#i would dance on his kneecaps

[diurnalrevelation]

sleuth jesters eclipse makes me want to throw a brick at him.

[emmyrosee]

Geto doesn’t know how to respond to pet names.

It took him a long enough time to become used to the traditional “baby” and “love,” it was just recently when you started busting out these absurd nicknames for whatever thing you could be subjecting him too.

You were cooking once, and you called him “scnhookums” and asked him to pass the peppers. He dropped the tray.

Driving, you told your “stinky man” to take a left. He slammed on his brakes.

You’d been painting his nails and got some on his cuticle, and you asked your “little poop” to pass you some acetone. He just took his hands away.

It’s not that he doesn’t… like them, they’re just not quite what he expects. They’re so extreme, so left field that in a way, he feels as if you’re mocking him, making fun of him.

He doesn’t like that feeling.

But what he hates even more, is when you pause on giving him disgustingly sweet pet names. This, makes him feel like you no longer care, no longer wanting to take the time to come up with the gushy names that keep him in a shy state.

And you haven’t given him one in days.

He hasn’t been able to sleep. Nothing major, nightmares plaguing the dreams he thinks should be pleasant, 

“Shhh,” you soothe. “Stay asleep. I’ve got you.”

He merely nods and lets his head bury back into the pillows, your lips press against his temple before he lets his breathing even out once again.

As if your kiss soothed the monsters that dance, he’s able to sleep a few more hours, waking up disgustingly late and pouting to find your side of the bed cold.

He’s not proud of the pout okay, you’re just really good at scratching the affectionate itch that digs his brain. all he wants is his ‘pooky bear’ to cuddle their little ‘chickadee’ and let him fall back asleep in their arms.

He’s sure those names aren’t far in your arsenal of names.

When he finally does come to search you out, he’s not completely surprised to see you, stretched out on the couch and in a state of relaxation he finds envy in.

“What’re you watching?” He asks, shuffling into the living room. You smile up at him and say nothing, but instead pat your lap as an invitation for him to come and curl against you.

With a nod, he does just that, letting himself lay down on the couch with you, his head nestled in your thighs. Your fingers instantly start their magic on carding his loose hair, and his eyes slack slightly at the tingly feeling.

“Feel better?” You ask, and he hums contently. “I told you more sleep would help. You just never listen to me.”

He says nothing, merely letting his fingers gently trace the lines on your kneecap.

There’s a whirl of silence in the room, and he feels his eyes grow tired from your loving touch, the post warmth of his shower, and the cat that’s curled on his feet, keeping them warm under her rhythmic breathing.

“My handsome man,” you mumble, bending down to plant a kiss at his temple. his eyes widen as he cranes his head up to look at you, curved in surprise and a glimmer of love in his dark pools. “So pretty it hurts… my handsome, pretty man.”

That. That, he could get used to.

He smiles dopily and turns his head to nuzzle into your thigh, trying to hide the heating of his cheeks from you and your potential teasing by keeping his face buried.

But you don’t pick on him. Instead, you click your tongue adoringly and press another kiss to his temple. He feels your nose taking deep breaths of his scent, and your thumb strokes his cheek lovingly.

“Shut up”, Suguru says happily, as an acceptance, letting his sleepy eyes close and allowing your affections to swallow him whole.

Yes, he thinks to himself. It’s the fluttery feeling everyone talks about. The air filling his lungs and his head skipping beats just by the tone of which you call him handsome.

You call him your man.

Maybe pet names don’t always have to be sticky and sweet; but it just makes the most meaningful ones penetrate his heart that much more.

And this pet name, he hopes you decide to keep.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this. 

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces. 

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds. 

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now. 

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin. 

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height. 

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents. 

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with. 

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?” 

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse. 

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door. 

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.” 

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.” 

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket. 

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt. 

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess. 

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic. 

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”  

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.” 

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt. 

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.” 

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you. 

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.” 

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.” 

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after. 

It was so quiet here. 

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you. 

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down. 

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’. 

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open. 

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind. 

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light. 

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back. 

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it. 

You are made of memories. 

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?” 

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.” 

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror. 

Tall; formidable. 

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him. 

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise. 

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.” 

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping. 

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation. 

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care. 

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting. 

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed. 

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork. 

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting. 

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp. 

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?” 

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you. 

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him. 

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.” 

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?” 

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind. 

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet. 

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?” 

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt. 

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood. 

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness. 

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better. 

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass. 

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb. 

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?” 

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone. 

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours. 

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.” 

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone. 

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists. 

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities. 

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace. 

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur. 

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?” 

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.” 

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?” 

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree. 

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building. 

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so. 

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another. 

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears. 

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull. 

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him. 

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs. 

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull. 

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.” 

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard. 

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway. 

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was. 

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips. 

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning. 

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow. 

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.” 

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing. 

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling. 

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back. 

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.” 

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents. 

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.  

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence. 

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully. 

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly. 

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin. 

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath. 

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame. 

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.” 

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast. 

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him. 

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to. 

You loved each other. 

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms. 

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be. 

What should be. 

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17. 

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity. 

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures. 

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen. 

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy. 

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power. 

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging. 

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street. 

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing. 

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.” 

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location. 

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop. 

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you. 

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on. 

Not you. 

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love. 

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic. 

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up. 

Emmett was a snake. 

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman. 

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch. 

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now. 

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues. 

