall, taking in deep breaths. Unaware of who was watching them through the camera in the corner.

*~*~*~*~*

Superhero straightened once he heard the lift doors close at the end of the hall. He walked around his desk and looked at the Hero in the lift through the cameras. Eyes hard as Hero leaned back against the wall, hands braced on their knees. How had he not seen this before? Why had he trusted Hero of all people?! And somehow Villain wormed his way into Hero’s life?! He waited until Hero stepped out of the lift before he switched his computer screen from the cameras and stood from his desk.

He schooled his expression and stepped out of his office. He said to Number Two Hero: “I need to head out, will you hold down the fort while I’m gone?”

“Of course, Sir.”

Superhero thanked them and walked down the corridor to the lift. He needed to pay Villain a little, friendly visit.

*~*~*~*~*

Villain peeled themselves out of bed, skin sticky with sweat. His nose turned up as he caught a whiff of himself and he almost gagged. A shower before anything else was necessary.

He could almost hear Hero telling him that he shouldn’t take a shower, that he’s too weak and what if he slipped or passed out and the water was too hot — and a whole host of other problems that Hero could foresee. Villain smiled softly to himself as he locked the bathroom door.

He was lucky to have them.

*~*~*~*~*

Superhero told Hero that Other Hero and Sidekick were being treated at West-Point General Hospital, which was a pain to get to. It was on the edge of the city and took a forty-minute train to get there and back to the Hero tower, nevermind Hero’s apartment.

They shot Villain a text, informing him that they’d be late home. They hesitated to say the reason: the words: ‘Other Hero and Sidekick were attacked’ stared up at them on the screen. Hatefully, suspicion curled viciously like a snake in Hero’s chest, Superhero’s words of warning.

Villain would never betray me, Hero told themselves. Work and their relationship were completely different for them both.

If that’s true, a nasty voice piped up, why did you delete the explanation?

Hero swallowed thickly and shoved their phone into their pocket.

*~*~*~*~*

Villain let out a sigh of relief once the hot water hit his aching muscles, it felt so good. As if the sickness was being rinsed from his body. He glanced around the bathroom, half-expecting the apparition of his brother to appear again.

No, Villain reminded himself, shaking his head as if he could shake the memory from his head. He’s not here. He’s not real. That was just a hallucination or something. Still, Villain crossed his arms across himself in a self-hug under the warm water.

He pressed his forehead against the cool tile, hoping Hero came home sooner rather than later.

*~*~*~*~*

Hero walked to the reception desk, putting on their best charming smile. “Hi, I’m looking for Other Hero and Sidekick.”

Receptionist nodded and tapped on his keyboard. “Third floor. Room 316.”

“Thank you.”

Hero kept their eyes peeled as they ascended the stairs, looking out for any suspicious characters lurking around. When Hero got to the third floor, they followed the signs towards room 316. The room was left unguarded, and Hero’s heart started to run a little faster in their chest as they approached.

They half expected a massacre in the room, but it was worse than Hero imagined. Only Other Hero lay in the bed, the other was vacant, the door opened. Hero rushed inside, looking for any clues or hints or something that would lead to the missing Sidekick.

Other Hero looked was hooked up to a bunch of monitors, half of her face was swollen with deep purple and black bruises. Some of the cuts had been stitched and a tube was inserted in her mouth.

A gun cocked behind Hero, and they froze. “Come to finish us off, have you?”

Hero frowned, looking over their shoulder to see Sidekick wobbling in the doorway. They didn’t look much better than Other Hero, leaning heavily on the doorframe to keep themselves up.

“Sidekick it’s Hero,” Hero said. At the sound of Hero’s voice, Sidekick thumbed the hammer forward and clicked the safety on, lowering their gun.

“Good, I don’t think I can make it back to the bed.”

Hero immediately went to them and threw an arm over their neck, supporting Sidekick’s weight as they guided them back to bed. “What happened? Why did you leave the bed?”

“I needed the loo,” Sidekick grumbled and hissed as they settled back onto the bed. Hero’s panicked eyes went to Sidekick’s side that was red with bloodstains.

“Who did this to you?” Hero asked as they straightened to further observe Sidekick.

Sidekick shook their head then winced. “We didn’t see them, or at least…” Sidekick glanced at Other Hero, “I don’t think we did,” they said quieter. “I know I didn’t, but I don’t know about Other Hero.”

Hero nodded sympathetically. “Did you get an idea of their abilities? Were they powered?”

“Whatever they were they were strong, Hero. Really fucking strong, and— and I couldn’t fight them. Every time I got close to them, they’d weave out of the way and punch me and send me reeling. Other Hero she at least got a couple of good hits in before he turned all his attention on her.”

Hero frowned, eyes going to Other Hero’s broken body. If what Sidekick was saying was true, then — “how did you survive?”

“What?”

“I don’t mean to be insensitive,” said Hero quickly. “I just — if your opponent was a beast of a thing, how did you both end up in hospital?”

Sidekick scoffed. “Halfway through the fight I radioed for Superhero to help us. He must’ve arrived after I passed out because the next thing, I know I’m here and Other Hero is strapped to machines to keep her fucking breathing.”

Sidekick dissolved into quiet sobs that shook their body, not willing to let any sound out. “I should’ve— I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve been able to— to—”

“It’s okay, Sidekick,” Hero told them gently.

Furious eyes flashed to Hero’s face. “You can’t say that! You don’t know what it’s like to be weak! To be beaten so badly that you can’t even move! I should have been able to protect her!”

Hero stood still, lips drawn down tight, not knowing what to say to comfort Sidekick. A voice at the door took their attention.

“Hero. A word.”

Hero turned, frown deepening at the owner of the voice. It was the number three Hero, Ajax. What the hell was he doing here? Hero followed him out, closing the door as they left the room. “What’re you doing here?” Hero asked before Ajax could speak.

“I’m here to watch over them. Make sure the villain they faced doesn’t come back to finish them off,” Ajax said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“But… Superhero sent me to do that.”

“Superhero? He already posted me; I told him I could do it alone. I’ve been itching to get away from the office to tell you the truth.”

Hero’s brows drew together, deep in thought. Why would Superhero send me all this way for no reason? Maybe Ajax needed some support?

“Ah, Hero!” Hero looked up and saw Briar’s smiling face meet theirs. “Paying a visit? How is your partner? I heard he was sick.”

Hero let a smile slide across their features. “Yeah, yeah. It looks like you two got it all covered though. My partner… I actually got to get back to him.”

“Of course,” Briar said, slapping Ajax on the back. “Me and the big guy got everything covered here.”

Ajax shot questioning eyes at Hero, but Hero couldn’t answer any themselves, so they didn’t. Hero nodded and said their goodbyes, before heading back for the train, trying to make sense of Superhero’s emergency call.

Maybe Superhero just forgot he posted other heroes to the hospital? Maybe he was just stressed out… whatever it was it didn’t really matter. It meant Hero could get home to Villain quicker than anticipated. Maybe Villain could help them make sense of this wild goose chase.

Hero glanced at their phone when they got on the train, smiling at Villain’s reply they hadn’t seen until now. At least they were going home earlier and could relax with Villain at home, snuggled up under the blankets, maybe watch a movie or something.

*~*~*~*~*

Villain couldn’t keep the grin off his face after his shower as he towelled his hair dry. His body still ached; his limbs moved with a rust-like creaking, but he felt so much lighter after his shower. So much clearer and fresh.

He smiled as he glanced at their phone, Hero telling him that there was some soup in the fridge, and they might be longer than they initially thought. Villain stared at the words at the end of the text, I love you.

Such simple words that made more warmth bloom in his chest than the shower did. Villain text a quick reply before tossing his phone on the bed. He didn’t really want food right now, maybe some water or tea. He brushed his teeth before the shower to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He shuddered to think of it, happy it was over.

Villain ignored the idea of food or drink altogether and opted instead to take some painkillers and watch some TV on the sofa, cuddled up under the cow pattern blanket that smelled like Hero.

*~*~*~*~*

Hero stepped out of the lift of the Hero tower, walking towards Superhero’s office. They stopped outside it, but there was no Superhero. Hero frowned and turned, walking onto the map room floor. Second met their eye across the room, frowning as Hero made their way over.

“Hero? Aren’t you on leave?”

Hero frowned. “Yeah, but Superhero called me in. Have you seen them?”

“They went out,” Second told Hero.

“When?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“Do you know where?”

“No, but I didn’t ask.”

Hero nodded. “Right.”

*~*~*~*~*

Villain woke to the sound of the door being opened. He hadn’t realised that he had fallen asleep.

“Hero?” He mumbled, not opening his eyes yet as the door closed. Judge Judy played softly in the background until it was turned off. He felt Hero’s stare on him, sitting down on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Villain cracked an eye open, vision blurry with sleep, but he immediately knew that that wasn’t Hero. Villain jerked back on the couch, blinking themselves awake.

No, no, no, no, no, no…. Why was he having hallucinations again? He felt so much better. Villain shook his head.

“You’re not real, you’re not real,” Villain said to himself.

“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m very real, Villain.”

Villain kicked out on instinct, his feet catching in the blanket he was tangled up in. Superhero chuckled. “You’re still so pathetic,” Superhero said leaning forward. Villain pushed at Superhero’s outstretched hand, eyes widening as it made contact.

“Wh— what?” Villain asked, his entire body shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and fear and groaning muscles. Superhero didn’t answer, instead he batted Villain’s hand away and grabbed Villain by the throat. Villain’s hands went to Superhero’s wrist, trying to pull it off, but Superhero pressed him back into the couch.

“When I heard that Hero was dating a villain, I was concerned, but to realise that that villain was you. Well, I can kill two birds with one stone.”

Villain tried to untangle himself from the blanket, but he was well and truly cocooned no matter how much he kicked.

“I’ve missed you, Villain. And to think you were here, in my city. Hiding under my nose for the longest time, in bed with my best Hero, you’re like a cockroach.”

Villain’s eyes widened in terror. “If you laid a hand on them—”

Superhero tilted his head. “You’ll what? Kick me?”

Before Villain could think to reply, Superhero punched him right in the solar plexus. Villain lurched forward, breath stolen, straight into Superhero’s palm who squeezed, cutting off his air supply.

“Let’s get a proper look at you, hmm?”

Villain barely had time to process the words when Superhero yanked him off the couch by their shirt and tossed him to the ground. Villain barely felt the impact as they rolled, gasping in air as he went, hands protectively curled around his stomach.

“I would’ve thought that Villain, the Villain would have more to offer me. Something formidable, but look at you,” Superhero said, following Villain’s retreat with heavy, deliberate footsteps. “Still as weak as ever. I could kill you right now and let Hero find your mangled corpse, and y’know what?”

Superhero sent a swift kick to Villain’s cheek, whipping Villain’s head to the side. Villain turned over onto his stomach, getting one hand under himself before there was a hand in his hair, yanking thim back.

Villain cried out, grabbing the hand, trying to alleviate the pressure, but Superhero didn’t let up. He pulled Villain back and up to his feet, shoving him forward. Villain’s hands shot out to catch himself on the wall before he fell again.

“There you go, let me get a good look at you,” Superhero said. Villain’s whole-body shook, his legs trembling, struggling to keep himself upright. His limbs ached, screaming at him to rest and relax, but Villain’s terror left him frozen. “Turn around.”

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be real, this isn’t real. This is just another hallucination, Superhero can’t be here, he can’t be… he can’t be…

Superhero’s voice dropped low, chilling Villain to the core. “Do I have to ask twice, or do you remember who’s in charge?”

Villain used the wall to turn themselves, facing Supervillain and staring him in the eyes. He refused to cower anymore.

“Hmm, so Hero’s been slumming it with you, have they?”

“Why?” Villain snapped. “Jealous?”

Superhero laughed, shaking their head slowly. “No,” he replied, tilting his head. “Though I’m sure my advances wouldn’t be refused.”

Villain grit their teeth. “You’re lying.” He was, but to see that flash of fear cross Villain’s face after so long was worth it.

“I just always pictured Hero with someone strong. Y’know, someone who could stand on their own two feet. Someone with a Hero’s physique, you? What, have you completely disregarded your training, or do you want to look like a complete failure?”

Villain shook his head, sweat clinging to the back of his neck as he stepped off the wall. He immediately regretted the decision and stumbled back, gritting his teeth as the world spun and tilted.

“We’re not kids anymore,” Villain said instead or rising to Superhero’s bait. “You don’t have any effect on me.”

“Is that so?”

Villain swallowed hard, humming his reply as Superhero started towards him, taking slow, deliberate steps that sent Villain’s heart racing.

“Because that’s not what I heard. I heard you begging your brother to leave you alone,” Superhero said, relishing the way all colour seemed to leave Villain’s face. “To stop, to beat you instead today, please, please, please.”

“Y—you h-heard that?” Villain asked with a timid voice as Superhero stopped in front of him.

“Oh yes, and I thought it was strange, because well, I wasn’t there, Vil. But don’t worry. Big bro’s here now, and we’re going to make you better.”

“No—” Villain protested, shooting his hand out. Superhero caught it by the wrist and twisted his arm before slamming it back against the wall. “No, no, no, no!”

“Don’t you want to be worthy of Hero? Don’t you love them enough to be perfect?”

“Hero loves me!” Villain cried, tears springing to his eyes as he struggled to get out of Superhero’s grip. But Superhero was too strong. Superhero was always stronger than Villain, and no matter how much Villain trained or wanted to forget it, he was right back where he ran away from. He was back as a kid, Brother overpowering him and staring back into his brother’s callous, dispassionate eyes. “Brother, please.”

Superhero brushed Villain’s hair from his forehead, gently hushing Villain. “Oh, Villain. We haven’t even started yet.” His eyes darkening. “But don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of time for begging later.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Continued here

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nothingbutnowhere · 6 months ago

Text

A Simon x reader blurb

Notes: Reader refered to as 'girl' once, mentions of anxiety/hypervigilant symptoms

Edit for typos I wrote this at like 1 am on my phone lol apologies

Your phone was always on silent. No ringtone, no vibration, not even alarms, you had an alarm clock for that, one of the fancy light ones that gradually brightened and played birdsong as the alarm. Given your sensitive startle reflex it made sense to Simon. And it's not like you often missed his calls or texts when he was away. No matter to him.

"Where was that new place you wanted to eat?" you asked from the kitchen, "Kinda out of food right now."

Simon had come home earlier than expected and left you with no time to prepare after a busy week. And considering you'd spent the afternoon and most of the evening rolling around in bed neither of you wanted to cook anyway.

The idea of going out was so much less stressful when Simon was with you. The fear of being perceived, and the fear of the nebulous 'something bad' made exiting your home a no go about 50% of the time. Simon had everything covered though. He could and would handle anything 'bad' and his glare was enough to send wandering eyes away. And seeing Simon straight up not give a fuck helped your thought patterns more than CBT ever did.

"I'll send it"

A few moments later there's a loud notification sound and buzz. Simon nearly jumps, head whipping towards the noise.

He starts to say something but when he sees you with your phone clutched to your chest, familiar red face like you've got caught with your hand in the cookie jar he closes his mouth and waits for the stammered explanation.

"I- it's- um. I have it set for you. When you're gone, guess I forgot to turn it off. It's just so, you know, I don't miss you. I mean miss your calls. I always miss you."

You give him half a smile and it twists Simon's heart, or what's left of it.

He stands and approaches you. Something that most people run away from, but your eyes only get softer and shoulders sag as you melt into his arms. It took time but you broke though his hard shell only to find a teddy bear inside.

"Sweet girl," he murmurs into your forehead before pressing his lips to your skin.

"Handsome boy," you say back, hands gripping the front of his shirt.

"Doin' all that for me? Guess I must be then."

"Mmhm. My handsome boy."

It makes Simon smile when you get possessive over him.

"My sweet girl."

And it makes you hot when he's possessive over you.

You groan.

"Don't start that again or we'll be eating 3am pizza. Or plain spaghetti noodles."

"It's just the truth love."

You break the embrace.

"Well your sweet girl wants dinner," you say with a winning smile.

You tilt your head up and stand on your tiptoes, a silent ask for a kiss.

He swoops in dutifully, but it's only a passing brush.

Asking for kisses is a dangerous game, there's more than one reason your man wears a mask (it's the oral fixation).

You look playfully disappointed but he only gives you his deadpan expression.

You huff and follow him to the door.

Once your shoes are on he does indulge you in another kiss. Deeper this time. Lingering. You give Simon a nip on his bottom lip, something to ache a little bit during dinner while you can't have your lips on him. He smiles, nearly giggles, and gives you a matching one.

A/N: I'm a little rusty, haven't written in a hot sec, but this just kinda plopped into my head. And I have a few other ideas for this soft!simon and anxiety/PTSD/hypervigilant!reader, so maybe I'll continue

...

I do NOT consent for my works, part of my works, or my ideas to be used for ANY form of AI.

#x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #hypervigilant!reader #my writing #original post

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ifearzombies · 2 years ago

Text

Flinch

The Brothers See MC’s PTSD. TW for mentions of abuse (nothing graphic, but just in case)

Today you’re sitting in the living room, staring off into space as the fire crackles before you. It’s a ‘bad day’. Last night your memories haunted you of people who hurt you greatly and today you’re still feeling the effects. Every loud sound is making you jump a little, your eyes occasionally dart side to side, and you’re curled up in a small ball on the large couch.

“MAMMON!” Levi’s voice being so loud makes you curl in further and you let out a small whimper. It’s upstairs, but it still feels like the voice is inches away from you.

You decide to go to your room and as you pass the foyer, a hand grabs you and you flinch. A small cry of fear comes from you as you attempt to pull away.

“... Did... I scare you,” Satan asks, shocked and hurt. You’ve never flinched from him before.

You take a few deep and steady breaths and start to cry before grabbing onto Satan tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry... I didn’t... It’s not you. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

Satan looks horridly pained that you’re afraid and crying. He holds you tight and gently leads you to your room. “What is wrong, my kitten?”

Before you can answer, Mammon’s slamming his door and you flinch again and cry harder. You can feel the anger building in Satan and you push away. “I’M SORRY!”

You dash for your room and close it. You lock the door and bolt under the bed, your cries shaking your frame as you try to calm down. You take out your D.D.D. and start texting everyone.

[MC:] Please stop. Please stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

[Asmo:] Sweetie? What’s wrong?

[Satan:] I think Mammon, Levi, and I scared them. They were already looking spooked when I stopped them.

[Levi:] Stupidmammon! If you hadn’t stolen my collector’s DVD of Help! I Got Teleported To A Galaxy Far Far Away And Now The Emperor Wants To Marry Me But I’m In Love With His Son And The Rebel Leader!

[Mammon:] Oi! I just borrowed it!

[Satan:] OI! Quiet both of you! Your yelling scared them! They were crying!

[MC:] I’m sorry. You guys didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad!

[Lucifer:] Why would we be mad? Dearest. What is wrong?

[Beel:] I don’t think they can text anymore. I’m in the kitchen and I can hear them crying. I’m going to knock and see if they want anything.

[Beel:] That did not work. They let out a scared cry when I knocked. :C I’m sorry.

[Satan:] I’m reading up on the symptom’s and behaviours they’re displaying. ... Kitten? Did someone abuse you? Do you have PTSD? Please answer.