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista. 

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation. 

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!” 

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line. 

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in. 

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing. 

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him. 

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you? 

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known. 

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze. 

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight. 

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before. 

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete. 

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion. 

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat. 

It’s nothing. 

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over. 

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding. 

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse. 

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.” 

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet. 

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression. 

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.” 

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight. 

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base. 

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter. 

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.” 

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.” 

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh. 

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you. 

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers. 

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping. 

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming. 

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump. 

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter. 

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded. 

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully. 

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping. 

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means. 

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond. 

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables. 

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful. 

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall. 

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture. 

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door. 

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her. 

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost. 

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture. 

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses. 

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say. 

But this is something else. 

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.” 

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it. 

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose. 

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried. 

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them. 

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once. 

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak. 

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.” 

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose. 

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive. 

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality. 

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic. 

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife. 

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors. 

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath. 

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop. 

But the brain is a funny thing. 

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout. 

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe. 

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs. 

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace. 

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting. 

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own. 

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open. 

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths. 

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back. 

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.” 

Your chest is heavy. 

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.” 

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?” 

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind. 

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?��� Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers. 

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much. 

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words. 

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form. 

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants. 

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for. 

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away. 

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room. 

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor. 

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this. 

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment. 

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.” 

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess. 

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow. 

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily. 

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.” 

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him. 

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.” 

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum. 

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all. 

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial. 

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed? 

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked. 

“I love you.” 

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all. 

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment. 

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that. 

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

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[jungshookz]

teeny tidbits: jungkook gets hurt during practice and the only thing y/n has in her backpack are miffy bandaids 

➺ pairing; quarterback!jungkook x librarian!y/n

➺ genre; university!au!!! sfw!! soft soft fluff!! jungkook and y/n are so fond of each other wowowow it actually makes me physically nauseous please get a ROOM

➺ wordcount; 1k

»»————- ♥ ————-««

“ow!” jungkook hisses, wincing as you dab against the scrape on his arm with a cotton ball that’s been drenched in a generous amount of warm water, “ow…”

“sorry, i know…” you mutter, trying your best to be as gentle as possible as you reduce your pressure (you were already going feather light but jungkook has always been a big baby with cuts and scrapes) and toss the soiled cotton ball aside before reaching for another one in the big plastic bag, “i can’t believe you guys don’t have a proper first-aid kit.” 

“it’s taehyung’s fault, coach asked him to restock it and apparently he completely forgot.” jungkook snorts, glancing down at the rusty tin box sitting on the counter next to him - you managed to find it after about fifteen minutes of searching the changing rooms but you were more than disappointed when you opened the rusty old box to find practically nothing but dust 

but if this were a real emergency, jungkook would be bleeding out on the ground and all you’d have to try to save your boyfriend is a single q-tip and one dried out packet of rubbing alcohol

luckily, you always carry a mini first aid kit with you in your backpack - last winter you slipped on a rogue patch of ice and ended up falling to the ground, your poor books sliding across the sidewalk and your palms all scraped up and bloody, so ever since then, you’ve been carrying your little pouch with you in case of emergencies 

gauze, bandaids, cotton balls, surgical tape, and some hard candies - you have it all!! 

“explain to me again what the hell you guys were trying to do out there?”

“taehyung said that when one sense goes dark, the other ones become way stronger and we wanted to test that theory out-“ 

“so you did this on purpose-“ you pause, your eyebrows knitting together in confusion, “you blindfolded yourself and ran around the football field on purpose.” 

“i thought i had better instincts than this!” jungkook gestures to himself, his kneecaps all scraped up along with a few scratches on his arms, “and my head hurts…” 

watching jungkook run into the goal post full force would’ve been comical if it weren’t for the fact that that was literally what happened - he ran full force into a damn goal post and thank god he was wearing a helmet otherwise he probably would’ve knocked himself clean out

“i don’t wanna study anymore.” jennie huffs, leaning back against the benches behind you guys as she props her elbows up on them, “can’t we do something else to pass the time while they’re practicing?” 

“i don’t wanna study anymore either, but weirdly enough this is the only time i can really concentrate.” you shrug, keeping your eyes on your laptop as your fingers continue to dance across your keyboard, “is this the only google presentation the professor shared with us this week? i swear there’s another one-“ 

“all you care about are google presentations and taking notes-“

“it’s coming up to finals season, of course all i care about are google presentations and taking notes-“ 

KONK!

“oh, shit-!“ you look up when you hear taehyung’s loud laugh travel over to where you’re sitting, your eyes squinting slightly when you notice that jungkook on the ground, “wait, that was kinda sick, actually, we should do that again-“”

“aw, gross!” jungkook gets up from the ground and shakes himself off and that’s when you notice crimson smeared across his legs as he hobbles towards your general direction, taehyung trailing behind him, “yuck, there’s dirt and shit in my cuts-“

“oh my god, jungkook!” you slap your laptop shut and set it aside, grabbing your backpack and practically sprinting down the steps, “are you okay?! what the hell happened?!” 

and that’s how you ended up here - patching up your idiot boyfriend with nothing but miffy bandaids because that’s all the store was selling (it was miffy or hello kitty, and you’ve always loved miffy) - and you’ve practically used up the entire pack at this point 

“i just think that you have to think about whether or not an idea sounds stupid before deciding to do it.” you huff, tossing another soiled cotton ball into the bin before peeling open the thin wrapper for the bandaid

“well, how am i supposed to know if an idea is stupid or not?”