[Beel:] I just heard them mumble yes through the door. Who hurt you, honey?

[Lucifer:] Please. We want to help.

[MC:] I don’t... I can’t... It doesn’t matter. They’re not in my life anymore.

[Satan:] But the scars linger on your heart. I’m so sorry I scared you, Kitten. Please... Can you leave the room so we can comfort you? Mammon and Levi have stopped their yelling.

[Mammon:] Yeah. I’m sorry. Never meant ta scare ya.

[Levi:] I’m sorry too. I’d never want to scare my Player 2. :C *Offers hug*

[MC:] I will in a minute. Sorry. I’m trying to catch my breath still. I’m sorry.

[Belphie:] You don’t need to apologize. You got scared. It happens. ... Was it me? Did I cause you this pain?

[MC:] No. Like I said. They’re not in my life.

[Beel:] Was it your family on Earth? You don’t talk about them much.

[MC:] Yeah.

[Lucifer:] Mammon, Levi, Asmo, Beel, Belphie. Please take care of them. I have to go stop Satan. He’s trying to go to the Human Realm to dispense justice.

[Beel:] Do you want to talk about it? I can bring you snacks? I’m still outside your door.

[Mammon:] I’ll come down an’ cuddle ya.

[MC:] Okay. I’ll unlock the door.

[Asmo:] We’ll keep our voices low, lovely.

You slowly climb out from under the bed and unlock the door. Beel is right there with your favorite snack with tears in his eyes. “Can I come in?”

His voice is so soft. He’s being so careful to not spook you further. Mammon approaches with Levi and rather than speak, they gesture to ask if they can come in. You nod and move out of the way as Asmo comes in with some juice.

“Hello sweetheart,” he says, his voice full of love, concern, and sing-songy, “Let’s all cuddle, hrm?”

“Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone or upse-”

Asmo gives you a smooch. “None of those apologies, sweetie. You’ve done nothing wrong. We’re here because we love you and don’t want you feeling sad.”

“You mean... You’re not... upset? That I didn’t tell you guys?”

“Ya were clearly havin’ that, uh, whatever Satan was calling it.”

“PTSD, Mammon,” Levi corrects.

“What does that even mean?”

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Belphie explains, “It means that our MC reacts to stress badly because they were hurt. I... probably didn’t help that.”

You go over and hug Belphie. “You’re fine. You... It was once. What they did ... It went on for a long time.”

“Well. How about we order out dinner and put on a nice movie and cuddle,” Asmo suggests as he starts re-arranging the pillows of your bed for just that, “And we’ll figure out something for Satan and Lucifer once Lucifer calms him down.”

“I’ll apologize for causing this to them la-”

Belphie interrupts your apology this time with a small kiss. “You didn’t do anything.”

You start to cry again as a sense of safety fills you. You’re not in trouble. No one’s mad at you. You’re not going to be hurt. You hug the brothers as they gently guide you to the bed and cuddle you.

You’re home. You’re safe. And it’s in the arms of your chosen family that you finally fall asleep and have good dreams.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me one master to rule them all #obey me om #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #[[Based on how I react with my own PTSD]]

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sagesolsticewrites · 2 months ago

Text

Love’s Light Wings: Chapter 2 (“The course of true love never did run smooth”)

John Brady x Juliet Thompson (OFC)

Job interviews, wedding planning, and first meetings, oh my! John and Jules navigate his homecoming and start planning for their future while reckoning with the impact the past two years have had. Juliet finally puts a face to a name regarding a certain dear pen pal, along with several other new friends.

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: description of a panic attack and PTSD symptoms (please let me know if there's anything I missed!)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Hugest of huge shoutouts to @winniemaywebber and @blakelysco-pilot for reading this many many times before I posted it; our girls are finally together! 🥹 I love y’all 💕

Masterlist | Prologue | Chapter 1

Juliet wakes, as she always does these days, with a smile.

It’s been around two weeks since her Johnny came home— two wonderful weeks since he’d proposed in the back garden— and she’d loved every second. John had been settling back into life at home in sleepy Victor, New York, taking the time to grieve the friends he’d lost overseas and process the passing of his father, happy to have his mother fussing over him while he took a break before resuming the search for a job.

Juliet had indeed asked around as promised and found that Victor High School was in the market for a second music teacher— poor Mr. Brown was getting overwhelmed with the class load and was looking forward to some help. So today, John had an interview with the principal, and Juliet was coming along to introduce him.

Beaming, she rolls out of bed to get ready for the day. Once her face is washed and she’s donned her favorite light green shirtwaist dress, she races to her vanity for her new favorite part of her morning routine: slipping on her engagement ring.

A warm wave of joy rushes through her feeling the subtle weight of it on her finger, the emerald and two tiny diamonds sparkling in the sunlight.

She skips downstairs once she’s deemed herself presentable, greeting her parents with a kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning,” her mother laughs, “you’re certainly in a good mood today.”

“It’s a good day,” Juliet shrugs, trying to downplay her excitement.

“Because you get to see John?”

“Yes…” she drags out at her mother’s knowing look, unable to hide her smile, “And because of my lunch date with the girls, remember?”

“Oh yes,” her father laughs from his place at the table, “How could we forget?” In a more sincere tone, he continues, “I hope you plan on thanking Olive for all her letters when you meet her.”

“Of course, Daddy,” Juliet replies, “She was such a wonderful friend to have when Johnny was…”

She trails off, then clears her throat, continuing with an unbothered smile.

“And I can’t wait to meet Val, she sounded like quite the character in Olive's letters.”

“You’ll be home in time for dinner, yes?”

“Yes, mama, I will.”

Breakfast passes quickly with quiet conversation, and promptly at 10 o’clock there’s a knock at the door.

Juliet jumps up from her chair with a squeal, racing to the front door. She pauses, taking a moment to brush any wrinkles from her dress and adjust her favorite brooch before opening the door to a smiling John Brady.

“Hi sweetheart.”

Butterflies flurry to life in her stomach as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, mindful of her parents nearby.

“Hi, Johnny,” she smiles, “You look very nice, honey.”

Her boy preens in that shy way he does whenever she compliments him, stepping into the foyer.

“And you look lovely as always, Jules.” He nods to her parents lingering in the hall with a smile, “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.”

Greetings are exchanged, going over the schedule once more— interview, then John will drop Juliet off at the station so she can take the train into town for her lunch, he’ll be driving into town later to meet up with his fellow members of the 100th and dropping Juliet at home promptly at dinnertime.

Juliet’s parents wish John luck, reminding them to be safe, her mother urging her to say hello to all of the girls for her, and with some difficulty they manage to get out the door and into the car.

“You have your resume?”

John’s lips twitch slightly as he holds back a soft laugh, nodding to the glovebox, “Yes, dear—”

“And your c—”

“— and my cover letter, yes. As well as a few references.” He looks fondly over at his fiancée, “I have done this before, honey.”

“I know,” Juliet flushes a rosy pink, “I know, I just— I want to help in any way I can, Johnny.”

“You are helping, Jules,” he assures her, reaching to clasp her hand in his, thumb stroking gently over the back of it, “You’re introducing me to the new principal, you absolutely didn’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she insists, “And besides, someone has to come in there and show you off,” she teases sweetly, “Knowing you, you’ll be the humble gentleman you always are and downplay all your experience.”

His lips quirk up into a smile reminiscing on his time as a teacher, which had come to an end when he enlisted after the Pearl Harbor attacks.

“Ah yes, my whole one semester of experience.”

“Hey,” she scolds at his sarcastic tone, “One semester is more than most people wanting this job have.” Her tone softens, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “You’ve got this, Johnny.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Upon arriving at the school, Juliet directs him to the principal’s office, occupied by a man who seems to be about the same age as her father. The two exchange a friendly greeting, Juliet turning on her brilliant, most charming smile as she turns to her fiancé, making the brief introductions and subtly slipping in a comment about how John’s “looking forward to being back.”

“Well, I’ll let you two talk,” she smiles demurely, slipping quietly out the door and clicking it closed behind her.

An hour later, a familiar figure stands in the doorway of her classroom where she’d decided to make some progress on her curriculum preparations. Looking up, she can barely hold back a squeal.

“Johnny! How did it go?”

His smile tells her everything she needs to know, even as he says, “I think it went really, really well. Mr. Asher said I should hear from them in a few days with their decision.”

She flings her arms around him, beaming.

“I knew they’d see how amazing you are. We’ll be working together again!”

“Honey, did you hear the part where I have to wait a few days to hear their decision?”

“That’s just a formality, Johnny,” she assures him as they begin the walk back to the car, “If I know Mr. Asher, he wanted to give you the job right away.”

Her fiancée just laughs, pulling her close to press a kiss to her temple as he opens the door for her.

He drops her off at the station with a kiss and a “Say hi to Olive and Val for me— they’ll love you, honey, I promise,” and she passes the time quickly with the paperback tucked into her purse.

At the station, Juliet scans the crowd for her friends— despite her protests, they’d insisted they meet her there and walk to lunch together.

She grins as she spots Jo and Jean standing with two other women, racing towards them.

“Jo! Hi darling!” She says, flinging her arms around her friends, “And Mrs. Croz, looking lovely as always.”

“Thank you, honey,” Jean laughs.

“So good to see you, Jules.” Jo beams, and then her attention turns to the stylish brunette standing beside her, “This is—”

“Val DiRosano,” the woman beams, reaching over for a handshake, which Jules ignores as she goes in for a hug.

“So wonderful to meet you at last, Val.” She says, “I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things from Johnny.”

“I should hope so,” she grins, green eyes sparkling as she gestures towards the woman beside her, “Same here, from both Brady and Olive.”

The sweet brown-haired, hazel-eyed girl gives Juliet a wave.

“Hi, Jules,” she says softly, her accented voice a surprise to Juliet’s ears, “So happy to finally meet you.”

A wave of emotion wells up in Juliet as she recalls the dozens of letters she’d exchanged with the girl before her, pouring out her worries about John, her dreams for when the war was over, essays pages long in which they rambled about Shakespeare, eagerly forming a friendship on countless sheets of paper. She recalled the two letters she’d gotten on that awful October day— one from her friend wishing her the happiest of birthdays, no doubt informed by Johnny, the other in which Olive somberly informed her that her boy had gone down, with a promise— soon fulfilled— that she’d write as soon as she had any more news. This was the girl who had talked her through some of the most horrible months of her life an ocean away, and before she knows it, Juliet is moving to pull Olive into a tight hug, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m so, so happy to meet you,” she murmurs, “Thank you for—” she swallows around the sudden lump in her throat, her voice tight, “for everything.”

Olive’s arms squeeze around her just as fiercely.

“Of course, darling.” She whispers, “I wish I could’ve done more—”

“No,” Juliet insists, “You were a lifeline when I needed one most, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for it.”

With one final squeeze, the girls separate, matching teary smiles on their faces.

“Well,” Juliet giggles, trying to lighten the mood as she brushes her tears away, “I knew you were a Brit, but somehow the accent was still a surprise.”

“It was for me, too,” Val laughs.

“It seems I’m just surprising in general,” Olive smiles, “Now come on, ladies, I’m starving.”

They soon find themselves seated in a booth at a sweet little diner, laughing like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

“No, really! Baseball superstar Val over here decided to take over entertaining Meatball and threw it right into the briefing room!”

“You know I didn’t mean to!” Val laughs, “And besides, Chicky wasn’t too mad at us.”

“Chicky?” Jean’s brow furrows, Jo mirroring her confused expression, and Olive snorts.

“Her little nickname for Colonel Chick Harding.”

“Wha—?”

“Oh please, I know he liked it no matter how many times he complained,” Val laughs, tucking away a stray hair behind her ear.

It’s then that Juliet catches a glimpse of a lovely emerald ring glinting in the light.

“Oh Val!,” she gushes, “That ring is gorgeous.”

“Oh! Thank you,” the girl seems to go soft as she glances down at her left hand, and the girls swoon as she recounts the story of Everett Blakely’s proposal, a wide smile lighting up her dignified face.

“That’s so sweet,” Juliet says, pressing a hand to her heart, and the other girls lean in to examine it as Val holds her hand out proudly.

“Wait, Jules, we haven’t gotten to see yours yet!”

Jo was right, Jules realized, she had phoned her and Jean as soon as she could to gush about John’s proposal, but in the excitement of meeting Olive and Val, actually showing them the ring as she’d promised had slipped her mind.

She politely waits until the girls are done ooohing and aaahing over Val’s exquisite ring to extend her own for inspection.

Olive’s eyes nearly bug out of her head.

“Juliet Thompson, Brady proposed and you didn’t tell me!”

“I’m telling you now!” Juliet laughs, “It was such a surprise… apparently he asked my parents for permission the night he came home,” she says, visibly softening at the memory, “and the next day he was down on one knee in our back garden with his grandmother’s ring.” She locks eyes with Olive, knowing she’ll appreciate this next part as she squeals, “He quoted Tempest.”

Olive lets out an outright gasp, “He did not!”

She nods fervently, beaming, “I would not wish—”

Olive finishes the quote with her, “— any companion in the world but you! Oh, that’s lovely, Jules.”

Val grins as she examines Juliet’s ring, extending her hand next to hers so the two emeralds are sparkling in the light.

“Brady’s got good taste, I see.”

“Looks like your Everett does, too,” Juliet laughs.

“Well of course he does,” Val says with a playful toss of her hair, “He’s with me, isn’t he?”

Jean lets out a happy sigh, her gaze scanning over the girls huddled together in the booth.

“It’s so wonderful that we’re all together now, isn’t it?”

“Almost all of us,” Jules reminds her kindly, “Vika wasn’t able to get away from the hotel— but she promised she’ll be at our next little get-together.”

“Vika?” Olive asks, the unfamiliar name having piqued her interest.

“One of my school friends,” Juliet replies, the glow of happiness surrounding her seeming to intensify, “We drifted apart a bit after graduation, but we’ve since reconnected and it’s been wonderful.”

“She’s been a darling addition to our little group here, you two will absolutely adore her,” Jean assures Olive and Val.

Jo, Jean, and Juliet fill Olive and Val in about their time spent with Vika, as if trying to fill the space where she should be.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Val says, red lips turned up into a sweet smile, “She sounds lovely.”

They talk for hours, though it seems like no time has passed at all when John enters the diner, scanning the room for Juliet, followed by several other men.

“Oh goodness, is it that time already?” Juliet glances at her watch as her fiancé makes his way over to their little booth.

“Hi sweetheart,” John says, bending down to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, then nodding to the rest of the girls, “Ladies. Olive, Val, very good to see you again.”

“Wonderful to see you, Brady.” Val grins.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Olive says in a mock-offended tone, “I can't believe I had to wait two entire weeks to find out you proposed, Brady.”

The smile on his face stretches into a wide grin, seeing right through the act, “Well, you’re all invited to the wedding, will that be enough to make it up to you?”

“I suppose, “ Olive replies with a smile, her eyes going soft as her gaze drifts to the blue-eyed mustachioed man standing next to Brady, “Hi, honey.”

“Hey, Ollie,” the man replies sweetly, sliding into the booth next to her, then turning back to Brady, gesturing to the little group gathered around, “So, Brady, you gonna introduce us?”

With a good-natured roll of his eyes, John settles next to Juliet in the booth, gesturing between her and the boys.

“Gentlemen, this is my fiancée. Juliet.”

She gives him a tender smile, a swell of warmth rushing through her at her name on his lips alongside fiancée, though she soon remembers her manners and turns her attention back to the men, the names of whom John is currently listing— she had heard lots about them from the girls, but seeing them and putting faces to names was another thing entirely.

Rosie Rosenthal— the man Jo had been worrying over for months since he signed up for a second tour— gives her a kind smile, mustache twitching upwards. Harry Crosby— Jean’s beloved Bing— a softspoken man with kind brown eyes, greets her with a “Pleasure to meet you.” Everett Blakely beams, reaching over to greet her with a firm handshake, hazel eyes sparkling as he tells her how happy he is to finally meet the girl “Brady wouldn’t shut up about”, the comment bringing a blush to her cheeks. James Douglass— the man settled next to Olive, blue eyes bright and happy— perks up at her name.

“So I have you to thank for the Shakespeare lessons!”

“Yes, I’m glad they came in handy,” Juliet laughs, glancing pointedly at Olive. In one of his early letters, Johnny had asked for some of her particular favorite passages to pass on to Dougie in an attempt to help him woo Olive, and she was happy to see that they had helped— especially after she’d heard about the “I hope” incident.

“I mean, I don’t think I was that bad before, but—”

“‘I hope,’ sweetheart.”

“You are never gonna let that go, are you Ollie?”

“Never,” Olive beams, her smile matching the one on Dougie’s face.

The introductions quickly turn into another hour of talking before Juliet realizes how much time has passed. After a series of rushed goodbyes and long hugs, John ushers her into the car to begin the drive back upstate.

“Well? What did you think?”

“Of your friends? Johnny, they’re all wonderful,” Juliet smiles, “I'm so looking forward to getting to know them more. And Olive and Val! I feel like I’ve known them forever.”

She turns smiling to look out the window at the blur of trees passing by, green eyes turned golden in the setting sun.

“Yes, I think we’ll all be very good friends.”

“It was nice of Benny to offer to escort Vika home,” John observes a week later on their way home from their informal engagement party— they had gathered all of their friends at one of their favorite restaurants in the city, with the addition of Benny DeMarco and Juliet’s dear friend Ruthvika Patel— formerly “Ruthie”, now “Vika” thanks to the encouragement of the girls.

“Well of course he did,” Juliet laughs, “He’s absolutely smitten.” She sighs happily, “I knew he’d like her.”

“Really? How could you tell?”

“Are you joking, honey? He could hardly take his eyes off her the whole time,” she reaches over to poke him playfully, “Very similar to a certain someone I met in college.”

“Wha—? Okay, I was not that obvious…” John glances over at her, “Was I?”

“A little bit.”

“Well anyway,” he glosses over this revelation entirely, “I know DeMarco, if he likes her that much he’ll be asking her out in no time.”

“No, I hope he takes his time,” Juliet says, “Vika’s shy, and I don’t think she’s ever been in a relationship before. It’ll be better if they get to know each other as friends first.”

“Well, it’ll be interesting to see how it goes. They seemed to be getting along.”

“We’ll see if there’s any progress next week.”

“Next week?”

“Remember, your golf game with the boys? The girls and I are going shopping for the wedding while you all are out.”

“Shopping? But I thought you already had a dress, honey.”

Juliet shoots him a look.

“I need other things besides a dress, my love.”

“Of course, of course,” John says, holding one hand up in surrender, “I hope you girls have fun.”

“Thank you, honey.” Her tone is sincere as she reaches to intertwine her fingers, the car slowing as they pull up to the Thompson home.

“Hey,” he murmurs, turning to face her, “I love you.”

Her heart goes soft as he leans in to press a tender kiss to her mouth, pulling away just enough to meet her eyes.

“And I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I love you so much,” Juliet says softly, leaning in for another quick kiss, lingering as their eyes meet before she reluctantly slips out of the car, “I’ll see you soon, honey.”

“Oh!” She calls, pausing as she makes her way up the front walk, “Do you still want help with putting together those lesson plans?”

“I'd love that,” he smiles, “Come over tomorrow? I know my mother would love to see her future daughter-in-law.”