“you didn’t think blindfolding yourself and running around a football field was stupid?”

“no, i thought it was an innovative training technique that’s been undiscovered by coaches in the world of football!” jungkook perks up, sticking a finger up into the air before shutting his eyes so that you can tend to the little scratch above his eyebrow 

you settle in between his legs from where he’s sitting up on the counter and he instinctively reaches down to place both his hands a little above your waist before giving you a squeeze, “thank you, by the way.” he says softly, and you can’t help help but smile before leaning forward to press a little kiss to the corner of his mouth 

“you’re welcome. i’m gonna need a new box of miffy bandaids because you literally used up the entire thing.” you can’t help but frown as you place the last one on his brow bone, “on the bright side, you look really cute with miffy bandaids, so i don’t regret giving them all to you. but you seriously have to stop trying to kill yourself during practice.” 

“i’m more of a hello kitty guy, to be so real.” jungkook opens his eyes, leaning down to give you a quick kiss before pulling away, “and you worry too much about me.”

“you worry too little!” 

🎙️ ask y/n what kind of candy is in her first-aid pouch (talk to my characters!) 

📚 why not explore the rest of the library while you're here? (go say hi to yoongi and y/n in la vie en bonsai, they miss you!) 

💫 or perhaps you want something shorter to read? (drabbles and mini series!)

🌟 or something even shorter? (teeny tidbits like this!) 

[a-leg-without-fear]

Fucked Up Leg

Wanted to throw my hat in the proverbial ring and try out writing about St. Matthew Murdock. This fic is a little dark as it deals with what I go through with my chronic pain. This is why I am Leg and leg is Me.

Ship: Matt Murdock x GN!Reader

Rating: 16+

Wordcount: 1,733

Warnings: cursing, depressive thoughts, talk of doctor visits, talk of dealing with medical issues, an extremely comforting and loving matt murdock

It was half past 9pm when your leg started aching. You sat on the leather couch with a book in your hands and a blanket over your lap. The billboard across the street shined blinding yellows and blues in through the windows, shadows chasing each other along the edges of your vision. The scent of the dinner you’d shared with Matt, fettuccine alfredo with roasted chicken, floated through the air and settled around you. You could hear commotion in the apartment below you. You assumed there were some new neighbors moving in with how much foot traffic there was, but you weren’t quite sure. You, of course, didn’t have Matt’s senses. 

At first, the pain was just a slight twinge, a dull ache. A deep rooted uncomfortableness that seeped from your hip socket and spread throughout your upper thigh. Knowing this was only the start of a quickly worsening night, you retreated to your and Matt's bedroom in an attempt to keep weight off your leg.

Matt was out on his nightly patrols. He had left at around 8, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead and promising to be back before 2am. At the time, the firm deadline appeared a blessing. Usually you would be left in the dark as to how late Matt would be out. Hearing him give you a set time made you breathe a sigh of relief. Now, however, you thought of how far away that curfew seemed as you settled into your shared bed, bracing for the pain to get worse.

You laid on your right side, gingerly placing a thin pillow between your thighs. The little bit of separation between your legs tended to help relieve some of the pressure on your hip socket. You let your knees bend naturally as you tried to get comfortable. The lights from the billboard were less bright in the bedroom. Partially due to the angle of the beacon in the night, but also due to the paper you’d taped to the windows in an attempt to block out any and all light. You could feel the silk sheets slide against your bare legs as your shorts hiked up beneath the covers. You plugged your phone into your, thankfully, long cord that stretched long enough for you to use it on your side. 

You faced the bedroom door, the right side of the bed empty. Not intentionally, as you’d keep off your left leg anyway, but because Matt would lay on the side of the bed between you and any danger. He was sweet like that, always putting himself in harm’s way for you and others. You chuckled to yourself as you began scrolling aimlessly through your phone. You knew for a fact that if Matt could take your reoccurring pain and put it in his leg to give you relief, he would. He would in a heartbeat. Sacrifice his own fighting ability to give you a chance of being able to dance again.

God, you missed dancing. You used to go to dance classes every week, sometimes multiple nights in a row. Letting yourself flow to the music as you followed choreography, bouncing from foot to foot, swaying your hips, laughing when you would mess up. For years that’s how you kept active, kept busy, kept happy.

Until your leg decided to say “fuck you,” that is. The doctors assumed it was “just too much dancing” that did your leg in. What started as a tear in the cartilage in your hip joint spread throughout your thigh as other problems arose. Stress fracture in your femur, a worn ACL, torn muscles under your kneecap. A seemingly never ending list of problems made you debilitated, forcing you to use a cane and, in extreme circumstances, a wheelchair. The doctors tried physical therapy, medication, and even surgery. But the problems kept reappearing. You would have fine mobility and limited aches for a good few months, maybe even a year. But sooner or later that dull ache would find itself rooted in your hip. And you’d just have to strap in for a long ride.

About 10 minutes after you’d laid down the pain got worse. The ache turned into a sharp jab, like someone had stabbed you in the hip and kept the knife there, sliding and slicing to create waves of pain that lasted for minutes at a time. You clenched your jaw as you tried to remain focused on your phone. This wasn’t anything you hadn’t been through before. You could handle this. Of course it felt like a hot poker was stuck in your hip socket, but that was just a regular Tuesday for you.