“Yes! I can’t wait to catch up with her,” Juliet replies, lighting up at the prospect of seeing Mrs. Alice Brady.

John shakes his head, “Sometimes I wonder if you’re marrying me just to get to her.”

“Oh no, you caught me,” Juliet laughs, “What can I say, honey? We bonded.”

He chuckles, giving his fiancée a fond smile, “I’m glad you two get along so well. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” she confirms, blowing one last kiss his way before making her way inside, John only pulling away once the door is closed behind her.

One week— and one delightful visit to Mrs. Alice Brady— later, she and John are once again driving into the city.

“What are you girls shopping for again?”

“Just some accessories. And Jean said she was looking for a new dress— oh, and Olive wanted to stop by a bookstore at some point if there’s time—”

The corner of his smile twitches, just barely holding back a fond laugh, but all her fiancé says is, “Sounds like you have quite the day planned. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“Careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” Juliet laughs, “The girls and I will be talking your ear off at dinner.”

“I’ll tell the fellas to be prepared.”

“You girls have fun!”

“We’ll meet you for dinner at 6, alright?”

Juliet, Jo, Jean, Val, and Olive all wave off their respective men— and Vika shyly waves off Benny— with promises that they’d be at the restaurant at the agreed-upon time.

The boys went off to their golf game, and the girls drag Juliet along the bustling New York streets for the most important shopping day of her life.

“Oh Jules, look at that!” Jean gushes from her place beside her friend, pointing to a lace and tulle fascinator displayed in a boutique window.

Giggling, they descend upon the boutique, searching through the merchandise with girlish delight.

“Remind me, what does your dress look like, Jules?” Jo asks, picking through a selection of white gloves.

“Mama’s fixing up her own dress for me,” Juliet says with a wistful sigh, “I’ve always loved it. Ivory satin, gorgeous full skirt, pearls on the bodice…”

“Oh, it sounds lovely,” Val smiles, “Don’t you think, Vika?”

Vika glances up from where she’s fiddling with the lace of a fascinator, looking almost surprised to be included in the conversation even after several months of being embraced as a part of their little group.

“Hm? Oh!” She smiles shyly, “Yes, it sounds beautiful, Jules.”

“Oooh, what about this?” Olive holds up a truly ostentatious floral headdress bursting with tulle, “It’ll go perfectly with your bouquet.”

“I think that might be a bit much for Johnny.” Juliet laughs, glancing to make sure the woman who’d greeted them as they walked in is still busy helping another customer before whispering, “Is that what people wear to weddings in the future?”

“Not quite,” Olive giggles, “But you’re right, let’s find something else.”

“Jules,” Vika calls from a secluded corner of the store, “What about this?”

Juliet and Olive exchange a glance and follow her voice to the rest of the girls examining a selection of hats. Vika is standing next to a sweet ivory pillbox hat, a tulle veil attached at the top beneath a cluster of pearls.

Juliet is speechless.

“Isn’t it perfect?” Vika asks, brown eyes sparkling.

“It is,” Juliet squeals, rushing over to pick it up.

The girls cluster around a nearby mirror as she tries it on, and squeals of “gorgeous!” and “oh, you look beautiful, Jules!” echo out from their little corner of the boutique, tapering off awkwardly at the glares of the other customers.

Juliet laughs as she takes it off, then blanches when she sees the price tag.

“Well… it is gorgeous, but maybe we can find something else.” She says regretfully as she places it back on the display.

“What? No!” Jean frowns, “Honey, you’ve waited so long for this, you deserve it!”

“Jean, you’re sweet, but I just don’t have enough to be spending like that right now,” Juliet explains, “Come on, I’m sure we can find another option.”

Even as she says it and turns away, her eyes drift longingly back to the hat waiting on the shelf, settling there for just a moment before Juliet shakes herself and begins wandering back through the store.

There’s a series of whispers behind her, which Juliet assumes is the girls figuring out which section to peruse next, and the future Mrs. Brady finds herself back in front of the fascinators, trying to muster up the same enthusiasm she had when she first walked in.

“Jules?” Vika’s voice comes from behind her, and she jumps.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Her friend says apologetically, “ But, well… I think we’re ready to go if you are.”

Juliet turns, seeing the girls clustered behind Vika with poorly hidden smiles and a small hatbox held in Jean’s arms.

“Oh girls, you didn’t…”

“We all chipped in.” Jo beams.

“You deserve it, chicken,” Olive says, “It’s your wedding.”

A swell of emotion rises in Juliet’s chest, and it’s all she can do to squeak out a soft “I love you girls” before pulling them into a group hug.

“So do the two of you have a plan for after the wedding?” Jo asks as they stroll down to yet another boutique.

“I’m sure they do,” Olive says, eyebrows waggling.

“Oh hush!” Jo scolds with a playful swat to Olive’s arm, “Not like that. Jules, you know what I mean.”

Juliet nods, the blush at Olive’s comment fading in favor of a brilliant smile threatening to overtake her.

“There’s the sweetest little house for sale a few streets away from us,” she gushes, “Johnny’s been saving up, and his mother and my parents have offered to pitch in as well.”

“That’s very kind of them,” Jean says, “I can’t imagine how excited you must be— I remember how much I was looking forward to starting a life with Bing.”

“I am…”

Despite the joy in her voice, Juliet’s smile has dimmed the slightest bit.

“I am, it’s just…”

The girls pause, identical frowns on their faces as they drift over to an awning over a dark storefront and wait patiently for Juliet to find the words.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel real?” She finally says, her voice distant and soft, fingers worrying at the ring snug on her finger, “Like… like I’m in this wonderful dream, and at some point I’m going to wake up and he’ll be back in that place, and I’m alone again—”

“Oh, honey.”

Jo and Jean are the first to wrap their arms around her, the ones who know exactly how she feels— even after all the hoping and praying that their boys would come home safe, they knew that once they were home it took time to remember they were home for good now, that they were finally allowed to stop worrying and focus on the future ahead.

The girls said as much as they held their friend, trying to impart as much comfort as they could.

“Oh goodness,” Jules lets out a watery laugh, carefully brushing away the tears threatening to spill over and doing her best not to smudge her makeup, “I’m sorry, girls, this was supposed to be a fun day…”

“No, Jules, you have nothing to apologize for,” Olive assures her, “We’re all adjusting to life now that the war’s over, this is part of it. You and John will work through what you have to and build a beautiful life together, I just know it.”

Juliet shoots a grateful smile at the girls surrounding her, gratitude for the friendships they’d formed in such a dark time warming her to her core.

With one final squeeze, she returns to the subject that had gotten them on this path as they continue onward.

“You all absolutely have to come over once we’re all moved in, I’m dying to play hostess for you girls…”

They arrive at dinner promptly at six, the boys already waiting outside for them.

“Did you boys have a good time?” Juliet asks, already beaming as she brushes a chaste kiss to her fiancé’s lips.

“We did,” he smiles into the kiss, “How was your shopping trip? Can I have a peek?”

He makes a show of trying to peek into the hatbox in Juliet’s hands as she playfully swats him away.

“Absolutely not, John Brady, this is for mine and the girls’ eyes only until the wedding.”

“As you wish,” he says, the teasing sparkle in his eyes visibly softening at the mention of their wedding, “I know you’ll look beautiful no matter what, sweetheart.”

She rewards his tender words with another kiss as girls store their purchases safely in their respective vehicles, and the group heads in for dinner.

As promised, the girls chatter away about their shopping day, the boys doing their best to look interested, and vice versa when the topic turns to the boys’ golf game. The one quieter spot at the table is thanks to Benny and Vika— despite the orchestrations of Val and Jules to have them sit together, the two of them are still too shy to do more than say hello to each other when they’re surrounded by the excited conversation of their friends.

Jules catches Val hiss something in Italian to Benny, to which he hisses something in return and redirects his attention to Rosie’s story about the fifth hole.

“How are they doing?” John whispers in her ear, his eyes flicking over to their mostly silent friends.

She shakes her head.

“Looks like still nothing yet,” she whispers back, “but Vika made it sound like they had a very nice time on the way back from the engagement dinner… oh I do wish they’d just talk to each other already.”

“Benny’ll come around,” he assures her, the comforting weight of his hand coming to rest on her knee— nothing improper of course, just letting her know he’s there.

Dinner flies by, aided by laughter and easy conversation, and before she knows it, her Johnny’s dropping her off back at home.

“You’re sure I can’t have just one tiny peek?” He whines once more as he shifts the car into park and she retrieves the hatbox from the backseat.

“No, Johnny,” Juliet replies, doing her best to bite back her smile in an attempt to look scolding and failing utterly, “I promise you’ll see it soon.”

“Soon,” he hums, reaching over to give her hand a squeeze and then tugging her in for a tender kiss.

It’s her turn to beam as he pulls away, warmth filling her as she realizes how soon soon really is.

Still, all she says is “I love you, drive safe, give my love to your mother,” before heading inside her childhood home, a piece of her future tucked inside the box in her arms.

It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon when Juliet takes the car to visit the Brady home. Wedding planning on top of both John and her planning for the upcoming school year has meant their time together is painfully limited, no matter how they try to find time to work together, and frankly? Juliet misses him.

So, an impromptu visit it is.

Armed with a tupperware of her mother’s chocolate chip cookies, she strides up the walk and knocks three times on the blue door, beaming as it opens to reveal Mrs. Alice Brady.

But instead of her usual cheerful smile, John’s mother seems more anxious than she’s seen her since John came home, and concern starts to whirl in the pit of Juliet’s stomach.

“Hello, Mrs. Brady, I— oh. Is everything alright?”

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mrs. Brady puts on a far weaker version of her usual smile, “I’m sorry, John’s… he isn’t doing too well at the moment, honey—”

“What happened?” Juliet interrupts, her mind jumping to the worst possible scenarios.

Mrs. Brady appears torn, her mouth soundlessly opening and closing until she finally speaks again.

“He was helping me organize his father’s study… I— I dropped a book clearing off one of the bookshelves, and—” she takes a breath, forcing herself to continue, “He seems fine physically for the most part, but…” there’s a hint of fear in her eyes as she continues hesitantly, and the pit in Jules’s stomach grows, “he was shaking, he looked terrified, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t get him to recognize me.”

Jules’s hand flies to her mouth, doing her best to comprehend the situation.

“He seemed to be having some kind of attack, but I can’t help but think…” Alice Brady’s eyes meet Juliet’s, almost pleading now, “Maybe seeing you might help?”

”I… are you sure?”

“Absolutely, Juliet.” Mrs. Brady nods, “He may have missed me, but it wasn’t me he was fighting to come home to so he could propose. I have a feeling you’ll be able to help him through this in a way I can’t.”

With one last sad flicker of a smile, John’s mother leads Juliet through the house to the study that used to belong to Mr. Brady.

Her heart drops as she sees John crouched in a defensive position, blue eyes wild and unseeing, his breaths shallow as his eyes dart around the room looking for some unknown threat.

“Johnny,” she breathes, willing her voice not to break as she approaches him slowly. “Sweetheart?”

He stiffens at the sound but still doesn’t seem to recognize her and it’s breaking her heart to see him like this.

“Johnny,” she breathes again, using slow steady movements to crouch in front of him, “It’s me, honey, it’s Juliet. Your Jules.”

Maybe touching him would help—

It decidedly does not, as he flinches away from her, a sharp, gruff “no!” escaping him when she places a hand on his arm as if she’d brandished a gun in front of him.

Okay, different tactic.

“Can you look at me, Johnny?” She tries, pulling back and thinking for a moment before slowly brushing her fingertips to his.

It’s a soft enough touch that it doesn’t startle him, but it still hasn’t pulled him out of… whatever this attack is.

“Please—” she swallows, trying to keep her voice steady as she slowly, inch by inch, threads their fingers together, “Please, Johnny, it’s me, it’s Jules, please look at me—”

He’s still shaking, but his shallow breathing is slowly returning to normal as he blinks, eyes focusing once more on what’s in front of him.

“Johnny?” She says softly, squeezing his hand gently, trying to ground him.

“Jules?” He breathes distractedly, as if labeling the person in front of him rather than speaking to her.

And then the realization hits, and there’s a sharp inhale as he jerks away.

“Oh, God— oh, God, no, you shouldn’t have— when did you—”

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” She asks frantically, trying to get him to meet her eyes.

He’s shaking his head frantically, “What are you doing here, you weren’t supposed to— you can’t see me like this—”

It’s that last part that hits her. That makes her realize this isn’t the first time this has happened.

“This… Johnny, this has happened before?”

“It’s nothing,” he practically spits, refusing to meet her eyes, “just… remembering things from that place, I’m— I’m working on it, I swear.”

That place, she knows, is the stalag. Neither of them have been able to say the word yet, but a trailed off sentence or indeed, that place, shoved in just the right spot and they know what the other means.

“My love,” Juliet says hesitantly, having some idea of what his reaction to this suggestion will be. Still, she persists.

“If you feel like you need to talk about it— I don’t know what happened, but—”

Johnny’s definitely avoiding her eyes now as he says in a low, forceful tone— his voice is distant still, but not as if it’s lost in memory in some far off place, no; this is the detached voice of someone shoving their emotions deep, deep down— “We were stuck there for… for far too long. It wasn’t good. Now I’m home. That’s it.”

Juliet nods, recognizing when to step back even as she murmurs, “I know, sweetheart. But if you ever do want to talk about it… I’m here. I don’t want you to worry about scaring me or anything,” she adds, knowing that that’s at least part of why he avoids this topic with her, “All that matters is that we work through this together. Whenever you’re ready.”

He gives her a wordless nod, and the two of them are left to sit in silence, hands intertwined, until Mrs. Brady comes bustling in with a glass of water.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she breathes a sigh of relief once she sees her son, promptly fussing over him “Are you alright, sweetheart? Here, drink this— let’s get you settled in the chair here—”

John is moved to a soft, squishy dark green armchair nearby, doing his best to calm his mother’s nerves.

“I’m fine, Ma, I promise—”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, me and my butterfingers did this—”

“Ma, it’s not your fault, really—”

“Mrs. Brady,” Juliet interrupts, gently placing a hand over Mrs. Brady’s nervously fluttering ones, “he’s okay. It’s alright.”

John's mother lets out a long exhale, taking a moment before giving Juliet’s hands a grateful squeeze. “Yes. Thank you, darling.”

“Always,” Juliet smiles, her demeanor softening as her gaze drifts from Alice to John.

Always. She’s about to start her always with him, and if she’s honest? It’s a little nerve wracking, thinking about that after what just happened. Not in a bad way, of course, just… it’s going to be an adjustment, navigating what her Johnny brought back from the war with him.

He made it back, she reminds herself, that’s all that matters.

They’ll work through what they have to, like Olive said, and then… she has forever to be with him. Home and safe and together.

“You alright, sweetheart?” John murmurs, brows furrowing at her silence.

She blinks, then gives him a smile that she hopes conveys even an ounce of the love she feels for him right now.

“I’m fine, Johnny,” she assures him, “I just remembered I brought cookies. And you look like you could use one.”

“The chocolate chip ones your mother makes?” John brightens, eyes lighting up like a child in a candy store.

“They’re in the kitchen, I’ll get them,” Mrs. Brady chimes in, leaving them to try to smother their giggles as they catch a mumble of “as if he didn’t eat the last of my snickerdoodles just yesterday, this boy…”

The moment his mother is gone, John wordlessly draws her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her and squeezing ever so slightly

“You sure you’re alright, darling?” Juliet asks, snuggling into him as he pulls her close..

The smile that greets her as she looks up at him isn’t quite the same one that she knew before he was shipped off. It isn’t stretched quite so wide, doesn’t reach his eyes in the same way.

But she smiles back just the same as he assures her, “I’m perfect, Jules.”

“Now, are you sure you’re alright?”

She takes a moment to consider it and decides that right here, in her fiancé’s arms, mere weeks from marrying him…

“I’m perfect, too, Johnny.”

#drinking game idea: take a shot every time i use an em dash #(don't you'll die of alcohol poisoning)#my girl is BACK babey!!!#oh i've missed writing for her so so much #I'm so sorry it's been literally 4 months since a proper update #y'all have been so patient and i truly appreciate it <3 #looking forward to hearing what y'all think! 🥹💕#love's light wings #oc: juliet thompson #brady x jules #john brady x oc #masters of the air #mota #mota oc

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pedroscurls · 2 years ago

Text

Third Time’s A Charm (Part 3).

Character(s): Frankie “Catfish” Morales , Reader (female, second person POV) Summary: You and Frankie have a very serious conversation. Word Count: 1,962 Author's Note: This was a very personal chapter for me. Like I’ve mentioned before, Frankie reminds me a lot of my partner (who is a retired Marine), so writing this was special. I know in the movie we don’t really see the effects of being retired veterans trying to become civilians again (mainly only Tom and briefly Will in the beginning), but it’s something I plan on exploring more of, especially with Frankie. So, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It’s literally on the beginning of what I have in store. Warning: Mentions of combat-PTSD symptoms, drug use, and implied cheating.

“Do you love me?”

The question shocked you, but you looked up at him with sad eyes. He couldn’t be asking you this question, especially when you knew that he was aware of what your answer would be.

“You know the answer to that, Frankie.”

He sighed, pulling back for a moment. “So you do.”

“Just because we aren’t together anymore doesn’t mean that I’m gonna stop caring about you.”

“But why?” He asked, genuinely confused.

“Are you asking me why I still care about you?”

He nodded. His eyes were sad. Part of you wondered if there was another meaning behind this question and so you reached out to rest a hand on his chest. Frankie immediately leaned into you and let out a quiet sigh. You could feel the weight he was carrying on his shoulders, the pain that lingered. Frankie was hurting and you didn’t know why.

“Frankie,” you whispered. “What’s going on?”

Frankie looked up at you. He wanted to melt into you, wrap his arms around you and just tell you all of the things that were bothering him. His mind was all over the place and the cocaine… Well, it put the nightmares and negative thoughts at bay. Temporarily, but when he came down from his high, the emotions came at him full force. He knew better than to turn to drugs as a way to forget, a coping mechanism, but lately, it was just too much for him to handle.

“Nothin’. Let’s get you home.” So, he pulled away from you and walked around his truck to enter the driver’s side. You watched him carefully as he bit at his lower lip anxiously. You climbed in and shut the door behind you, reaching for your seat belt as your eyes remained on him.

He didn’t say anything else. He buckled his seat belt and pulled out of the parking lot of the bar, making his way back to your apartment.

The energy between the both of you had shifted. The tension had disappeared. The desire lingered, but the concern you were feeling and the anxiety Frankie was experiencing outweighed it all. So, when he finally pulled up to the curb of your apartment complex, you reached over to rest a hand on his forearm. You didn’t say anything, didn’t want to pry or push him to talk, but resting your hand over him and running your thumb in circles across his skin brought Frankie comfort.

“Thank you for the ride.” You whispered.

“I’m hurting, hermosa.” He admitted. His hand clenched into a fist and you felt the muscles at his forearm tighten underneath your fingertips. “I can’t sleep and when I do, the dreams I have… They’re not great.”