Then the muscle above your knee twinged. A redhot spark of pain you could feel in your teeth. The pulsing shocks permeated throughout your entire leg, not just your knee. Stacked with the ache in your thigh it was beginning to be unbearable. 

Your phone fell from your hands as your eyes squeezed shut. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shuddering and wincing. Nausea began to build in your stomach and your head began to spin. The muscles beneath your skin started to jump and twitch. You blew a sharp gust of air out of your nose.

“Fuck me,” you whispered. Why? Why, when things are going great, your leg practically lights itself on fire? Just last week you’d helped Matt take out a handful of bank robbers, dodging blows and landing punches like Black Widow herself. Matt had even been impressed at how well you maneuvered yourself. You kicked and squatted and jumped like there was no tomorrow. And not a muscle was out of place the next morning.

Laying in bed, arms wrapped around your trembling body, leg having a tantrum. All you could do was resign yourself to this neverending feeling of hopelessness. Will it ever get better? Is there some magical cure you just haven’t found yet? What are you doing wrong? You could feel yourself spiral in your depression, the minutes and hours blending together to become an ongoing existence of pain. It felt like a rock had sunk itself to the bottom of your stomach. Your heart was racing, anxiety coursing through your veins. Was this what would become of your life? You would be reduced to nothing, just a leg on fire attached to a motionless husk? Would you ever be able to dance again?

“Sweetheart?” a voice rang out from the living room. A familiar, tentative tone laced with concern. Your eyes snapped open to see Matt. Standing just beyond the doorway, all dressed in black, cloth mask in hand, chocolate eyes looking in your general direction. His dark hair was matted to his forehead from the exertion of his nightly outings.

You cleared the edge of pain from your throat, then said, “Yeah?”

Matt was kneeling in front of you on the bed before you could blink. His brow was so tightly furrowed you had the briefest thought it’d stay that way. Warm, large hands began flitting across your body.

“What happened? Are you hurt? Was someone here?” he asked in a flurry of questions. One of his hands landed on your jaw, fingers trailing across where your pulse flowed strongest. The other ended up tangled with your own as you tried to quiet him.

“Hey, hey, hey. I’m okay,” you breathed. You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his bruised knuckles. Matt’s fingers held your hand tighter as he let his eyes fall closed, his breathing slowing. You knew this was what he did when he sent his senses out, listening and smelling and tasting and feeling your body better than you could. His awareness diving deep beneath your skin to seek out anything abnormal.

When his eyes fluttered open, his gaze landed on your chin and a frown settled across his lips.

“It’s your leg again, isn’t it,” Matt said, not posing the phrase as a question. He already knew the answer.

All you could do was nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You could feel the grief of decades of pain and sorrow build along the walls of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged as the tears broke free and slid their way down your flushed cheeks. What if he grew tired of you? Grew tired of constantly needing to take care of you, tired of dealing with the bursts of pain you needlessly endured. A man of his skill, his charisma, his fighting ability. Surely he wouldn’t want to stay with someone as encumbered as you.

No further words were exchanged between the two of you. Matt gingerly slid his arm beneath your head, letting you cuddle against his chest, as his other arm pulled your torso close to him. His body curled around yours, as if the pain you were feeling was an outside source and he was the shield that protected you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck and breathed his comforting scent, cinnamon and smoke, in. Hot tears trailed their way from your eyes and stained his shirt.

“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere,” he said, lips pressed to the shell of your ear, saying exactly what you needed to hear as if he knew. He slid one of his legs between your thighs, replacing the pillow that was there originally. At first the movement was a shock to your already agonized body. Then, the extra bit of space between your legs lifted some of the pressure on your hip joint. You sighed shakily against Matt’s neck.

The two of you remained that way, Matt’s leg between your thighs, his arm beneath your head, your face tucked against his neck, his free hand rubbing soothing circles into your side. He whispered sweet words of reassurance every now and then. Saying he loved you, he wasn’t going anywhere, he’d help you find a way to fix your leg. 

You knew that soon he’d have to get up to go to work. You knew he’d unwind his limbs from yours, would give you the softest kiss you’ve ever felt, and promise to be back with your favorite foods.

But until then, you would stay tucked in against your Devil. Your guiding light. Your comfort when things were dark. Your relief from a fucked up leg.

[death---dealer]

Flame Kissed Skin. ( Caesar x Human!Reader, Planet of the Apes Oneshot. )

and then i said oh my god

Title: Flame Kissed Skin. Fandom: ( Dawn of the ) Planet of the Apes. Rating: T. ( Implications of mating, sexual themes. ) Pairing: HEAVILY! Implied Caesar x Human!Reader. Words: 3.2K+ Summary: AU where Cornelia died after giving birth to Blue Eyes. What would the Ape King's reaction be to seeing you wearing a dress for the first time? CAESAR MASTERLIST. ●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・●・○・

You scanned the Colony that was flickering with ambient lighting basing from the sweeping bonfire that was in front of you, the speckled torches that spotted along the inside of the Colony border that reminded you of how twinkling Holiday lights would be displayed during the Season. Blaze drenched all across the delicate but harshly torn nature of the wicker baskets that cased around the sides and down the minor cliffside, greeting with happiness at the celebration that took hold for such a successful Hunt. 

Captivating shadows along the fur of many Apes who were taking in their communal aspect of meals, greatly enjoyed and deeply imbued with a sense of respect they had to spend time together. You had not seen anything like it since arriving at the Colony; it was not done after every Hunt but done often enough, you gathered, to keep the spirits up and to keep everyone engaged in building and maintaining the lifestyle that they had enabled since the wiping of Humanity due to the Flu. 