You sighed quietly, removing your seat belt and turning your body so that you were now facing him, giving him your full and undivided attention. “Frankie,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“And my lady,” he added, glancing over at you. “Victoria,” Frankie corrected. “We’re not doing so great. She’s angry at me all the time and honestly, I don’t blame her. My license got suspended, so I can’t fly and–”

You interrupted him. “Don’t tell me, Frankie…” You said quietly. You knew that when things got too rough, he turned to drugs or alcohol as a way to temporarily forget. To him, it was a temporary band-aid that wouldn’t stick, that wouldn’t stay on. It had been rough the second time you got back together because you had seen it firsthand, experienced how his addictions not only affected him, but those around him.

Frankie just nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” You asked sincerely. You continued to rub circles along his forearm, hoping that you were providing some comfort. “Is it coke?”

Frankie nodded, looking away ashamedly.

“Frankie,” you sighed.

“I’m two months sober, haven’t touched it since.” He added. “But it’s hard. I just feel– I just feel like I can’t get anything right.” Frankie looked over at you, tears stinging his eyes. Up close, you could see the pain written all over his features. It was an all too familiar look you had gotten used to seeing whenever Frankie had flashbacks or whenever a painful anniversary would be near.

“Is that why you asked if I still loved you?”

Frankie shrugged. “Maybe, but also because I’m genuinely curious.”

You rolled your eyes teasingly. “I don’t think I ever stopped loving you, Frankie. Our chance–,” you sighed. “We never did quite get the timing right, did we?”

Frankie shook his head. “I guess not.”

“Listen,” you said. “You’ve been down this road before and you came out on top. You can do it again. You can get through this again.”

“Yeah, but what if I can’t?”

“You will.”

Frankie looked at you, head tilting as he moved his hand to capture your own. He gently played with your fingers before he slowly laced them together. He felt relief wash over him, like the weight he had been carrying was slowly lifting from his shoulders.

“You really believe that?”

You nodded. “I believe in you, just like how I believe in the rest of the guys. Sometimes,” you said, looking down at your entwined hands. “Sometimes we get to a breaking point where we feel like we’ve hit rock bottom, but the important thing is to get back up and crawl your way out of it. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you get back up. Always, Frankie.”

Frankie bit his lower lip. “Maybe,” he said stubbornly.

“Stop,” you said. “If I have to pull you out of it myself, I will.”

Frankie smiled at that. It was something that his wife would never have the patience for. She had always told him to get over it, that this will pass, and it only frustrated him even more. Sure, neither you or his wife had been in the military, served overseas, seen the things he had seen, done the things he had to do, but there was one main difference between you and his wife, Victoria.

You showed empathy and even when things got too difficult, you led with your heart, with patience, and you stuck by his side even when it hurt you.

Victoria had started out that way, but as things got more serious and more intense and she got to see firsthand how Frankie dealt with his flashbacks or nightmares, her empathy started to lessen and lessen. She just couldn’t understand that these things don’t just go away. And maybe that was part of the reason why he started using again. Yes, he had Benny, Will, and Tom to talk to about these things, but when your home environment isn’t all that supportive, it just does more damage than it does good.

But Frankie couldn’t even blame Victoria. He knew that he was difficult, that being with him meant that his baggage would follow. Part of him just wished he had known this sooner before making a lifelong commitment to a woman who believed that his PTSD was just something that could go away.

And you… Frankie felt at home with you. A home he wanted to be in. A supportive, loving, and understanding home. He didn’t have to feel like his emotions were a burden on you, instead, he felt comfortable and willing to talk about what he was feeling. You provided a sense of security, a safe space for him (and even the rest of the guys) to open to you. Even when Frankie told you some very horrific stories, he was surprised to see tears in your eyes. And when he apologized and tried to comfort you, he was taken aback by your reaction.

“I’m not crying because of the other person, Frankie,” you said, staring at him. “I’m crying because you had to endure all of that.”

“It was my job,” he replied quietly.

“I know, but I can’t imagine the toll it takes on you.” Then, you reached out for him and wrapped your arms around him in a tight embrace, afraid to let him go. “I promise that I’m always going to be here, no matter what.”

That was the first time Frankie cried in front of you. All the emotions that he had bottled in finally came bursting out. The feeling of your arms around him, your genuine reaction to his admittance of a certain job he had to do overseas… He didn’t realize he was holding his breath, afraid that it was going to scare you away, and when it didn’t? Frankie felt a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders.

“I promise that I’m not going anywhere, Frankie. I’m with you, always.”

“I love you,” he blurted out. Frankie sighed. “I know that I shouldn’t say it, especially since I’m married, but I– I don’t think I ever stopped loving you either.”

“Frankie,” you sighed. “We can’t. You know that.”

“I know,” he replied. “I’ve just been doing a lot of reflecting over the past couple of months and seeing you tonight just brought back a lot of emotions for me.” Frankie glanced over at you before his eyes dropped to look at your hands.

“We missed our chance, Frankie…” You whispered, slowly removing your hand from his. You wanted this as badly as he did, but you didn’t want to hurt his wife, to be the other woman who ended a marriage. “I’m always going to be here for you, but–”

Frankie sighed, interrupting, “Not in the way we both want. I get it.”

You looked at him, noticing how he wasn’t meeting your eyes. You could tell Frankie was deep in thought, so you reached out for him again, but this time, resting your hand gently on his chest.

“I’m here, Frankie. Not going anywhere, okay?”

He looked over at you, eyes soft and filled with regret, sadness, and pain. “Yeah, let me walk you to your door.”

Once you both left his truck, Frankie followed you to your apartment, watching as you grabbed your keys from inside of your bag. The silence that consumed the both of you was filled with tension, filled with the possibilities that this could be more.

“Good night, Frankie.”

He sighed and reached out to rest a hand on your hip, pulling you into a tight embrace. Frankie’s arms snaked around your waist and his eyes fell shut. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face against him. Having him hold you like this again, feeling his strong arms wrap around you, and his scent filling your senses… It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember that there would be consequences if you both just gave in.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Your heart skipped a beat and you tightened your arms around him even more. “I love you too.”

“I have a lot to think about,” he admitted.

Slowly, you pulled away and looked up at him. Your arms remained around his neck and his arms stayed around your waist. You were so close to him, so close that you could just inch yourself forward to press your lips against his, but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“You have Colombia with the guys,” you replied. “That’s where your focus needs to be.”

Frankie nodded in agreement, leaning forward to gently press a soft kiss on your forehead. He let his lips rest there for a moment, tightening his arms around you even further to bring you flush against his body.

“You can call me if you need anything, okay?” You whispered, your eyes falling shut.

Frankie nodded and reluctantly pulled away, moving his hands back into the pocket of his pants. “Good night, hermosa.”

—-

Part 4.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed

#frankie morales #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fanfic #francisco morales fanfiction #francisco catfish morales fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x reader (you)#frankie morales x you #story: third time's a charm

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spoiled-fawn · 1 year ago

Text

John Price; Drop Everything Now.

Part 2

CW: PTSD, Songfic inspired by "Sparks Fly" (Not in a cringe way I promise)

GN!Reader who is a sergeant on TF141. WC: 2,262

AN: I needed to post this before I completely tore it apart (again) and decided to scrap it. LMK if you'd like a part two because I have a good chunk of it but unsure if I'd like to continue this since I want the PTSD to linger and not be just diminished because reader is love of his life (I'd like to at least try to have some realism, rip). This was actually created for a test run of writing PTSD so I am happy to take any constructive criticism or tips for writing it. Hope you enjoy!

Being stationed in the Middle East meant that you weren't used to much besides the hot sun baring down on every activity you did and dust storms that would blow over, which effectively made you shut your mouth to not breathe in the dirt. However, that didn’t mean that Mother Nature would not bless the dry lands with an ounce of rain every once in a while.

You wouldn’t know about the rain usually unless you were outside training or on a mission when the dark clouds would roll in, giving you a rare break from the sun. Other times, the clouds would cover the stars and moon in the night sky, but you wouldn't be able to tell just what kind of clouds they were.

And that, unfortunately, is how tonight is going without your knowledge.

The rain was never an issue on base, its greatest hindrance being the lack of vision, the annoyance of getting wet, and the general time it would take to wait it out. However, there was always the unspoken thought of the thunderstorms that could arise.

You’ve served two years within TF141 as a sergeant, having been recruited and transferred to be on base under Price’s command. Now having some experience under your belt, you’ve seen a thing or two- but nothing compared to your superiors.

From an external point of view and reflection on yourself, it brings a possibility that your mind has yet to realize if the memories are getting trapped within yourself. Your nervous system may have gotten stuck in the past at a few points in time, but while you remain living in the action, your biggest symptom is nightmares and anxiety that you brush off each time.

The same can’t be said for your Captain.

Price, with his two decades of service, has lived through more than you could ever imagine and things he wishes to not recall. He plays the classic tough guy act, brushing his emotions off as something he can deal with when he’s home and not deployed- nor does he want to even believe they are necessary to process, his ways still being a bit old-fashioned.

When you were recruited, his viewpoint shifted a bit. Price wasn’t sure that you would be a good fit within the team, and debated putting you on a platoon further down the branch that he still oversaw from time to time. Yet, during your grace period, he would check up on you- being sure to debrief with you after long days of training exercises or drills that were getting harder and harder. When you had proven your worth to him and the team, an unspoken agreement between you two was formed. You would casually reside in his presence but keep it under the notion of him offering guidance to the rookie. This often resulted in you filling out reports or paperwork on your laptop in his office while he worked at his desk.

Price was not a sharer of his inner turmoil. But, sometimes, you would confide in him and he would allow a sliver of a softer man to peak out in the late hours of the night.

That's how the deeper part of your relationship worked with him. Hard-ass by day, and a mildly reserved man by late night. You’re close with the entirety of the team, but you’ve always had an attraction to Price, classically never trying to show it or verbalize it to anyone. Yet, you had a good hunch that he already knew from your softened behavior towards him when the veil of superior and subordinate came down to friends in the dark glow of his office.

You knew it was a bad idea to ever indulge yourself in having his attention and reciprocating it, but now you over-indulged for the last year and find yourself with a cavity at the sweetness you suck from his words. Your mind is always left in a trance on any touch he unknowingly spoiled you with; a hand to the small of your back, adjusting your elbows if you were using a heavier loadout during training, or a pat on the head after a job well done.

Tonight, the storm rolls in with thunder chasing right behind it.

It's late in the evening as you stand in the common room, having had dinner late, and washing the dishes while quietly humming to yourself. The subconscious part of your mind notices the flashes of lightning and deep thunder that penetrate the barriers of the base but leaving it as a non-threat. You wash your dinner plate, moving the sponge around, but before you can put the plate down to dry, your phone rings with a call from Price.

It's not unusual for him to call when he decides he’d like your presence while completing paperwork, yet your eyebrows furrow as you see the time to be later in the night than his usual request.

Before you can even speak into the phone after answering, your ear is polluted with the sound of his ragged breaths; the sound of rain hitting the ground is amplified more than what you hear while being inside. It sends a roll of skin-prickling anxiety down your spine as your eyes widen. “Price?” You ask after a blink, trying to understand what this call could be.

You hear it when he speaks, a tremor in the back of his throat and you can imagine the adrenaline-crazed look on his face. The sound of your name is called from him, and it almost sounds questioning, as if he isn't sure it's you, even though he called.

“I- I don’t know where I am…” He pants out, sounding choked up, trying to swallow air and the lack of saliva in his throat while in the pouring rain.

Drop everything now

Without a second thought, you drop the plate, the clatter of it breaking once hitting the ground echoes in the common room and snaps everyone's attention on you. Not having any need for apologies or reason, your body is already supplying the adrenaline needed to set into a dead sprint out of the common room as you weave past the other bodies to push through the hallway and enter the stairwell with the clamor of the metal doors swinging open.

“John, where are you- tell me what you see.” You call out as your body gets set on autopilot, practically flying down the stairs of the barracks and onto the ground floor moving into the hallways. “Do you see the training yard or do you see a road?” You pant out while pushing to find the exit door of the base.

It's here and now, that you now actively recognize the roll and clap of thunder as if it's taunting you to hurry up and find Price before it does.

But it seems it already has.

Each door, person, and corner you pass feels like a deliberate obstacle, frustrating you as you try to get outside faster.

“I- I see a road and the-” He’s interrupted by a bright flash, a strong shake of thunder following right after, and you hear him grunt in aggravation at the sound he lacks control over. With a call of your name, he makes a quiet plea. “Please, I need you here. Now.” He manages to ground out with a sharp breath, causing you to almost second guess yourself at what he said.

You bank a hard left, towards the East entrance, finding the door to take you outside towards the main road that leads to the base's entrance. Shouldering the large door, you grit your teeth while taking the metal harshly against yourself, but almost come to a halt when you feel the pouring rain pelt on your body.

Meet me in the pouring rain

“Please.” His voice shakes again through the phone, and the rasp from his panting re-escalates the adrenaline through your body.

It breaks your heart to hear him sound like this as if he’s succumbing to his demons. “John, I’m gonna find you but you need to help me, ok?” You ask as your legs begin to burn from the force that you run through the damp earth with. “-you see the flag pole? ” You bark out while another flash of lightning crosses the sky, closing your eyes as you wince. “Hey- listen to me, focus on me.” You command, praying that he isn’t locked inside his memories.

After a moment, “Y- Yes, I see it. The- the rains comin’ down hard- won't fucking stop.”

The shake in his voice is back; he’s shivering and his irritability is beginning to build up faster as it makes itself evident the longer he stays held within the turmoil of his nervous system.

Running and finally entering the main yard after having had to cut through the detached buildings to make it to the front, you place your free hand over your eyes to try and gain some semblance of visibility while the flashes of lightning aid for a moment.

“Meet me there. It’ll be just you and me, only us.” You pleaded with a hint of firmness, needing to direct him as you move with haste towards the lit flagpole, the light being a beacon through the pelting rain.

While running in the dark and wet ground, you lose footing and slide your foot into loose gravel; your right elbow is now scraped while you clatter to the ground with a “Fuck-” Your voice breaks through the night air, as your yelp of pain staccatos out in the silence between the flash of light and complimenting rumble of thunder.

In a moment before you can stand up, you hear your name being yelled out, whipping your head up in response. The raw tenacity of his voice through the thrumming of rainfall hits when there is no other force of the storm that can distract either of you.

Your gazes find each other; he looks frozen for a moment, then immediately runs to you.

“John-“ falls past your lips in a cry when you spot him. His fatigues stick to his body, his hair wet and bucket hat long gone. Making his way hurriedly, his body slows with unexpected grace as he helps you to your feet. Almost as if in a hurried frenzy, you latch onto him by his arms, blinking through the falling rain as you look up and search his face.

The expression he wears, as he makes sure you’re alright, contradicts the voice he had just seconds earlier; his eyebrows furrowed with worry as he checks over you, quickly placing his large hands on your ribs to stand you upright as if you are a toddler who has just taken a tumble.

“Bloody- You alrigh’ sweetheart?” He asks as the warmth of his panting breath fans across your face while pulling you up against him.

“I’m ok, I just slipped from the rain. Thank you.” You speak while still holding him tight, latching onto him. Your heart aches at seeing him care for you no matter where his mind places him, always putting others before himself.

John nods, letting out a small sigh. The feeling of your warmth against his chest brings him back down as he looks over you, trying to blink the anxiety and rain from his eyes. The feeling of his hands, cold and now gentle, glides up to move the wet hair from your eyes. It surprises you for a moment as he stays completely silent besides the tremoring breaths he takes.

At the silence, you let a small huff of laughter escape before closing your eyes and giving a smile in relief at having him in your sight and arms, before fluttering your eyes open to gaze up at him.

You return the gesture when you move your hand to wipe his hair off of his forehead, the rain having matted it down to his skin. “With me as I’m with you. Always with you, John.” The lull of your voice surprises both of you as it can be heard perfectly in the rain, with no sign of thunder or lightning interrupting your words.

John cups the base of your skull, looking at the raindrops that fall in small splashes and trails along your face. His eyes dilate when focused on you, the sight of him this close and his icy blue eyes keep steadfast on you, leaving a haunting mark on your memory and heart.

He moves his head down to meet yours; pausing for a moment as if he isn't sure this is real- he isn’t sure that this isn’t a dream and his mind is granting him a wish. Is this a true trick of his mind? This can't be a memory, surely-

He looks as if he’s in pain, so you take the last leap of faith for him.

The new and added warmth of his lips on yours is tender. It contrasts the rough environment of where you stand, the life you both live and the constant battles faced within. Your arms and his alike move to wrap around each other in a harsh and tight embrace.

As the raindrops fall all over both your faces, you feel as if you’re in a movie and the climax has just hit when the lovers are united.

You both are soaking wet, but neither of you seems to mind. He pulls you back into him, deepening the kiss with a determined and desperate force.

Kiss me on the sidewalk

Take away the pain.

#task force 141 #call of duty #captain john price #john price #john price x reader #captain jonathan price #jonathan price #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #captain price x reader #captain price mw2 #cod price #price x reader #captain price #141

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garfield-mug · 1 year ago

Text

Ain't Doin' Right (jake seresin x vet tech!OC)

Content Warnings: descriptions of blood and violence, dog attack, panic attack, symptoms of PTSD

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: well, here's everyone's introduction to the jake and junebug universe! hope you like it and hope it's decent. i haven't written a fic in a really long time. i was suuuper rusty. i originally planned something different (along the lines of how these two met), but it wasn't working out and i had to get something out, so i literally powered through this. give a reblog or comment if you liked this one. - E

Having spent fifteen years as a veterinary technician, June was accustomed to hospitals of all kinds. Private practice, general practice, corporate, emergency, wildlife, specialty, and beyond. She was even familiar (and perhaps unfortunately so) with hospitals meant for humans. When you work with animals, injuries are bound to happen. Most could be avoided, usually happening to those with less experience. Alas, accidents happen, even to those who have been in the game longer than most. And June was in the game.

In a field with an incredibly high turnover rate, she’d managed to hang on. It hadn’t been easy. There were a lot of times (and still a few now) where she had seriously contemplated throwing in the towel, but she was nothing if not spiteful. And persistent. And an unabashed optimist at heart (although she fronts as more of a realist). No one and nothing could kill the hope that the veterinary field could become better, and no one could take away the work she’d put in to make it so. Despite her hope and optimism, neither of those things could protect her from having a bad day. And this was a very bad day. Not the worst she’s ever had personally or professionally, but it’s definitely up there. After a lot of futile arguing, June finally conceded to being driven to the emergency room by one of her coworkers (and kind of friend), Sophia. After filling out the incident report form and informing the unfortunate owner of the dog (which June did not do herself), she got into the passenger seat of Sophia’s car.

Her left arm was haphazardly bandaged with some gauze squares, cast padding, and vet wrap (it was pink with purple hearts) after being cleaned up. She was hoping she wouldn’t bleed through the bandage before they got to the hospital, but her hopes weren’t high. Her forearm was littered with deep puncture wounds and two deep lacerations ran up and around the inside toward her elbow. Thankfully, the dog had decided to let go. Otherwise, it would have been much worse. There wasn’t too much blood on her scrubs, miraculously. Holding her arm out away from her body helped with that. June wasn’t feeling the pain of her wounds either, still riding on that burst of adrenaline from almost losing her arm to a massive dog. She was also distracted by the anger she felt the moment it happened and now. It would linger. It always does when accidents like these happen because of the negligence (or ignorance) of someone else. Then, she’ll feel bad for feeling angry because it really wasn’t the assistant’s fault, they’re brand new and still learning. Finally, she’ll be angry with herself for not being more careful and having someone more experienced help her with her task, but you can only do so much when you’re understaffed. FINALLY, finally, she’ll be angry with management and the industry as a whole for even creating circumstances in which to be understaffed.