Elk and smaller Game as usual that were freshly roasted and cooked coated the inside of the wicker bowls, free for grazing along with nuts, berries and roots that had been foraged that day by the Female Apes who did not participate in the hunting with their mates or the ones they were destined to be with. You smiled bashfully at Lake and Blue Eyes who were sitting next to you, knowing the truth of the unspoken that rested there and admired with a softened gaze how enthralled in conversation they had been before it turned more sarcastic and fun when Ash and River finally joined. 

You chattered with them, your hand signing rudimentary but you were still grateful that they were able to understand the small funny quips you were alluding to about their endeavors of the day. Sliding your boot-clad feet against the slick rock below your perched seat, you were suddenly flushed with a wall of anxiousness. 

Caesar had not made himself known to your wondering stare. You had lingered a few moments too long on Rocket who was speaking with Luca off a few meters to your left, grinning gratefully at them before turning to the right and seeing nothing of interest except for Koba who’s half a gawk always rode a chill up your spine, enough to cause you to legitimately feel cold despite the flames that were toasting the bare skin that was exposed to the ocean air brought in by the breeze.

Bringing your hand up, you slid the cap of your inch-wide sleeve upwards to the case around your shoulder and lingered your fingers there as you repositioned the strap to stop it from sliding down your arm. You were not one for dresses; they had no purpose in a world that was so harsh and cruel but… Tilting your head to the side, you ran your fingers downwards to play against your kneecaps. You wanted something different; something celebratory for yourself as you were unable to fully appreciate the Hunt that provided the Colony with such pride and abundant food. 

‘Father.’ Blue Eyes signed, flicking his gaze from his core group of friends who he had been raised with, to you for a brief moment and then beyond your smaller shoulder towards the Ape King himself who casted a minor and dancing shadow against the back of your body.

You stiffened, feeling the rounding of his large frame coming to grips next to yours, your ample eyes watching in acute fascination how his thigh muscles shifted, how his feet were able to dexterously hit the ground below to keep his balance as he returned a greeting gesture to Blue Eyes and then to the group of Apes. None of which seemed affected by his sudden appearance, none of them saw Caesar as anything more than their leader; strong and powerful, rightfully so you thought and tried to trail your peering irises towards something else as the Chimp came to sit next to you, slowly. 

Too slowly, you felt like screaming the moment that his fur capsized against the bare skin of your upper arm and you were suddenly cursing inside of your mind for not wearing actual functioning clothing. A dress, stupid decision you muttered, popping your mouth and looking at the fire.

It was red; the deeper shade that resembled more of a blood soak, captivated around the fibers were yellow and pink flowers that reminded you of the ones that grew in the meadow near the Colony. You wondered… Giving some attention to Caesar as he was engaged now with Blue Eyes about the Hunt. You had to wonder if Caesar would notice a detail like that, the small hairs that lined your body rising in anticipation as if you were seeking his validation in the first place.

You could have sworn between the gestures that Father and Son were sharing that Caesar did spot you a few glances. Sweeping his gold and green encrusted eyes against the bare nature of your legs, your feet shuffling inwards a bit out of embarrassment for not having proper shoes but you felt you’d slip and fall on rocks if you tried anything other than your worn-with-time boots.

The way your breathing picked up was noticed by Caesar, the rising and falling of the fabric against your chest pushing the small detailed and faux wooden buttons against the curve of your breasts so immaculately, like they would burst if he stared at them too intently, that he found it difficult to focus momentarily. 

There was a silent goodbye between them all, something you had not noticed in your crazed fit to ignore the way that your mind was racing with thoughts about the Ape next to you. Blue Eyes, Lake, River and Ash left you, your eyes watching their forms before you glanced over, trying to push down the lingering notion that you needed to say goodbye as well and trail to your grounded nest for the night as well. 

“Have not…” The tips of your ears pricked at the sound of a deeply rich and catapulting baritone and you twisted your body minutely, appreciating now the coldness of the rock you were sitting on against the heat on the back of your thighs. “Seen Human… Clothes… Like that… Long time.”

“Yeah, well.” You chuckled nervously and rolled your shoulders as soon as you felt Caesar’s ogle on them, the falling and shifting as your body subconsciously drifted towards his own, leaning inwards to get his utmost attention. It was like your own actions weren’t yours, there was nothing stopping you from gravitating towards Caesar as heat ran against your cheeks, against the bottoms of your eye sockets and ran all the way to the very tip of your ears.

“Wanted to wear something nice. Fo-For the Celebration! I’ve never seen the other Apes so… Celebratory.” That was stupid, why did I just say that? You looked at him from the corner of your eye and could see the huff of his broad chest. Was he… laughing? Swallowing hard, you drew your mouth into a jerked grin and muttered, “We don’t really get the weather here for these sorts of clothes, you know? I-I don’t have fur like you guys do so I stay pretty bundled up…---” Your voice tapered into nothingness as Caesar shifted once more beside you, bringing his form in the few inches it took until his bicep was kissing against yours fully, smothering at your softer skin was coarse fur that made you want to roll your eyes back in ecstasy. Yeah… You had to admit and leered down at the contact that was made. Yeah… You wanted his attention. The dress. Everything about it, you wanted to crawl into Caesar’s lap and let him feel your bare thighs around his muscular and thinner waist, holding onto him for dear life with your entire body.

“It is…” There was a moment of pause as he trudged through his limited dictionary that seemed to expand day in and day out the more time he spent with you. “Nice to see… Something different.”

A tiny shudder that was not caused by cold ran down your body and rested itself between your legs, and with the motion you made to bring your knees together to subdue that, Caesar was blessed with a shocking state of your scent. There was no mistaking it, the Ape King thought to himself and brought his eyes down to look at your face from his peripheral vision.

Downwards, dripping like slow moving honey against the bark of a tree, he was able to see the trudges of your sternum as your shoulders were brought together out of innate nerves from being so near to Caesar, there was no denying the waft of arousal that sat itself between you, coating the very tips of his fur that was caressing you in spots. Stiffening at the notion that he could see your bare breasts if he tried hard enough, Caesar drew his glance forward once more. 

“T-Thanks.” You muttered under your breath and drew air into your lungs that stayed stagnant for a split second as if you wanted to suffocate yourself. With the exaltation, the strap that refused to sit in its position against your shoulder fell down once more, reflex kicking in and you went to push it back upwards. Not before Caesar managed, his reaction time being much greater than that of a meager Human.

Hot… Your mouth parted as you looked down. Slow motion, Caesar drew your thin strap up, two thick fingers dancing lightly against the top of your willing skin. The curve of your shoulder cap was paid attention to as Caesar made the action his own, finally setting the strap down in its allotted position before his entire palm skimmed at your shoulder and held on in a ghosting whisper. There was the evident nature that his skin was calloused, but you wanted to hold every part of your body until your nerve endings were fried and you were able to feel nothing else. 

“Thank you…” That did not sound like your voice. It was wistful around the edges, almost desperate in the center. You hated it, eyes hooded as you tried to keep yourself in slacked control but there was nothing keeping you grounded anymore. Nothing anymore as you turned your head fully and felt your cheek brush against the knuckles of the Ape King, tickling at your pores were the less thick bristles of his fur that played along the flatter pieces on the outside of his fingers.

Quickened inhales paired with sharper exhales puffed air onto Caesar’s face, the fur that rode against his collarbones rose at the closeness that he never allowed himself in the first place after Cornelia passed. Something about this though, his eyes meeting yours in a moment of flurried and frenzied attraction, felt… right.

Maybe Caesar was drunk from the celebration; not from sustenance or substances, but from happiness that he never allowed himself to feel at the forefront of his pragmatic mind. Maybe it was the fact that his fellow Apes were indeed prospering beyond what he imagined was possible all those years ago, sitting in front of a rounded window and watching teenagers act as such. Maybe…--- 

Caesar looked down at your neck as you swallowed hard, the enthralling nature of which your jugular shifted all too intoxicating for the Ape King who brought the palm of his hand down to pet along your bicep, maybe he wanted to be those teenagers. Maybe, he wanted to just take you into his nest without reserve and make you his. Over and over and over. Lust was such a Human element in all of this, Caesar was never one to admit that. Caesar never really cared to admit that as he flickered his glance downwards to your thighs and how they bristled at the hem of the dress.

“You have… many… of these?” He gestured with his free hand to your entire shape and how it was filling out the fabric. In most situations, you’d have torn yourself away from the attention, away from the notions that you needed this interaction. But Caesar… Was nothing more than unwavering in how he assured you in your Human aspects that you wanted to cling to when living with other Apes. The Chimp next to you kept motivation strong that you did not lose yourself, that you remained as Human as you could because deep down… 

Drawing your bottom lip in, you shook your head and let a rattling breath escape your lips. Deep, deep down… Caesar liked everything about it. The wash of your hair in the flames, how it bounced the outline, the casts of playful silhouettes against the actual garment of the crimson dress, your fingers calling themselves in and out on your lap, relaxing into a palm before crimping into a fist; racking with nerves and fears that were not known consciously but always lingered in the back of your mind whenever the Ape King allotted himself the privilege of being so near to you.

“Thi---... This was the only one I was able to find after the Flu hit. At least, the only one that fits me.”

“Fits well.” The chortle that came from the depths of your throat was nothing more than a nightmare as you nodded, flushing your entire body with heat that rivaled even the Sun blisters. It took nearly all your will power to remind yourself that Caesar was like that; blunt and brash, oftentimes to the point of obliviousness at how his words would come across. 

But this, you came to a slow stopped giggle and allowed the delectation of staring at him once more, his side profile was just as stern and intimidating as it was the first time you admired it, but there was a softening around his browline that you figured was due to the light of the fire in front of you, why else would Caesar give you such a vulnerable look at him? You tried to argue but found fascination in it otherwise as your pointer fingers twitched out of desire to touch his brows to see if they would soften further. 

The drooling of the lightened brown that rode against the fur that lined the outside of his hardened features, the minute detailing of graying fur that was spotting through. The rise and fall of his flatter nose, calm and collected… You saw nothing that indicated that he meant the words as anything less than a compliment. Try to twist it as you may, Caesar’s stance said as he finally withdrew the hand that was near your bicep and replaced the contact with undiluted eye contact, his full face now painted in clear vision for you, I meant what I said with all the intentions it implies. 

Shuddering a bit, Caesar took note of that and muttered the smallest, “Not much… Fabric to keep you… shielded.” “Yeah… I uhm… I forgot to bring my… jacket…” You uttered in response, absolutely lost in the way that he was gawking into your stare. Dominant were his green irises, submissive were the golden flecks that were resting within that danced along with the oranges and yellows that cased against his glazed orbs from the fire. 