June is so lost in her thoughts and emotions that she doesn’t hear Sophia’s question.

“June!”

“Hm?”

“I asked if you wanted me to call Jake.”

And then there was Jake. Sweet, caring, protective (maybe to a fault) Jake. The charming, witty, cocky (ahem: confident) man that had somehow wormed his way under her skin and into her heart. They’d been together long enough at this point, about two years. Jake was at work, too, fitting into his instructor position at TOPGUN nicely. He loved being able to teach the new classes of the world’s best fighter pilots, sure, but he equally loved getting to show off just how good he was in the air. He would readily admit the second reason, the first one only June and Javy knew about. Everyone else could figure it out if they thought about it, but Jake would never admit to going soft. He really did love teaching.

June would eventually call him; it was only fair. He was her partner after all. She just didn’t like worrying him, especially when she knew it would affect his performance and ability to be at work. She knew her job was important, but his was, too. She would never forgive herself if he made a mistake in the air because he was distracted thinking about her. Jake thinks about her all the time, whether she’s in the hospital or not. She’s always on his mind the same was he’s always on hers.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I’ll call him once we’re actually in a room.”

“That could take hours.” Sophia glances at June with a deadpan expression.

“It’ll be sooner since I’ll most likely be bleeding all over their waiting room.” June looks to the bandage on her arm. She can’t see the blood yet, but she can feel that it hasn’t stopped flowing. Slowed, maybe, but definitely not stopped.

“Well, we’re almost there so hopefully you’re right.”

Sophia pulls the car into the parking lot of the hospital, and they make their way inside.

Fifteen minutes later, June and Sophia are led to a bed in the ER. A nurse came over for intake procedures and to assess the damage up close. A brief flash of panic crosses the nurse’s face as she looks down at June’s arm. She must be new, June thinks. June thinks back to when she first started as a tech, working in emergency. She remembers learning how to field her emotions and control her facial expressions. That kind of skill only comes with practice and unfortunately, that practice usually involves seeing and experiencing incredibly fucked up shit.

“On a scale from one to ten, where would you say your level of pain is?” The nurse doesn’t look panicked anymore, but still seems uneasy.

“Probably about a five.”

“A five?”

“Yep.” The nurse types up some notes on her computer.

“Alright, I’ll see about getting you something for the pain.” As she steps out of the room, Sophia turns to June.

“You are being remarkably calm about this whole thing. I don’t think I’d be nearly as lucid, and I’d definitely be crying.”

June shrugs.

“I’ve been through worse. And I’m also really good at compartmentalizing. Plus, I’m still kind of riding on the adrenaline, so I’m sure everything will catch up with me.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” Sophia shakes her head and checks her phone. June sighs.

“Practice.” She falls back against the hard mattress and crisp sheets of the hospital bed.

It was another twenty minutes before her nurse came back with some ibuprofen and then ten before June saw a doctor. Safe to say, she was feeling the pain now and was really looking forward to going home. She needed stitches for the longer lacerations, to no one’s surprise.

“How’d this happen?” The doctor seemed nice enough, gently taking June’s arm into her gloved hands.

“Bit by a dog at work, was up to date on rabies vaccinations and so am I.”

“You work in a vet’s office?”

“Sure do,” The doctor nods in response.

“Not the worst I’ve seen, but still pretty bad. Definitely gonna need stiches for these long ones here. Other than that, we’ll get you cleaned up and on an antibiotic.” The doctor gets up and starts getting her supplies ready, stepping away.

“Hey, Soph?”

Sophia looks up from her phone.

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind calling Jake for me?” June pulls up his contact on her phone.

“Sure thing,” Sophia takes the device and steps out of the room as the doctor reenters.

“Alright, since we’re doing sutures, I’m gonna apply some lidocaine gel so you don’t feel anything, but first we’re gonna clean these up.”

“Sounds good.” It really did sound good. The ibuprofen was not cutting it anymore and feeling the cut and pull of sutures being placed didn’t sound too appealing. June winces slightly at the first feeling of the saline being flushed into her wounds. It’s a bit cold and uncomfortable, but ultimately bearable. She grits her teeth and muscles through it. After all her wounds have been thoroughly irrigated, the doctor applies the gel and lets it set for a few minutes while she readies her sterile gloves and suture. Sophia enters the room and sets June’s phone by her scrub jacket.

“He’s on his way.”

“Thanks, Soph.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sophia sits back down in the chair next to the bed.

“You can go, if you want.” June looks to Sophia as the doctor asks if she’s ready. June nods, Sophia shakes her head.

“I’ll stay until he gets here, don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Okay then.”

The doctor is halfway through closing the second laceration when they all hear heavy footsteps approaching the room. Throwing back the curtain, Jake stands, still in his flight suit, armed with a very concerned expression. He looks at June’s face, then to her arm. His eyes widen, brow furrowing as he brings a hand to rub over his mouth. June can’t help but smile a little.

“Hey,” Her voice is small. Jake walks over to her, squatting down in front of her, so as not to get in the way of the doctor, who is diligently working on suturing the wound closed. He places a hand on her knee. Sophia uses this opportunity to take her leave, giving them both a small wave before heading out.

“Junebug, what happened?” His eyes search her face.

“I trusted a coworker to be good at their job?”

“Junebug,” Jake sighs and closes his eyes.

“Sorry, bad joke,” June looks away for a brief moment, placing her hand over Jake’s.

“Got shredded at work.”

“I can see that. How you feelin’?”

“Been better, but I’ve also been worse.”

It was true, June had been in much worse situations, but that didn’t necessarily take the edge off. What happened today shouldn’t have happened, but it did, and now she has to suffer the consequences. Which hurt like a bitch.

June reaches down with her good arm to cup Jake’s cheek, softly rubbing her thumb over the soft skin. He leans into her touch, grabbing onto her wrist to keep her there. The doctor pipes up, finally finished.

“Alright, looking good. We’ll have your meds ready in a few minutes and then you’ll be good to go.” She stands up, removes her gloves, and leaves the room.

After collecting her antibiotics and filling out some discharge paperwork, June and Jake are on their way home. It’s still quiet between the two. Jake knows she’s exhausted and frustrated, so he doesn’t press with questions. He knows she’ll come to him when she’s ready and he’s learned to be patient. The drive back to the house is uneventful. After getting the door for June and positively too much fretting on the short, short walk from the car to the front door, Jake declares that he’ll take the dogs out so June can shower.

June is incredibly grateful for Jake every day, but particularly on days like today where she just needs help. He would take over dog care duty while she got herself cleaned up and rested. He’d probably order takeout from her favorite place for dinner, knowing it would help her feel better and just be less work. She was looking forward to her shower and stripping off her scrubs. Washing the workday away had become a ritual, especially for days like today. She managed to get undressed fine, only wincing once when the sleeve from her scrub top rubbed a bit too hard down her arm. She steps into the steaming spray and just stands there, staring at the tiled wall ahead of her. She’s not sure how long she stays like that, only that it must’ve been long enough for Jake to have come back from his walk since he was knocking on the door.

“Junebug? You doin’ alright in there?”

June comes back to her senses, rubbing her hands over her face. She groans slightly as she realizes she hasn’t even cleaned up yet.

“Yeah, I’m okay, honey. It’ll be a few minutes.” She hopes this answer will placate him for now, trying to reel herself in when the adrenaline dump takes full hold, and her brain finally catches up to what her body was put through.

“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll get started on dinner.” He goes back downstairs to the kitchen to rummage through the stack of takeout menus they’ve accumulated over the years.

“Shit,” June mutters to herself, feeling the tears start to build behind her eyes. She makes quick work of the rest of the shower. The thick, steamy air quickly becomes suffocating. She tries to regulate her breathing as she dries off. It doesn’t work. She grabs onto the edge of the counter to try and steady herself, taking deep breaths in and out. The event from today replays in her head on repeat, each time seeming more real than the last. She thinks about how she could’ve broken or even lost her arm had the dog not decided to let go when it did. She presses her towel to her face and takes a gasping breath. Holy shit she could’ve lost an arm today.

“Jesus Christ,” June exits the bathroom and throws on whatever comfy clothes she can find. If she’s gonna give into the panic, might as well make it soft and snuggly. She goes downstairs in a daze, seeking out the only one that could ground her in times like these. He’s sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone.

“Did the boys have their dinner?” Jake startles where he sits, turning to look at his girlfriend. He’s on his feet immediately once he hears her strangled tone and sees her tight expression.

“Baby?” He gently places his hands on either side of her face.

“Did you feed the boys?”

“Yep, walked, fed, and ready for bed.” June nods, eyes wild.

“Good, that’s— that’s good.” She reaches her hands up to grasp Jake’s wrists, desperately trying to bring herself back down to earth. Jake gently swipes at the tears that begin to fall down her cheeks. June is looking forward, right at Jake, but it’s like she doesn’t even see him. He feels like she’s looking through him.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He tries to catch her eyes with his.

“I almost—” Deep breath. “I almost lost an arm today… I mean, I know I didn’t, but I could’ve. If that dog hadn’t let go when it did, Jake, I would’ve lost my arm.”

June looks at him then, actually at him, not like she’s a thousand miles away. Her breathing is ragged, chest heaving at capacity, yet feels so tight. Her eyes are wide and glistening with tears, hands around Jake’s wrists, knuckles turning white. It stuns Jake for a second, not used to seeing his girl in such a blind panic. For a split second, he wants to panic, too. Seeing someone you love in so much pain isn’t easy, but he has to keep it together. He needs to keep her grounded.

“But you didn’t lose an arm, baby. It’s right here.” Jake gently pries her hands from his wrists so he can use his hands to touch her arms, gently rubbing up and down.

“See? They’re both here, both intact.” He’s looking into her eyes, pleading for her to register the feeling of his touch.

“They’re here. I didn’t—I didn’t lose an arm.”

“You didn’t lose an arm, baby. No use wasting your energy on what-ifs. You’re here, all of you.” Jake moves his hands up her arms, to her shoulders, and gently pulls her into him. She doesn’t immediately reciprocate.

“Junebug, you’re okay. You’re home, you’re safe.”

“I’m home, I’m safe.” Jake presses a kiss to the crown of her head and she slowly starts to wrap her arms around him. He rubs her back as she comes back to herself, a new wave of tears soaking into his shirt. His heart breaks a little more with every sad whimper and cry. Trying to keep himself together is exceedingly difficult.

“Let’s go sit down, hm?” Jake waits for a response. June sniffles and nods. He scoops her up off the floor to go sit down on the sofa, where she curls further into him. He continues to rub her back as her cries finally settle to the occasional sniffle and her breathing matches his.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Alright…Do you wanna order pizza?”

“From Linetti’s?” Jake smiles through a small chuckle.

“Yeah, from Linetti’s.”

June wipes at her nose and nods. Jake reaches for his phone on the coffee table.

“Jake?” June looks up at his face.

“Hm?”

“I love you.” Jake looks at June, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I love you too, Junebug.”

#jake seresin #tgm #tgm fic #top gun maverick #jake seresin x oc #top gun: maverick #e writes

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cowgurrrl · 11 months ago

Text

Please, Let Me Go

Summary: “In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness.” - Tennessee Williams [1.1k]

Author’s note: This one goes out to @lets-be-gay-for-the-angel who loves Adam as much as I do 🫶

Warnings: Pre-Joel, probably incorrect wound care, PTSD symptoms, mentions of nightmares, “maybe in another life, we’d be happy”

2006

“You gotta be more careful,” Adam says as he wraps your forearm in gauze.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Did I say it was?” He asks, raising his eyebrows at you, and you sigh. You cut yourself on barbed wire coming back into the QZ after a run, and Adam caught the blood on your jacket before you could hide it. He sat you down at the kitchen table with the first aid kit and gentle hands. The yellow kitchen light shines against his messy brown hair and the square, taped-together glasses on his nose. “FEDRA’s getting antsy. That’s why the barbed wire went up. I just want you to know what’s up.”

“I know.” You say, and a ghost of a smile floats over his lips.

“Then, don’t shoot the messenger.” He teases. You roll your eyes, and he kisses the clean bandage covering your stitches to make it up to you. You grab his hand and run your thumb over the unset fracture in his metacarpal bones that only you can still identify. He smiles and scoots his chair closer to you to fully relish the sudden attention.

“Jane asleep?” You whisper, and he nods.

“Told her you’d tuck her in before we went to bed.”

“Good.” You say, copying his smile, as you lean in to kiss him. It’s lazy and the most unromantic of situations, blood-stained towels lingering on the table, but neither of you cares. You squeeze his hand and pull away to kiss his cheek. “What story d’you guys read tonight?”

“Cinderella,” he says, and you hum. There aren’t a ton of perks to smuggling, but sometimes you do get cool things like the battered old copy of fairy tales. Jane loves hearing them as much as Adam loves reading them. He says it reminds him of when he did story time with his kindergarteners. “She asked if that’s how we met.”

“At a ball?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s convinced I found your glass slipper, and that’s why I wait up for you when you go out without me,” he says. “To make sure you’ve got all your shoes or something.”

“God, I love her so much.” You groan from the cuteness, and he chuckles.

“She’s a good one.” He says.

“I guess, one day, we’re gonna have to tell her how we actually came to be.”

“Tell her all about how you rejected me after our first date.”

“I didn’t reject you. I said it could be confusing for her.”

“And I said kids understand more than we give them credit for.”

“You’re such a teacher.”

“You love it.” He says, and you take a deep breath. Your hand slips in his momentarily, but he doesn’t let you get far. “What?” He asks quietly, like he’s scared of you getting too distant.

“Do you remember your first impression of me?” You ask, and he smiles.

“Of course I do. I remember thinking you were beautiful and strong and smart. ‘S why I asked you out in the first place.”

“And after the Outbreak? What’d you think of me then?” You ask, a little hesitant, and he nods.

“You really wanna know my first thought when I saw you and Jane walk into the shelter that day?” He asks, and you nod. “I thought there might still be some good left in the world if you two were in it. And you don’t have to believe that. I know you probably won’t, but it’s true.” You try to take his words at face value, but you can’t. You think it might always be like this. You don’t know if there is a way to change it. “Do I get to know what you thought of me? Before and after?”

“I thought you were sweet and charming. And I remember thinking you were someone I wanted in my life just because of how you carried yourself. I was really disappointed when you were Jane’s teacher and not because I thought you were a bad teacher.” You say.

“And after?”

“I think… I remember how shocked I was that you were even alive. And I wanted to ask if you were okay and how you’d made it to the QZ, but I was so focused on Jane. I still am,” you say. “I’m sorry. I should’ve checked on you.”

“I probably wouldn’t have even told you what happened. I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

“You don’t have to be,” he squeezes your hand. “I just want you to know you’re not alone. We all had to do bad things to stay alive.” You shake your head and look down at your feet to avoid his eyes. He doesn’t flinch. He’s gotten good at dealing with your emotions and weathering them with you. You just wish you could find the words to talk about them. “You’re not alone. We can talk whenever you’re ready, and if you’re not, that’s okay.” He says again.

“I’m trying. I just-“

“I know, I know. I know you’re trying. I’m not asking for anything else, okay?” He asks, and you nod. “I just need you to try with me.”

“Okay.” You whisper, and he kisses you again.

“I do wish we would’ve gotten to go on more dates before everything. Real dates. Not just drops or stitching you up when something happens.” He changes the subject, and you’re thankful he doesn’t push any further. He can see you’re not ready. He can see how grateful you are.

“What would we have done?” You ask.

“Everything. Fancy dinners, dancing, trips.” His smile is so genuine you can’t stop yours from forming.

“Trips?” You ask, raising your eyebrows, and he nods.

“Somewhere with a beach and not the shitty beaches near here. I would’ve taken you to a nice beach where Jane could dig in the sand, and you could read whatever book you wanted, and I’d make us a picnic and pack mule all our shit in from the car.” He says in a dreamy voice. He knew you had a kid when you went on your first date, but you never would’ve thought he imagined a life with the three of you.

“Sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Maybe in the next life.”

“We still have this one. We can make those things happen,” you say without thinking, and he stares at you. “I can make them happen. I know my way around. All we’d have to do is go west. Can’t be that hard, right?” You feel him slipping for a moment and hold his hand harder to keep him close. He smiles a little sadly and squeezes you back.

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he says. “We’ll have dreams about the ocean and sunshine and sand castles. No nightmares tonight, okay?” You nod and let him lead you to bed, leaving everything unspoken between you at the table.

The nightmares come as usual, but there’s a promise of a day when they don’t invade your psyche like they do now. A promise of a day with sunshine and water and sandcastles. A promise of more time.

#when you’re lost in the darkness #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #the last of us x reader #joel tlou #the last of us angst #tlou angst

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year ago

Note

Hi Ellie! First time asker here so kind of nervous but I love your stuff so I’m finally gonna stop lurking! I was wondering, a few months after death resurrects humanity if y/n had like a serious ptsd episode about like being attacked by demons, what would the horsemen do about it if they felt she was a serious danger to herself and humans around her? Maybe she got her hands on a weapon and barricaded herself up somewhere and is shooting at whoever gets near?

Anyways thank you and I love your art and your amazing, talented brain!!

Hi hi! Thanks so much for this interesting ask.

I got a little carried away with this one, admittedly :)

Very self indulgent with lots of overprotective Horsemen, but I want it on record that I don't suffer from this kind of PTSD, and I may not have accurately portrayed the symptoms, which I hear are nearly innumerable and very difficult to define.

CW - flashbacks, triggers, blood, mentions of death, threat to children.

Kind of an idea-dump about how humans are adjusting to life after the Resurrection.

Spoilers, not all of it is good.

----------

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

On every street corner, in every dark alley, in every building from the dingiest apartment to the grandest skyscraper, there exists the haunting echo of death.

One hundred and five years ago, the Biblical Apocalypse had proved itself to be more than just a story, and in a mere matter of weeks, all of Humanity was wiped out, reduced to a single, lonely number.

One.

Just one.

You.

Slung over the shoulder of one of the very Horsemen who was supposed to start the Apocalypse, you’d watched as Haven City – your home – burned alive around you.

Everywhere you looked, you saw the mangled remains of your fellow humans, strewn about like withering, autumn leaves. Innumerable. Lifeless. And always looming over them, the very demons that had come to eradicate your species from the chronicles of History.

Iron and rust slicked the back of your throat with every breath you took. The city screamed, seven million souls rattled the windows and howled through the streets, joining together in the most bloodcurdling, ongoing orchestral note ever to have split the sky asunder.

One hundred and five years ago, everyone died. Not just Haven City – The entire human race.

But the thing is… they didn’t stay dead.

Ironically, it was Death himself who restored the souls and bodies of more than eight billion people in one, fell swoop.

Eight billion were brought back, mended by ancient magic, right to the place they’d died.

But for humans, one hundred years hadn’t passed.

To them, between one blink and the next, they’d died and were subsequently reborn with their bodies and minds intact, with their last and lingering memory being solely that of the monsters who had been bearing down on them.