Stop, you wanted to say and parted your mouth, Caesar drinking up the taste of your air for you were no more than a few centimeters away from a forehead brisk, stop looking at me like that, Caesar… But your body had its change of heart, telling the truer intentions of your choice of apparel as you scooted inwards a bit more to captivate your senses against the heat of his body, Caesar relenting whatever self-control he had as he brought a hand up to rest against your bare shoulder once more. 

A near moan escaped your parted lips as he dragged his heated palm down and trenched the strap he had situated for you right along with it as you swallowed hard, to no avail and there was no lump resting in the back of your esophagus. “Cae-” “Can… Walk you back to… nest if you would… Like.  Get… warm there?”

There were heavy implications in his words that were now pairing with his actions as you nodded only wordlessly, watching with bated desire as Caesar stood in front of you, your eyes carding themselves down his frame and stiffening at the pure stance of power he had once he laid his entire weight on his proportionally shorter legs. Large hand out, you stared at it and let the other sleeve of your dress fall, beckoning to the Ape King your answer without having to say anything as you were now exposing the full scape of your collarbones for him, imagination running rampant at the prospect of laying bare bite marks against the delicate skin and snapping at the bones below. 

There was an answer to the flittering question that had yet to be asked as you dived your hand into his, feeling a shock down your fingers into your wrist as Caesar picked you up carefully, his own gaze falling down at your feet to make sure you were not going to slip. 

“W-Wish I had fur sometimes.” You joked and felt fleeting like a leaf as Caesar began helping you trail towards your smaller home, nestled on the ground rather than high up in suspended air as was the preferred way of the Apes of the Colony. Glancing over your shoulder, you were thankful it appeared that they all had returned to their own homes, the bonfire now being left to die as the night trailed into pitch blackness. 

How would you explain to any of them… That Caesar was whisking you away, his hand pressing against your hip as you hopped down a small step, nearly crunching yourself against his chest as a result. How would you explain this to anyone? Gasping quietly, you felt the bunching of your dress around your waist as Caesar grasped you even tighter and pulled you nearly flushed against his barrel chest.

“Alright? Humans… so unbalanced.” 

That was a joke, you recognized with an ample look of amusement swirling now with the future ideas of how Caesar was going to keep you warm once you arrived at your hut if you were feeling so bold to invite him in. But, the idea was already planted, it was Caesar who suggested to get you warm out of courtesy of your Humanness. You got cold, he knew that. You got cold, you tried to ignore that as you were quick to rationalize the attraction that was suddenly present but had been there since you first met. “I-I’m okay…” You swallowed hard, looking at his pectorals and lining the trace of his scar. Tucking your fingers into his furred forearms, you moved them inwards as if to give the silent permission that he was allowed to touch you, that the dress that laid against you as a second skin of sorts was nothing more than an obstacle at this point. “Y-You don’t need to walk me all the way back to my hut, you know. I-I’m pretty good seeing in the d---”

Caesar chuffed at that, the sound as encompassing as ever as you also felt it against your chest coming from deep inside of his diaphragm and the familiar wash of arousal cased between your legs and drenched Caesar's entire self, eyes dilating as he muttered, almost flirtatious around the edges as you had never heard before.

“Never said… I was taking you back… to your nest.”

[aspiringtrashpanda]

Not @shootingstarrfish and I trying to come up with some sort of timeline for when Solomon first meets Diavolo like "It was before the fall, and the fall would be roughly around 1700 BCE as that's what Google refers to as "biblical times" and we know humans already existed because of the Lilith of it all, so it wasn't before the creation of Adam and Eve. We can assume Sol is going to be where it's bumpin', so if we look at Babylon in 1800-1700 BCE, we can get an idea of his outfit and what's going on in the world." ...And then we remember that this a fictional game about romancing immortal beings. Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 31 Prompt: Diavolo 1.5k Solomon first meets the future King of the Devildom FEATURING ART BY @shootingstarrfish

Solomon took a deep breath, gazing up at the spectacle that was the Demon King’s castle. The marble steps were particularly elegant, a unique crimson color that Solomon assumed to be native to the Devildom. The Fountain of Knowledge promised an increased use of marble to demonstrate wealth and power, but he knew it would be a number of years before Egypt began to utilize the material in places of worship.  

Solomon himself had planted the seed in Thebes, but his current home of Babylon relied primarily on brickl. Even the most impressive temples paled in comparison to the castle looming before him, three stories high and surrounded by deep green flora. Where the Babylonians compensated for detail with size, the demons contracted to erect the King’s abode had outdid themselves with the careful carvings on every visible surface, the elbarotate veins of gold inlaid on the columns and arches. 

Despite the cool midnight breeze of the Devildom, a welcome relief from the scorching sun of the Mediterranean, Solomon felt his skin burn hot on the back of his hands, at the nape of his neck. Anticipation gnawed at his ankles, rendered his knuckles stiff and tight. 

Did he knock? Did he summon Barbatos and…

The lacquered wooden door swung open, the Demon Prince’s newly appointed steward waiting in the doorway. Solomon offered him a cheery smile. Barbatos simply spun on his heel and marched into the building without a word, leaving Solomon to assume that his presence was welcome before the young lord. 

His steps clapping through the ornate hall, all obsidian pillars leading to what had to be some sort of gathering chamber, Solomon rehearsed his greeting to the esteemed Demon Prince. The nerves that pricked his veins were uncommon, Solomon long-versed in meeting with various beings of note, reputation and power. He had shared demonus with the Demon King, had helped slay vampires on the shores of Mesopotamia, had walked through Cocytus to return to the human world. He was the guardian of the Fountain of Knowledge, the Witty Sorcerer! 