The world had screamed anew.

That was the worst of it, you suppose. The remembering.

It didn’t take long before everyone realised that humans could recall how they’d died, and as such, the city itself became wrapped up in terrible, haunting memories. And when enough bad memories gather in certain places, the sorrow seeps like rot into the infrastructure, turning every building into a tomb, even without a body to keep it company.

Everyone could point out a different place where they’d been cut down or crushed or burned alive or swallowed whole. Some could still see themselves laying there, glassy eyes pinned wide open, staring up at the fiery sky.

People were haunted by their own ghosts.

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

But on this night, as you meander down a residential street with your nose tipped towards the sky, breathing in the crisp, October air, you can’t help but note that there are far more ghosts flitting about than usual.

Though these, at least, are a little more palatable.

You can scarcely believe that Halloween has rolled around for yet another year.

A small blur of white darts past you down the path, almost tripping over the long, tattered bedsheet that’s been thrown over their head. You’re rather proud that you only flinch at the unexpected movement, you don’t recoil entirely. Bemused, you watch the little, orange bucket swing perilously from the ghost's elbow as they totter through a garden gate and hammer on the front door of a house, belting out a well-practiced ‘trick-or-treat!’ before the residents have even turned the handle.

Somewhere across the road, a different child screams.

Yours isn’t the only head that immediately whips towards the sound.

Naturally, when you and at least fifteen other adults turn to look, you only see a little girl being hoisted up onto her father’s shoulders, whooping and shrieking with gleeful excitement. To his credit, the man’s mouth is pulled into a grimace, and he raises his hand to offer the onlookers an apologetic wave as if to say, ‘It’s all right. She’s safe. Carry on.’

He knows what they’re thinking.

The whole street seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Everybody starts to move at a normal pace once more, though it had all happened so quickly, no one really even broke their stride.

When the sky burst open over a century ago and rained hellfire and demons down onto an unsuspecting Earth, nobody had been spared.

But it was the children – weaker, smaller, slower – who had fallen first.

Everyone remembers the sound of a whole city dying.

You know of several parents who still struggle to sleep at night, because when they do, they’re plagued by the cries of their children who they simply couldn’t save. The children, of course, are alive and well today, but there’s no forgetting that there was a time when they hadn’t been, not until Humanity was brought back from the dead by Death himself.

Nightmares are so much worse when they echo the past.

You may not have children, and you may have been spared a miserable end on Earth thanks to the actions of one Horseman of the Apocalypse, but you still have license to say that you too have felt the terrors that haunt Humanity.

In cruel clarity, you remember the day the world ended.

Heaving out a shaky exhale, you watch a jet of white air puff from your parted lips as you carry on down the leaf-strewn road, sidestepping a young boy whose face has been painted to look like a tiger.

You smile approvingly at the choice, all the while trying not to jump at every sudden noise.

Kids were the ones who wanted to bring back Halloween, while the older folks, yourself included, were a little more hesitant about the matter.

There was something… different about the holiday following Humanity’s resurrection.

People used to say that All Hallow’s Eve was a time when the veil between Earth and other hidden realms is at its thinnest, allowing spirits, demons and monsters to pass through an invisible barrier, all to cause havoc for one, glorious night.

Of course, then you’d all discovered that demons are real.

So are monsters.

So are spirits.

And suddenly, Halloween seemed a lot less like a harmless, fun tradition meant for children to enjoy.

You have first-hand proof that the veil isn’t thin. It’s completely passable, all the damn time, apparently.

But children don’t care about that.

For most of them, Halloween is still the fun, if spooky night where they can don their costumes and stuff themselves so full of confectionary that they’re nearly sick.

And so, it was brought back. But not without a few stipulations put into place.

It seemed to be a unanimous, but unspoken decision that sporting any imagery pertaining to demons was a big no-no.

Out went the little, red horns, the plastic pitchforks, and the spade-tipped tails. Even fangs were discarded. Nobody wants to see a visceral reminder of the very things that killed them running through the city streets.

The same rule eventually extended to white, feathery wings and halo headbands, avoided out of general politeness for the angels who’ve started frequenting Earth enough that it’s now a relatively common occurrence to see one soaring over the city skyline or bothering librarians for human literature.

In the case of the demons, however, ditching their imagery had been more for humans’ benefit than out of any mark of respect or an attempt at maintaining social cordialness.

You weren’t even killed by a demon, and you still feel that bubble of apprehension rising in your throat if the Hell-born merchant, Vulgrim, pops up in your path without warning.

You’d seen what his ilk did to yours, even if the glimpses you caught were brief and blurred.

So, for humans who were cut down by a demon, you can only imagine what harrowing thoughts must ricochet through their heads if they ever catch sight of one.

Of course, demonic visits to Earth are very few and far between, and if ever they do occur, their presence is heavily monitored by at least one of Humanity’s ferocious protectors.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, world-enders turned world-savers, and your best and dearest friends.

It occurs to you that they may already be waiting for you at your apartment, no doubt arguing over which of your horror movies they want to watch first.

It’s rare that you manage to get all four of them in a room together nowadays, rarer still if you manage it without anyone suffering a bloody nose, but human holidays, it seems, have become important to them.

Strife says it’s because you’re important to them.

But then, Strife says a lot of things.

A dainty smile wobbles tentatively across your face at the thought of them waiting for you, so, with a slightly lighter heart, you round the corner of the last house and continue on your path towards home, your steps a little surer than before.

Behind you, you can pick up the distant chatter of a group of youngsters following the same path as you, likely heading home after filling their pumpkin buckets to the brim with sweet things.

It’s as you’re strolling past a nondescript, dead-end alley that it happens.

The sound of rustling alerts you to the presence of… something. You’ve spent enough time around Death to be a little more in tune with your surroundings than you used to be.

In a snap, your head whips towards the shadowy entrance to the alley.

At the exact same moment, something tall, sinewy and dark lurches towards you.

“SHIT!” you holler, stumbling backwards, your heart soaring up into your throat as the thing howls shrilly into the night.

You catch the flash of a red face, pointed teeth protruding from black lips, horns that spiral towards the sky.

That’s all you see before a switch in your mind flips, like something inside you has snapped in half, and the world around you goes blank and quiet, only impeded by the ringing in your muffled ears.

-----

War is not overprotective.

He’s simply honouring the duty he set out for himself. Keeping you safe is not unlike a mission, and the youngest Horseman has always adhered to his missions with a dogged and unrelenting tenacity.

That said, if he could somehow find a way to glue you to him, perhaps keep you nestled safely in the depths of his soul, he’d certainly be a lot less agitated every time you’re left on your own for too long.

Tonight, for instance, he was the first Horseman to arrive at your home, squeezing himself through your front door with begrudging care. You’d seemed so distraught the first time he simply bulldozed his way inside, shoulder pauldrons tearing off enormous swathes of your doorframe, and he’d rather avoid a repeat of the scathing looks his siblings had sent him for a week after the fact.

It wasn’t long before he was joined by his brother, Strife, who spent a few moments griping that he wasn’t the first Horseman there before he quickly got over his minor annoyance and began to make himself right at home, kicking his boots up on your coffee table and burying himself into your well-worn sofa.

They were soon joined by Fury, and finally, Death.

But still, there was no sign of you.

They managed to wait together for all of twenty minutes before someone – Strife – had made the tentative suggestion that you might be in trouble.

And after that…. well.

There was no harm in just… checking the surrounding area, was there?

Death stayed outside your apartment building to wait for you, just in case you came back, though he’d sent his crow, Dust, to scour the city for you in his stead.

In the meantime, Fury, Strife and War set out to roam the blocks surrounding your home, summoning their steeds to cover more ground.

The youngest Horseman has to keep his horse’s reins in check.

Ruin - an ebony beast of a stallion with a mane of smoke, and legs like molten rock – can sense his rider’s agitation, keeping his thick neck arched high, nostrils round and wide as he tromps heavily down the road, sending sparks flying from his hooves with every step.

Without warning, Ruin throws his enormous head up, ears shooting forwards to point down the street, and his muscles tighten rigidly beneath the saddle.

“Y/n?” War asks his steed, standing in the stirrups and squinting through the streetlights to try and spy anything recognisable in the darkness.

Tossing his smoking mane, the almighty horse’s body suddenly jolts as he lets out a deep, guttural bellow, more akin to a roar than a whinny. The sound echoes over the rooftops, until it’s swiftly answered by a shriller, metallic neigh from several streets back.

Mayhem, at least, has received the message.

The street goes quiet again, and that’s when War hears it.

The unmistakable sound of crying.

Metal-clad heels have barely tapped Ruin’s flanks before the horse launches forwards into a dead gallop, thundering down the street towards the noise that drifts out from the darkness of a narrow, unlit alley.

War pulls his arm back as they draw close, gauntlet fisted around the heavy chain that serves as his horse’s reins.

With a squeal, Ruin plants his hooves against the tarmac and digs in, sparks flying as the pair come careening to a halt just outside the alley’s entrance.

The dim glow cast by Ruin’s legs isn’t much, but it’s just enough to allow his rider a glimpse into the shadows.

It takes much of War’s self-restraint to keep himself from gasping out your name.

There, in the gloom, you stand before him, hunched shoulders, still as stone, eyes ablaze in Ruin’s molten firelight.

War’s eyes flick rapidly over you from head to toe. His first instinct is to scan for injuries.

But although your nostrils flare and your arms are spread wide out to either side of you, palms tilted backwards, he can’t discern anything glaringly obvious.

Even still, the Horseman isn’t satisfied with just a brief glance.

Shaking his boot from the stirrup, War heaves himself out of the saddle and drops heavily to the ground, shaking the earth as he lands.

And you crack like a whip.

An arm is thrust forwards at the Horseman with a jolt, tiny fist clenched as though you’re holding an invisible weapon. You widen your stance to stabilise yourself and rip your lips back, revealing blunt, unimpressive teeth. As you move however, War hears it again, crying. More specifically, a loud, childish sob.

But the sound hadn’t come from you.

All at once, he stops in his tracks, shifting his eyes down to the shadows behind you.

Three pairs of wet, glistening eyes blink back at him.

War’s brows shoot up into the darkness of his crimson hood, taken aback by the trio of human younglings cowering against a brick wall behind you.

Now, War isn’t the type of Horseman who would ever proclaim to be out of his depth in any situation… But when human younglings are involved, he’s only too willing to let Death, or even Strife take the lead. He has a hard time wrapping his head around how small you are compared to him. Children leave the titan especially perplexed.

As if summoned by the mere thought, the sound of hoofbeats steadily swing around the corner at the end of the street, galloping hell-for-leather towards him.

Ruin’s head twists sideways and he wickers deeply in greeting. An answer follows, the haunting, melancholy whinny of Despair.

War doesn’t tear his eyes off you though, not even when the powerful presences of three, ethereal steeds skid to a halt behind him, nor when their riders immediately launch into a frenzy of questions, each crowing to be heard over one another at the same time.

“War! Is she here?”

“Mayhem just turned and bolted over. The Hell is goin’ on!?”

“We heard Ruin’s call. Y/n. Is she all right?”

Rather than add his own voice to the confusion, War merely jerks his chin towards the alley, guiding the eyes of his siblings inside it.

Death is the first to spot you, and he’s the first to slip silently from Despair’s saddle, taking a slow, testing step towards you.

“Y/n?” he murmurs.

The very fact that you don’t even twitch at the sound of his voice is indication enough that something is very wrong.

“Death-“ Strife’s voice cuts in, armour clanking as he leans forwards in the saddle. “-She’s got kids with her…”

Kids…?

Their eldest lowers his gaze from where it had been studying your blank expression, and… Ah.

Three little ones - the tallest standing no higher than your hip - are squashed together against a wall, only a foot or so behind you, half hidden by your wide, protective stance.

Death would be embarrassed to admit that he’d missed them upon initial glance, especially given their bright, painted faces and unorthodox clothes indicative of tonight’s festivities. He’s supposed to be the observant one, not Strife. But in the moment, all the old Reaper could focus on was you.

“My,” Fury muses from her seat on Rampage’s back, “She really has been busy since we last saw each other…”

Despite her flippant tone, Death and his brothers know their hot-headed sister well enough to catch the strain in her words. She’s trying to pick apart this mystery, just as they all are.

“It’s the Horsemen,” hisses a boy wearing a straw hat best suited for a scarecrow.

Cowering behind your right arm, an older girl stammers, “That… that means, they can help us? Right?”

The Four give a rapid blink, all at the same time. It isn’t often they meet humans who have accepted the fact that the Horsemen are on Earth as protectors, not destroyers.

The girl turns her eyes onto Death, and he has to commend her effort to meet his stare before she drops it again, quivering under his gaze. Green makeup is swiftly washed away as tears stream in rivulets down her face.

“She won’t let us leave,” she hiccoughs at the ground.

There’s no question as to who ‘She’ is.

You don’t react to the voices around you. But the sudden clang of metal… that does garner a reaction.

Strife can never do anything quietly, it seems. He’s too preoccupied with getting to you; his best and only friend. So, when the sharpshooter drops from Mayhem’s saddle and lands with a cacophonous clamour that doesn’t sound a million miles away from a gun’s retort, Death is hardly surprised that you duck your head as if you’ve been shot at, back-peddling towards the children until you end up pinning the smallest between the wall and your leg, arms once again throw out wide to keep the other two restrained against the brickwork.

All three of the younglings let out bleats of alarm, and the smallest pushes half-heartedly at your calf, sniffling and shaking, her eyes glued to the Reaper. She looks as though she can’t decide whether she wants to stay concealed behind you or take her chances with the fabled Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Damn it, Strife,” Fury reprimands.

But her brother isn’t looking her way. In fact, he can’t seem to take his eyes off your face, his own expression crumpling slowly underneath his metal visor as you stare through him, face blank and empty. You’ve gone quiet. So quiet. And so still, just as Death had numerously ordered you to do when you travelled with him across this ruined city all those years ago.

But it isn’t your silence and stillness that troubles Strife so.

You’d recoiled from him.

And perhaps it’s testament to how highly he holds you in his regard that your supposed fear of him is so crushing.

He takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and ready to try and rebuild whatever rift has grown between you.

His stomach nearly bottoms out when you stiffen in response, shoulders prickling like a furious stalker.

“Brother, stop.”

War’s immense gauntlet drops heavily onto his shoulder, jerking him to a halt.

If Strife hadn’t once promised you that he’d make an effort to stop antagonising his siblings so much, he’d have thrown his brother’s arm right back into his face, or perhaps he’d have simply wrenched the prosthetic off in frustration. There’s something upsetting his human, and it isn’t something he can shoot, so the pressure is building up inside his chest like a submarine filling with water.

“War?” Death calls lowly, stepping back and flicking a glance across at his youngest brother, “You’ve seen this before?”

“Not in her,” War replies, studying the eerie stillness of your chest. Are you breathing? You must be, if you’re standing upright.

And then Death utters something in the Nephilim language, a sharp, harsh word that rises on the second syllable, rolling from the back to the front of his mouth. Nephilim isn’t an easy language to speak, nor is it really put into practice now that the species has been reduced to four.

But War understands why his brother uses the word here. He doesn’t know of its translation into the Common tongue. If he were pressed to translate it, the closest he might come is something along the lines of ‘battle-trapped.’

“Mm,” he nods, his crimson hood rustling in the Autumn breeze as he repeats the word.

Strife and Fury share a glance upon hearing it, their gazes sharpening in sudden comprehension.

The former turns his helm towards you, raucous and righteous anger churning in his gut. “So, what did this?” he growls unevenly.

“That’s the problem. It could have been anything, or perhaps nothing at all,” Fury returns, no less incensed on your behalf. You’re not afraid of them. Hell, you’re probably not even seeing them right now. You aren’t really looking at her, nor at her siblings. Your gaze is centred past all of them, blind to everything around you except for whatever it is that only you can see.

They have seen this before, War more-so than the others, given his extensive history with large-scale conflicts.

“We have to get her out of this fugue,” Death addresses his fellow Horsemen, “We’ll worry about why this happened when she’s home.”

There’s a silent moment of agreement that passes between the four of them before their eldest returns his attention to you.

“Y/n…” he murmurs, and his siblings know better than to raise their brows at how gentle his voice is, “It’s us. Death, my brothers and sister. We’re all here.”

There are very, very few beings in the Universe that could draw even an ounce of gentleness from the ancient Nephilim. The fact that you’re one of them told his siblings all they needed to know about what you meant to their eldest brother from the moment you were first introduced to them.

“The area is clear,” War jumps in, “Fury and I swept the city. You’re safe.”

“So are the kids.” This time, it’s Strife who speaks up, following his brother’s lead, “You kept ‘em safe until we could get here.” Then, as an afterthought, he lowers his voice and adds gently, “You did good.”

Death’s keen eye immediately picks up on the minutest slouch of your shoulders.

He’s almost surprised. The Horsemen are not naturally a comforting bunch, but apparently, if it’s for you, they’re willing to make changes to their own nature. You’d always told Death not to underestimate what a powerful force friendship can be.

Seems you were right.

“Keep at it,” he tells his siblings, trying not to let on how shocked he is that they actually seem to be saying the right things for once.

Luckily, it doesn’t take much more coaxing before they see a little more life flickering across your face.

“… Wha-…” you breathe sharply, squeezing your eyes shut and prying them open again in a painfully slow blink, “What’s…? Guys?”

At once, Strife’s expression brightens, Fury’s fearsome scowl grows a touch softer, and War dips his head to hide his eyes behind the shadow of his hood, letting them slip shut in a moment of selfish relief.

You, however, immediately shrink in on yourself, drawing your arms up against your chest, breaths coming hard and fast.

“It’s all right, you’re safe,” Death shushes.

It’s all you can do to shake your head rapidly from side to side and blurt, “I… I think I have to go.”

“Hey, slow down,” Strife coaxes, “Take a breath, you don’t need to-“

But the Horseman is interrupted when your head snaps up and in a shrill voice, you shout, “- No, I have to go now! I-I can’t be in this fucking alley!”

It takes enormous effort to peel your feet off the ground, but you start to take a strident step towards the road, your vision tunnelling into an inherent and desperate need to get out of the open and into somewhere familiar and secure. But just as you begin to move, somebody whimpers behind you, and you��re ashamed to say that you whip around with a defensive snarl curling your lips back… only to come face to face with a trio of small, wide-eyed children.

The tips of your fingers turn to ice, but in your chest, there burns a feverish heat that feels as if it’s creeping up your throat to suffocate you.

“I’m… I sorry,” you insist shakily, trying so hard not to wince at the uncertainty plastered across their faces, “l… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

You’ve turned away before you can even finish your own sentence. Every molecule is insisting that you get away from this alley. Something bad happened here. Something terrible wanted to hurt you. Your body flushes with sudden, scalding panic that lights a fire beneath your heels and sends you hurrying straight to War’s side.

When Death introduced you to his siblings, War was the last Horseman you approached. There was nothing about him that signalled an interest in getting to know you. Strife had been only too eager to snatch you out from under Death’s wing and bully his way firmly into your day-to-day life. Fury had at least spent time learning about humans and found you worthy of respect, especially after hearing of the trials you were subjected to on her eldest brother’s quest.

But War? War was just… there. Like a mountain looming on your horizon, always in the periphery of your vision, always with that severe glower on his face that would have been terrifying if Strife didn’t tell you that it’s just his default expression, and that War was simply taking his role as your personal guard far too seriously.

That was the first you’d heard of the Red Rider’s apparent undertaking. It wasn’t just Fury who’s respect you’d earned by staying at Death’s side until the very end.

Now, if ever you’re in the mindset to look for safety, War’s side is the first place you head for.

He stands still and unaffected as a statue as you slot yourself carefully next to him, not close enough to touch him, but close enough to feel his powerful presence engulf you as tangibly as the natural warmth his body kicks out. The Horseman knows better than to press you to step closer. With your arms wrapped defensively around your torso, chin tucked almost to your chest and your eyes fixed solidly onto the glow of Ruin’s hooves, you’re all but radiating agitation. If he tries to touch you and you lash out and strike his impermeable armour, it won’t be him getting hurt.

Strife tries to inch his way over to you, but a deep, thrumming growl from his largest brother halts him in his tracks. When War gets a mind to guard your space, he can sound like the engine of something very large and very powerful revving itself, warding off potential intruders.

The sharpshooter clicks his tongue irritably but is at least wise enough to maintain a safe distance, opting to try and catch your eye instead.

“Hey. What happened?” he murmurs.

It is, evidently, the wrong thing to ask.

Your head is suddenly thrown from side to side with a ferocious refusal, the words locked behind your gritted teeth. You don’t want to think about it. You just want to go home and forget it ever happened.

“It was… Leon…”

You’re equal parts relieved to hear someone else speak up in your stead and mortified that a child has to explain for you.

Christ, but you’re tired…

It’s the youngest of the three children who steps forwards, wringing her tiny hands together and swallowing thickly when the Four apocalyptic riders turn to look down at her in curiosity.

Dwarfed by the giants in her path, she points a trembling finger at you and says in a voice as small as she is, “I think he scared her. My daddy gets real scared like that when he sees red wine…”

The other two younglings are gaping down at her as though she’s grown a feline tail to match the badly drawn whiskers flecked across her cheeks.

Death bends to one knee in an effort to appear smaller, less threatening, though with a countenance so grim, the endeavour is in vain. The children still cower from him as though he’ll pounce on them like a hungry panther. If only they knew how seldom the Horseman takes a knee, they might not be so frightened.

“Who is this Leon?” he questions, urging his anger to remain at a safe, unprovoked simmer. It isn’t the fault of these young ones that he’s growing impatient, but he for one would rather like to know the whereabouts of the wretch who scared his human.

Wide eyes peep up at him, squinting curiously at his mask for a moment before she speaks again, a little emboldened by his manner, if not his appearance. “Leon Korby. He’s a bully,” she tells him firmly.

“He’s just some teenager who lives on our street,” the older girl pipes up, sweeping a calculating look at the Horsemen. It occurs to Death that she hadn’t thrown in the word ‘teenager’ by chance.

She probably thinks she’s just saved the boy’s life, believing that his age might deter the Nephilim from tracking him down and putting the fear of an uncaring god into him.

She’s probably right.

… Probably.

“Teenager? The guy turns twenty next month. He’s been bragging about his stupid plan for weeks,” the boy grumbles, deeming the Horsemen safe enough, now that his friends have already engaged with them. “He said he was going to get a demon mask and use it on Halloween to screw with people’s heads.”

Fury’s teeth gnash and she spits out a Nephilim word that you’d likely tell her off for if she said it in Common in front of children. Force of habit has Death grunting reproachfully at his sister, but he has to admit, he concurs with her sentiment. Whoever Leon is, teenager or no, he really does sound like a little shit.

“Dumbass,” Strife hisses poisonously, earning a hard glare from War.

“You walloped him good though!” the littlest human points out, though she only serves to make you bury your face in your hands, mortified.

“I did,” you agree miserably as your memory stirs up a flash of wide, startled eyes gawking at you through the holes of a red, horned mask. And it was a mask, you realise, struck by a wave of vivid mortification that threatens to knock you off your feet.

Just a dumb kid in a cheap, plastic mask who was too young to foresee the consequences of his actions and took a fist to the face for his error in judgement.

You’d punched a kid.

Your stomach twists itself into a knot of coiling, curling guilt that only seems to wind tighter and tighter with no end in sight.

You don't know how long you stand there, drowning under the weight of regret and embarrassment whilst Death picks a few more details out of the children you'd inadvertently tried to 'save.' Everything seems to blur around you as fatigue sets in, an emotional crash that drains the muscles in your legs of any strength.

You only start paying attention again when Death rises to his full height.

“Fury,” he announces, turning to face his sister who still sits astride Rampage. Ever since they were reunited, she and the horse have been inseparable, as if she’s glued herself to the saddle and is simply too embarrassed to admit she can’t dismount.

Pale, white eyes burn through the darkness at Death as he continues, “See these children home.”

“What?” she hisses between her teeth.

“Make sure they get there safely.”

“And why am I the one assigned to be babysitter?” the irate Horseman bristles, “Strife loves humans so much, let him escort them!”

One of Death’s eyelids twitches as he heaves a rough sigh and relents. “Fine” the word leaves his lips like it always does; reluctantly. But he isn’t in any mood to argue with Fury, not while your state of mind remains to be determined. “Strife?”

The Sharpshooter’s head lifts in acknowledgement, and he turns his golden gaze onto the trio of younglings huddled together in the alley’s entrance. Death regards him coolly for a moment, knowing that there’s an internal struggle in his brother’s mind right now, with one side anxious to stick by you, whilst another part of him – the part that’s slowly grown fonder of humans since meeting you – urges him to see a bunch of scared younglings safely to their caretakers.

“We don’t need a chaperone,” the oldest girl states testily, “Our houses are just around the corner.”

It isn’t clear whether her defiance or the promise of a short trip is what ultimately sways Strife’s decision, but in the next second, the Horseman has banished Mayhem to the outer realms and planted his metal gauntlets squarely on his hips. “Yeah? Damn, n’here I was hopin’ to come with you, and maybe catch a couple of houses on the way back. What’d you call it? Track or tricking?”

It’s a shame you don’t have it in you to smile because Strife’s attempts to add levity to a grim situation are usually rather grin-inducing.

At least the children, specifically the little girl, indulges him in a giggle. “It’s Trick or Treating,” she corrects him in that exasperated way only the young do when they’re convinced an adult is being dense.

“Oh yeah,” Strife perks up, cocking his avian helm and gesturing down at himself, adding, “Wonder how much of the sweet stuff folks’ll give to a costume this cool.”

Suddenly, the older two children look a little more interested, and you feel your pulse tentatively start to ease itself back to a normal pace.

Turning briefly to his siblings, Strife mutters, “Get ‘er home safe, got it?”

It’s bold of him to phrase it like an order, not a request, but neither Fury, Death nor War can honestly say they wouldn’t command the same thing of each other if roles were switched.

As it stands, the other three merely offer their brother resolute nods, or in Death’s case, the tiniest upward lift of his chin. Acknowledgement.

They all know how important you are to Strife.

You watch on in idle contemplation as your friend ushers the children from the alleyway, a spring in their steps, each gazing up at the towering, armoured giant with varying levels of curiosity and fascination.

You’re glad it’s no longer with horror.

Vivid, blue light flares across your shadow for a moment as Rampage plods up behind you, tossing his electric mane and stretching his neck out to flex his wide nostrils into your hair inquisitively.

“Would you like to ride with us?” Fury asks when you tilt your head to glance blearily up at her.

Even in the dulled state of exhaustion you find yourself swept up in, you have enough of your wites to recognise that you’re being offered a very rare opportunity. Even as endeared to you as she is, it isn’t often that Fury invites you up onto Rampage’s saddle.

Sucking down a steadying breath, you haul the corners of your mouth into a weary smile and raise an arm towards her, knowing very well that you won’t be allowed to take no for an answer.

----

You get a lot of looks on the ride back home, though most are fleeting, a passing curiosity. Most people around here have grown accustomed to seeing you sitting astride at least one of the almighty steeds.

“I’m sorry to drag out here like this…” you mutter under your breath, stretching your hand forwards to twist cold fingers into Rampage’s erratic mane.

“Don’t be foolish,” Fury is quick to reprimand, her tone sharp like the whip strapped to her saddle. She must have felt you tense against her stomach, because when she next speaks, her voice has a tad less edge to it. “You couldn’t drag us anywhere we didn’t want to be…”

Letting her words sink in, the Horseman falls silent, turning to catch the eye of her youngest and oldest brothers, who’ve both guided their horses into stride at each of Rampage’s flanks.

War, to your left, scans the street ahead of you, blue eyes narrowed to guarded slits, as if any of the kids dressed up as vampires and werewolves might actually pose as much of a threat as the very creatures they’re trying to portray.

To your right, Death and Despair glide along, though you can’t help but notice that the rider is just as vigilant as his brother. At least Death is being subtle about it.

Lowering your head, you say, “I still can’t believe I hit some teenager.”

“From what I gather,” Death huffs, “It was a warranted hit.”

Drawing your brows into a hard scowl, you reply, “That’s no excuse… Shit… What if it happens again…?” You trail off for several seconds, listening to the distant sounds of chatter and laughter intermingling underneath the steady plods of enormous hooves on the tarmac.

“What… if I hurt someone else?” you finally whisper, shrinking backwards into Fury’s torso, “I… didn’t even know what the Hell I was doing. I could have really hurt those kids, just because, for like… a second, I couldn’t tell the difference between a real demon and some dumb teen dressed in a shitty, plastic mask.”

“Sometimes…” War grunts, shifting in Ruin’s saddle to look down at you, “… a second can be the difference between life and death. Surely you learned that travelling with my brother.” He sends Death a pointed look whilst you press your lips together miserably.

“But I’m not travelling with Death now, am I?” you utter, “It’s over. I… I know the Earth is safe, I do. I just-…”

But the words fail to emerge.

A familiar burn starts up just behind your eyelids, and you try to hurriedly swipe a palm across your face, smearing flecks of mascara across your cheeks. You fail to notice the three Horsemen exchanging glances over the top of your head.

“Perhaps,” Death sighs, “This is a conversation you can have after you’ve had some rest.”

You’d protest, insist that you’re not tired, but you know it’s written plain as ink across your downcast face.

It isn’t far to your home, and you’re only a few metres from the front door by the time you hear hoofbeats cantering up the road behind you. As is the norm, you hear Strife before you see him.

“Sorry we’re late,” he announces, pulling Mayhem up short to trot alongside Ruin, “Got distracted scorin’ those kids some candy.”

“I trust you didn’t keep any for yourself?” Death asks.

“C’mon, does that sound like somethin’ I’d do?”

The ringing silence from three of the Four Horsemen is telling enough, and you even find yourself smiling a little easier for the first time in what feels like hours.

Strife mutters something that’s muffled underneath his visor, but he doesn’t press his innocence, for once, instead angling Mayhem towards the door of your building and surging ahead, swinging himself out of the saddle. This time, at least, he makes sure to land with considerably less force.

He’s joined quickly by War, who similarly dismounts and strides over to Rampage, hardly waiting for Fury to draw her steed to a halt before he’s reaching up and taking you by the hips, pulling you gingerly from the saddle.

Hanging back, Death watches you safely onto solid ground once more. Then, when he’s satisfied that your legs aren’t going to collapse from under you, he raises his voice and calls out, “War, Strife. Get her inside… Fury. With me.”

“Wait. Where are you going?” you immediately cotton on, squinting up at the Reaper.

Feigning boredom, he merely twists his mask away from you and nonchalantly replies, “Just performing a standard perimeter check. You know we always do them when we visit.”

“Death? Death!” you snap as Strife takes you by the shoulders and begins to coax you towards the door, “Look, just – Just don’t you do anything stupid, okay?”

“Y/n, you do wound me. When have I ever?” the Nephilim returns breezily, though his response does nothing to soothe the suspicion on your face.

Even though it would be only too easy for Strife to simply drag you inside, you plant a hand on the doorframe and root your feet to the ground, twisting about to glare up at Death around War’s hulking mass. “I mean it,” you reiterate, frowning at him meaningfully, “I’m okay. I promise.”

The Reaper only peers back at you for several, silent seconds before at last, he dips his head in a slow nod, ebony locks falling about his mask. “Get some rest,” he tells you, “We’ll return shortly.”

At once, your face falls slack into quiet resignation, and you allow yourself to be shepherded through the door by an insistent Strife. War follows after you closely, blocking you from view entirely as he fills the doorway with his immense frame, though not before he spares his brother and sister a departing grunt, telling them without words that he’ll take care of you.

And in another moment, he shoulders the door closed with a resounding slam, leaving two of the Four outside in the cool, Autumn night, their steeds puffing plumes of white condensation into the air.

“So,” Fury breaks the silence, giving the reins a tug and turning Rampage around to face the street beyond your apartment, “You have a plan, I take it?”

Death tilts his head in a so-so manner as he too nudges Despair around. “In a manner of speaking.”

Restless, the horses begin to paw at the tarmac, shaking out their manes and whickering impatiently.

Fury’s hum is skeptical as she glances at her brother from the corner of a narrowed eye. “I hope you’ve thought it through, at least,” she grumbles, “Y/n will never forgive us if she finds out we tracked down this Leon Korby…”

“You make it sound as if I mean to hurt the boy,” Death responds coolly.

“Mm. You wouldn’t be the only one…” Cracking her knuckles, Fury sends him a wicked grin and continues, “So, what is the plan then?”

Behind his bone-mask, Death’s countenance remains solid and unaffected, business-like, one might call it. Nudging Despair with his heels, he moves the horse into a steady trot, back up the street they’d escorted you down, his sunburst gaze rigidly focused on the path ahead.

“I think it would be prudent of us to pay the boy a visit,” he remarks, hearing Rampage swiftly fall into a brisk pace at Despair’s side, “So that we may remind him why it may not be the wisest idea to pretend to be a demon. Why, suppose he were to be mistaken by the wrong person? A Horseman, for instance, whose purpose it is to rid the city of any rogue demons that might pop up to threaten the human population.”

He doesn’t need to look to see his sister’s gleaming teeth bare themselves in an eager, primal grin.

#Darksiders #darksiders 3 #Horsemen #Reader #found family #friendship #ptsd #flashbacks #trauma #blood #hurt/comfort #Post apocalypse

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f1nalboys · 1 year ago

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Hey! Can you do a Angsty Randy Meeks Fic?

I had an idea about how after the murders Randy hooks up with Karen at Bradleys Video. And the Reader gets jealous and stuff.

It can be SFW or NSFW

I love your writing :)

thanks for the request!!! i realize now that i mostly did a fix it fic and didnt really do muchn angst KSGBSJDBGB im still posting this BUTTT if u sent this request and you'd rather a more angsty ending of this, pls send in another ask and ill rewrite an ending for you!!! otherwise, i hope u enjoy this one!!!

Randy Meeks x GN!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1679

WARNINGS: sfw, descriptions of ptsd symptoms but not talked about directly, jealousy, miscommunication kinda? more like lack of communication, hurt/comfort.

You thought it would bring the two of you closer together. Maybe it was selfish thinking, using the awful murders and traumatizing memories for your benefit, but what else were you to do? You didn’t want to let this all weigh you down, hang around your neck like a hangman's noose, but maybe, just maybe, improve your life a little bit. Sure, your friends were dead and you yourself had nearly died, leaving a nasty wound on your stomach from the blade of a knife you can still see when you close your eyes at night, but it didn’t always have to be that way.

Now you were in college, studying right alongside Randy and Sidney, yet you were the only one who couldn’t feel normal. You stayed in your dorms most nights, too fearful of what would happen if you stepped outside. Going to class was hard, eating was hard, ignoring the anxiety and anger that built up in your chest, cracking your ribs as it tried to get out, was hard, and yet they seemed unaffected. It wasn’t fair of you to think that, let alone be jealous of them for seemingly being unphased, but you couldn’t help it.

Your one saving grace was Randy.

Yeah, you were friendly with Sidney, mostly because of your shared past, but you were friends with Randy. Of course, you’d love to be more than that, and you weren’t exactly the best at hiding those feelings, but for now, being friends was enough. Hell, there were even moments, the briefest of instances, where you thought maybe, just maybe, he might like you back. Times where the two of you were alone together and his eyes would linger on yours for a moment too long. Times where you two would collapse against each other in a fit of laughter that would taper off, leaving you both breathless, shoulder to shoulder, your lips far closer than it had been to any of your other friends. There had even been a moment where you had watched his eyes dart down to your lips only for him to swallow heavily and look away. Small things that seemed to keep that shred of hope alive in your chest.

And then he had gotten drunk over at your dorm one night and told you through a slurred speech that he and Karen had hooked up. His eyes were lit up and his cheeks flushed as he recounted the story to you, detail after excruciating detail. They had been stocking the porno’s back in the video store where they worked and one thing led to another, he told you.

Things were different after that. You tried not to let it bother you, but you discovered it was easier said than done; you’d look at him and think of his face screwing up in pleasure. You’d feel his fingers brush against yours when he grabbed something from you and you’d think of his hands on her. You’d see his tongue swipe across the pink of his bottom lip and you’d think of him kissing her, sucking a mark onto her neck. It made you sick. Randy seemed none the wiser to the changes within you, which made you even more upset. How couldn’t he notice?

And then it all came to a head.

He’d been trying to hang out with you all week and you kept dodging him, giving him weak excuses and blatant lies as to why you couldn’t. When you open the door to your dorm only to see his concerned face, you aren’t sure what to do. “Y/N, finally! You know, I’ve called your phone like eight times, and you can’t even use the ‘unknown number’ thing against me because I know you have the caller ID thingy.” He says as he pushes inside the room, looking around your empty dorm. You sigh, closing the door and wondering why of all nights did your roommate have to pick this one to go home to visit family.

“You’re normally supposed to be invited in before you actually do it, you know that, right?” You ask, a bitter tone to your voice. He rolls his eyes, tugging his jacket off of his shoulders and tossing it onto the back of your desk chair before sitting on the edge of your bed. Crossing your arms across your chest, you lean back against the wall and stare at your feet.

“Yeah, but it’s me,” Randy says and you can hear the smile in his voice. Instead of giving you butterflies, you simply bite your tongue. “Hey, c’mon. What’s up?” His voice is filled with concern and you look up, your resolve cracking a bit at his face. He pats the spot beside him. “Talk to me, would you? You’ve been acting weird and it’s killing me.”

You roll your eyes but push off of the wall, sitting on the opposite side of the bed near your pillows. You stare at the ground and the energy in the room turns awkward as he waits for you to speak. “I’m fine.” You finally say, sparing him a glance. “Like, seriously. I’m good.”

“God, you’re a terrible liar.” Randy responds, reaching over and gently punching your knee. “Can you just skip the theatrics and tell me what's up? I’m a good listener.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” he grins at you. “Out with it.”

You glance at him and chew at the inside of your cheek, sighing. “Fine.” You look back down at your hands, your nerves through the roof as you speak. “I got jealous. After you told me about Karen… I just… I’ve liked you for so long, and I knew you didn’t like me back and I thought I could handle it, but I guess it was easier to handle when you weren’t telling me about the loss of your virginity.” You try to lighten the mood at the end of the sentence, cringing internally at what you had just admitted to him.

This was going to ruin your friendship. You knew the second you looked over his face was going to be screwed up in disgust. He was going to stand up, tell you that he could never think of you that way, that he was disgusted with you, that he never wanted to see you again. He’d grab his jacket and leave, doing what he could to avoid you. He’d go on without you, live his life free of the memories of high school and you, and you’d be stuck. Instead, you hear him laugh.

It’s almost worse.

“Don’t laugh,” you mutter, feeling your face heat up in embarrassment. You scoot back in the bed, bringing your feet up and tucking your knees up to your chest. The tears you had been holding back seemed to be right there, ready to slip down your cheeks in a second.

Randy grins, reaching his hand over to run along your back. “I’m not laughing at you,” he says, and you’re once again able to hear the smile in his voice. His hand rubs soothing circles on your back and you lift your head, giving him a cautious look. “I was laughing because… that’s it? That’s what made you all weird?”

“Well… yeah?”

“Y/N, you’re so stupid.” Your eyebrows instantly scrunch together in anger, your legs moving back down the bed as you turn to face him. You open your mouth, ready to tell him to shut the hell up, when he leans in and kisses you.

It’s exactly what you dreamt of.

You melt into the kiss, sighing as he pulls away, your eyes closed. He laughs slightly as your eyes open, tilting his head at you, a smug grin on his face. “But… I thought… what?” You ask, and this time when he laughs, the butterflies are back. “Are you just doing that because you feel bad for me?”

Randy shakes his head, giving you a fake scoff. “What, you think I’m that much of an asshole?” He sees the gears turning in your head, the briefest hint of a grin, and he shakes his head. “Yeah, don’t answer that. But no, of course not. I did it because I like you too.”

“Really?” He nods. “Well… why didn’t you say anything? And why did you sleep with Karen and then tell me about it? That’s pretty shitty.”

“I didn’t know you liked me!” He says, leaning back onto his hands, your bed sinking under his weight. “And to be fair to myself, I was super fucking drunk when I told you about Karen. And, if I thought you liked me, I would’ve tried way harder to sleep with you instead.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I was so obvious, I thought!” He shakes his head, grinning. You look at him, your smile softening. “You really like me?”

Randy nods. “Yeah, I really do.” He frowns slightly, reaching over and grabbing your hand. “Next time, though, just tell me what’s bothering you, alright? I don’t want the person I’m dating to be mad at me for a fuckin’ week and have no idea about it; you know I’m clueless!”

He brings your hand up to his mouth and gives your knuckles a quick kiss. You smirk at him, ignoring the ever-growing butterflies in your stomach. “Oh, we’re dating now?” He chuckles, giving you a shit eating grin. “I wasn’t a part of that decision.”

“No need, babe, you already admitted you wanted to date me after throwing your little fit!” When your eyes narrow he gives a sheepish grin, poking you in your side. “I’m messing with you… do you want to date me, though? Because I’m like, totally into it if you are.” He seems nervous, his cheeks tinged pink as he glances away from you towards your bed, his hand leaving yours to pull at a loose thread on your blanket.

You smile softly and answer with a kiss, cupping his cheek as you do so. This time, Randy is the one to melt into it.

(requests are closed - i am finishing up whats in my inbox!)

#b does ft13 #f1nalboys masterlist #f1nalboys writing #f1nalboys works #scream 1996 #scream #randy meeks #randy meeks x reader #randy meeks x y/n #scream 2 #scream 1997

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kidrunaway · 2 years ago

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I don't understand how people think Markus wouldn't develop some sort of ptsd or atleast a few symptoms of it after the war happened. I hate it when people say he lived a good life in a mansion when he did NOT have a good life at all. He just had a "good owner." (I have a google document of me and @hamartia-grander talking about how Markus had suffered with Carl)

People overlook Markus' story way too much and make such stupid assumptions that make me want to rip my eyes out. But I won't be talking about this for now. I want to talk about how much of an emotional character Markus is, and how he would be like after war and how it could have potential fanfic writing.

Markus has gone through nothing but hell. We all know this. His story includes some lingering loneliness to it because it seems that everything he touches turns into poison or is dead. He clearly carries the guilt of his people/friends dying. The second after he deviates, it doesn't matter what choice you pick, he still ends up carrying the guilt of hurting someone. Having to be responsible of God knows how many people can be exhausting, and the rooftop scene with North clarifies how absolutely lost and helpless he feels. He was quick to accept Norths' love during that scene. it's unsurprising that he got with the first person to give him any kind of romantic attention because he's lost almost every positive relationship he's made (I'm not a norkus shipper and won't be one, I just want to give insight to people of how much he's hurting and how it's having an effect on himself.)

People still have the audacity to say he didn't suffer enough to justify being Jerichos leader. After he first was traumatized the second he hurt leo/Carl, had to go through the junkyard and was pretty much hyperventilating during that scene (Just a lovely reminder that his diagnostics program wasn’t working either so he knew it was bad but didn’t know what‘s wrong or how long he had left), and he kept getting more and more traumatized throughout his story. You can see how numb he becomes. Compared to when he first deviates where he's crying and is stressed, to seeing his friends die, he does nothing but sigh because at this point, he's had enough. Now that's just upsetting. He's grown so used to seeing people die around him. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt him. It still absolutely does. He just shoves it down.

What happens to him after everything is over is now just a bunch of headcanons, but I like to think he still has this instinct of always wanting to protect his friends. He can't let his guard down. The second he hears a loud noise, he goes to investigate it. He doesn't sleep anymore, and even if he does, he twitches in his sleep and sometimes even wakes himself up (I like to think they're small internal electrocutions). He cannot open up properly. He randomly gets flashbacks about everything that has happened to him and pauses with whatever task he's currently doing. It passes by like a short film and disappears just like that, leaving Markus upset. It's like a reminder of what happened to him.

I've been thinking about writing a simarkus fic about Markus opening up and breaking down. I've seen endless fanart and stories of Simon doing that, but never Markus. So I want to turn that around. I want Markus to be a little more soft. I want to write about how he should know that he's allowed to let his guard down and can be soft.

#A problem with simarkus and rylan for example is that the fandom wont let the black guy be soft.#god forbid a black man is ever soft.#its infuriating #dbh #dbh markus #Markus seriously cant catch a break. Hes black AND an android?? double homicide 😭

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forbidden-salt · 3 months ago

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Breaking the Silence; My Mental Health Story for Worldwide Suicide Prevention Day

By ForbiddenSalt

9/10/2024

Trigger Warning: This blog post discusses suicidal ideation, depression, and mental health struggles. If you are in a vulnerable state, please read with caution, and know that support is available through resources like 988, friends, and loved ones.

Resources and helpful tools for self and loved ones provided below the fold.

My Story:

Suicide Awareness Day holds a deeply personal meaning for me. For years, I struggled silently with suicidal thoughts, depression, and anxiety, unsure of how to ask for help or whether I deserved it. Sharing my story now is not just about raising awareness, but about offering hope to anyone who feels the same weight I once carried.

At the age of 13, I began to experience something many people are hesitant to talk about—suicidal ideation. But it wasn’t until I was in college that I truly realized how dangerous those thoughts had become.

I remember one day when I was walking across campus from class to my dorm, lost in thought, and accidentally stepped off the curb without looking. A car was coming toward me. Instinctively, I jumped back, avoiding an accident. But what happened next startled me more than the near-miss. As I stood on the sidewalk, tears welled up, not because I was relieved, not because I was scared—I was upset that my instincts had saved me. I realized I wasn’t crying because I had narrowly avoided getting hit by a car; I was crying because, in that moment, I wanted to be hit. It would have been an "accident"—a way out without me having to act intentionally.

It dawned on me that this was something much more serious than I had admitted to myself.

This wasn’t the first time I had experienced suicidal thoughts, but it was one of the most shocking moments. I knew I needed help. I sought out a counselor at the campus health center and, for a time, tried therapy. When I went home for a break, I spoke to my doctor, and she prescribed me an SSRI. I confided in my family and was met with mixed reactions—some were supportive, while others expressed concerns about the medication, urging me to stop taking it as quickly as possible. This set up an internal battle for me; I began starting and stopping my medication over the next few months, caught between fear and shame; and eventually quit all together.

Suicidal ideation lingered in the back of my mind for years. I wished for a pause button, a way to make the world stop so I could catch my breath and somehow not fall behind. I dreamed of getting hurt or sick enough to be hospitalized, just so I could take a break from life’s demands. But I never let myself act on those thoughts.

It wasn’t until my mid-20s that things got so bad I returned to therapy. This time, it was different. My new therapist helped me understand that I wasn’t “crazy”—I was carrying the weight of childhood trauma and years of struggling to survive. She diagnosed me with complex PTSD, and for the first time, I felt understood. Her support gave me the strength to make significant changes in my life, including moving to a new state.

There, I found another therapist who continued to guide me through the ups and downs. I started back on an SSRI and have stayed on it ever since. Through this process, I realized that what I had been dealing with wasn’t just emotional—it was also biological. My body wasn’t producing enough serotonin, and my chronic illnesses, were compounding these mental health struggles by denying my body the tools to make its own serotonin and through the weight of the symptoms. Especially for a while before there was any answer or treatment plan in sight.

I went through EMDR therapy, talk therapy, and put in the hard work to heal. I focused on my physical and mental health, fighting for answers and for my life. Slowly, I began to reclaim control. I started to recognize the warning signs of passive suicidal ideation and created an action plan for when those thoughts creep in. I don’t go to therapy as often now, but I still have touch-base appointments in case something changes.

Through this journey, I’ve learned so much about myself and the nature of mental illness. Depression, anxiety, and PTSD were not signs that I was lazy or difficult, though I was often labeled as such. They were symptoms of a much deeper issue. I wish people could see that depression isn’t a mindset or mood and suicidal thoughts are not selfish—they are the final, fatal symptom of a disease.

It took a long time for me to accept that what I went through wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t to blame for the trauma I endured or the way my brain and body responded to it. And if you’re reading this and find yourself in a dark place, I want you to know you are not alone. I know what it’s like to stand in the darkness for so long that it starts to feel like home. But I also know that it is possible to fight back, to heal, and to find hope again.

If you can’t fight for yourself right now, I encourage you to reach out to someone—anyone—who can sit with you in your pain. Let them help you find a therapist, a doctor, or simply help with daily tasks. It might not be the person you expect. For me, one if my company leaders had noticed my depression and helped me find a therapist. I had a best friend who sat with me over the phone while I sobbed broken hearted, encouraging me to seek help if I needed it. That going to the hospital if I needed it wasn’t shameful or weak but brave and admirable. It was my grandmother, who spoke to me daily, reminding me of my faith and offering love when I couldn’t love myself and felt those I loved most didn’t love me.

Faith also played a huge role in my healing. I’ve had my share of questions and anger, but my belief that God could handle my questions and my rage helped me through some of the darkest times. I questioned why my life was going the way it was, why I was feeling the way I did, if He knows everything before it happens, if he’s all powerful why didn’t he step in to change the course of my life away from this. My questions turned to anger and I had to keep reminding myself that God had shoulders big enough for my anger, my tears, my pain. That I could toss all of it at him and he’d still see me still, love me. I never doubted his existence, and honestly to this day I still don’t have all the answers but I’m sure one day I’ll understand and I’ve realized I was still loved even when I couldn’t see it.

My family eventually came around too. Even my dad, who I had thought didn’t believe me, recently admitted how scared he had been for me after he had kept his fears hidden for years since it had gotten bad. We were able to talk and he listened, shared his point of view, and made the effort to understand. He allowed me to assure him I was safe now, I was doing better, and it’s changed our relationship for the better. While I had found my way to stability without knowing if my family believed or supported me, learning my family did care enough to worry, cared enough to learn, and loved me enough to listen even if what I said was hard to hear meant the world to me.

If you’re struggling, know that there is help out there. Call 988 for support, reach out to friends, hug your dog or cat, cling to your faith—whatever gets you through the next moment. Each day is a step, and that’s enough. It doesn’t have to be a leap—it just has to be forward.

Resources for support below:

Here are some coping strategies:

1. Box Breathing: This simple technique can help reduce anxiety. Breathe in for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four, and pause for four. Repeat until your heart rate slows and you feel more grounded. You can do this while on a video call too just let your eyes glide along the edges of the screen while you hold and breathe.

2. Straw Breathing: Another great calming tool—take a deep breath in, and then slowly exhale like you’re blowing through a straw. It mimics the relaxing response of the parasympathetic nervous system and helps you focus.

3. Journaling: I started journaling, reminding myself it didn’t have to be perfect. It was just for me. I stopped feeling guilty if I skipped days or weeks and let the words flow when I needed them. If you struggle with journaling, try creating an anonymous blog where you can rant and vent without worrying about dates or continuity. I have a separate Tumblr just for this—a void I can yell into when I need to.

4. Bilateral Stimulation: Butterfly taps—crossing your arms and tapping on opposite shoulders—helped calm me during moments of stress. This was especially useful during EMDR therapy, which became one of my strongest tools.

5. Creating a Routine: I used to go to the gym to cope before my chronic illness made it harder, so I shifted to art as a form of expression. Creating anything—whether it’s a routine or a creative outlet—can make a difference.

6. Boundaries and Emotions: Learning boundaries and reconnecting with my emotions was vital. One book that really changed my perspective was Rage Becomes Her by Soraya Chemaly, which helped me embrace my anger as a valid emotion. Learn how to advocate for yourself and establish boundaries. This takes time, but it’s one of the most empowering things you can do for your mental health.

7. Prioritize Yourself: Make time for what you need—therapy, the gym, a bath, or a doctor’s appointment. And allow yourself to rest. Your mind and body will force you to stop if you keep ignoring the warning signs.

8. Taking Shortcuts: Too tired to make a proper meal? That’s okay. Eat food however it comes—deconstructed meals are all the rage anyway. I’ve had moments where lunch was just handfuls of cheese and lunch meat. The goal is to nourish yourself, and sometimes that means being kind to yourself about how you do it.

10. Create Safety Nets: If you're heading somewhere that could be triggering, plan for it. What’s your exit strategy? Can you bring a comfort item, like a fidget toy, a blanket, or a stuffed animal? Having a plan can give you a sense of control.

11. Redirecting Negative Thoughts: When I get caught in negative thoughts, I ask myself if these thoughts are helping me process emotions or if they're just hurting me. If I’m not ready to process them, I work on redirecting my focus to something more helpful.

13. Emotional Support Animals: If you can, get an emotional support animal. My mini schnauzer has helped me through so much, even though she doesn’t know it.

How can I help a loved one:

1. Listen First: Before jumping to solutions, take time to listen. Validate the person's feelings, and let them process before suggesting how to fix things. Most of the time, they already know the solution; they just need space to work through it.

2. Stop Shaming Mental Health: Be mindful of how you talk about mental health. I’ve overheard loved ones shaming people for being "selfish" or "foolish" for being depressed, anxious, suicidal and even those that did commit suicide not knowing how often it was on my mind. Those words made it even harder to speak up and ask for help.

3. Fear and Guilt Are Not Helpful Tools: Fear and guilt are not effective motivators when it comes to mental health. I once told someone close to me that I didn’t believe people who commit suicide go to hell. Just as someone who passes from cancer doesn’t go to hell for how they died, I believe the same for depression—it’s an illness. They responded that they hoped fear of hell would keep me from acting on those thoughts. I explained that, by the time someone is ready to act, they likely don’t care anymore. The weight of the pain is overwhelming, and fear or guilt won’t pull them back.

4. Recognize the Signs: Suicidal ideation, passive suicidal ideation, and suicidal plans are all dangerous and need treatment and support. It may begin with passive thoughts like, “I wouldn’t mind if I didn’t wake up tomorrow,” but those can shift into active planning if left unchecked. Just because someone hasn’t acted on it doesn’t mean they don’t need help. Depression doesn't always look the same for everyone. It could be messy rooms, low energy, or a lack of interest in things that once brought joy. It could also look like reckless behavior, withdrawing, or joking about death. These subtle signs shouldn’t be brushed off—they’re as important as overt cries for help and worth a check as little as “hey you keep making these jokes, I just want to make sure you really are okay?” If someone is talking about feeling hopeless, giving away possessions, withdrawing from loved ones, or engaging in risky behavior, these are red flags.

5. Offer practical support: Whether it’s helping with daily tasks, providing a ride to a therapy appointment, or just sitting quietly with them, practical support can be a lifeline.

6: Encourage professional help: Gently suggest therapy, medical care, or other professional help if the person hasn’t already sought it. Be patient and compassionate, understanding that reaching out can be terrifying for them.

7. Be present: Sometimes the best thing you can do is just be there. Your physical and emotional presence can provide comfort, even when there are no words.

If you have a loved one who you worry is going through something, or has confided in you and you are worried for them. Don’t wait. Speak to them. Ask them how you can help, what’s going on, listen. If you’re afraid for them, even after they have gotten to the other side, don’t let your fears tear at you for months, tell them then listen and trust that when they say they are good, have come out the other side have an action plan for when they notice the signs - belive them. If you can’t let it go still, seek your own support. The fear of loosing someone you care about is worthy of attention. If you’re reading this because someone you love is struggling with suicidal thoughts, thank you for caring. Supporting someone with suicidal ideation can be incredibly difficult, but your presence matters more than you might realize.

If you or someone you love is struggling, find Resources for Support:

1. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: Dial 988 for immediate help in the U.S. Available 24/7.

2. Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 to connect with a trained crisis counselor.

3. The Trevor Project: Focused on supporting LGBTQ+ youth, The Trevor Project offers crisis intervention and suicide prevention services. Text START to 678678 or visit their website.

4. NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness): NAMI provides free, confidential support for mental health concerns. Call the NAMI Helpline at 1-800-950-NAMI or text NAMI to 741741.

5. The Jed Foundation: Focused on mental health support for teens and young adults, the Jed Foundation works to protect emotional health and prevent suicide. Visit jedfoundation.org for more information.

6. The Veterans Crisis Line: Veterans and their loved ones can call 988 and press 1 or text 838255 for confidential support. Available 24/7.

Suggestions for Keeping Yourself Safe:

1. Create a safety plan: Write down a plan for when suicidal thoughts occur. This could include calling a trusted friend, therapist, family, distracting yourself with an activity you enjoy, or going to a safe place where you can feel grounded and making an appointment with your doctor.

2. Reach out to a support network: Whether it’s friends, family, or a therapist, let someone know how you’re feeling. It’s important not to isolate yourself when you’re struggling.

3. Remove means: If you’re feeling unsafe, remove items that could be harmful or ask someone you trust to hold onto them temporarily. There is no shame in this ever.

4. Practice grounding techniques: When suicidal thoughts take over, try grounding yourself with techniques like deep breathing, focusing on your senses, or engaging in mindfulness exercises. These can help bring you back to the present moment. Call on your faith if you need to to get by, play with your pet anything to help you get grounded and move through the feeling

5. Remember that feelings pass: In the heat of the moment, it can feel like the pain will last forever. But emotions are temporary, and feelings—even the darkest ones—eventually pass. That feelings are normal and natural and have no moral judgement, feel it, acknowledge it, and let it move through knowing another feeling will come your way take its place.

Recovery isn’t pretty, and life isn’t perfect; but you are worth fighting for.

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