And yet, his kneecaps rattled the closer he got to facing the demon who had–someway, somehow–convinced Barbatos to pledge his allegiance. Such a feat spoke of a powerful authority the likes Solomon wasn’t sure he had ever experienced. 

The door at the end of the hall had been left ajar. The sliver of firelight seeping from the room beyond, casting dancing lights upon the ground, was the only invite Solomon supposed he was going to get from Barbatos. Why his old friend was so upset with him, he wasn’t sure, but he figured it would pass eventually. 

Sure enough, he found Barbatos inside the large chamber, steeping tea by a roaring fireplace. A fresh loaf of his signature bread sat on a stone slab by two horns of demonus, and Solomon’s stomach gurgled in anticipation. He was hungrier than he thought, for the noise received a rather judgemental glare from the new Royal Butler. 

Partially in an attempt to avoid the passive ire, Solomon glanced past Barbatos’s busy hands, his attention drawn towards the two large chairs in the center of the room. Ah, he had been correct to assume that he was being summoned to the throne room. 

“Welcome, Solomon.” A large figure stood upon the dias, muscular arms outstretched as if to remind Solomon that he was impeding on the demons’ territory, that this room belonged to the young lord. If it was meant to be a threat, it was extremely successful, for the strength and power emanating from the demon before him was unrefined and wild. Dangerous, even. 

Fangs glinting in the firelight, Diavolo smirked, “Or should I call you The Witty Sorcerer?” 

Solomon wasn’t sure he had ever felt so small. Squaring his shoulders as subtly as possible, Solomon met the Prince of the Devildom’s piercing gold stare. Never once breaking eye contact, he bowed, insisting, “There is no need for formalities. It is an honor to be in your presence, Prince Diavolo. Barbatos has spoken–”

“I was under the impression that he hasn’t spoken to you recently at all,” Diavolo cut him off, his eyebrow lifted towards his hair, as bold as blood oozing around heavy horns decorated in gold. 

“Ah, well…” Solomon cleared his throat, the tremble of his fingers threatening to disrupt his confident facade. “It is true that our relationship has been strained as of late.”

He could hear the slither of Barbatos’s tail lashing from the other side of the room. 

“Indeed,” Diavolo cocked his head, and tapped long, black nails on the bare skin of his bicep as he crossed his arms over his chest. His aura demanded respect, exuding a heavy anticipation that had Solomon on the tips of his toes. The demon prince stepped from the dias, his size even more intimidating in close proximity. “Tell me, Solomon. I require the truth. Please, answer me this…”

“Is it true that you built a wooden boat and filled it with two of each animal?”

Just like that, the demon before him lit up like a child gifted a new toy. Clutching his hands to his chest, Diavolo looked at Solomon with stars in his eyes, gold depths glittering like the sun reflected on the sea. He rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, any sort of composed image that he had been trying to maintain shattered by the excessive enthusiasm pulling at his lips. “One male, and one female, right? To survive the Great Flood!”

Solomon blinked, glanced at Barbatos for any sort of guidance. All he received in response was a squinted glare, adding further pressure to the situation. 

He settled for grimacing, “That was said to be Ziusudra.”

“Though, the grapevine refers to a man with silver hair,” Diavolo winked.

Solomon’s brain was lagging, struggling to comprehend that the oh, so scary future king of the demons just winked at him. It was quite the contrast to Diavolo’s mouth, which moved a mile a minute, launching question after question towards his guest. At some point, he had marched over to the table by the fire, had plopped down on a stool and beckoned for Solomon to join him in between inquiries on the available materials for such a large boat, to the best way to clean up after living with so many creatures.

Dazed, Solomon took a seat, chancing a glance at Barbatos. The butler’s face was stonier than the very slab at which they sat. 

Next thing he knew, a horn of demonus was thrust into Solomon’s hand, Diavolo beaming at him with such sincerity, it managed to snuff out any lingering fear. “So, which animals were the hardest to wrangle? Do you have dragons? I would imagine they’d put up quite the fight.”

“Ah, no, we don’t have dragons,” Solomon frowned, though the way Diavolo deflated had him adding, “But the hippopotamuses were surprisingly violent. I nearly lost my arm to that old girl.” 

“Oh?” The prince’s enthusiasm returned tenfold, “Is it that easy for a human to lose an arm?”

For the next hour, Solomon sipped at his demonus, savoring the taste in between bites of fresh bread and answers to Diavolo’s endless barrage of questions. The initial threat that Solomon had felt upon entering the room melted into an easy atmosphere of laughter and genuine curiosity. There was something about the way that Diavolo yearned to understand humans that spoke to Solomon. It humanized the demon in a way that he hadn’t expected, the deep loneliness that shined through the desperation to connect a feeling that Solomon knew far too well. 

By the time their meeting had come to a close, Solomon’s confidence had found itself once more. He was sure he had made a powerful ally that he could work with to ensure future protection of the human world.  

“Do you have any questions for me?” Diavolo lowered his horn of demonus, golden eyes peering curiously into Solomon’s soul. Perhaps there was the briefest flash of guilt across his face, though Solomon felt it unwarranted. “Surely there must be knowledge of the Devildom not yet privy to you through the Fountain of Knowledge.”

And Solomon was certain there was, though it pained him to admit that the young prince could not give him what he sought. Quick on his feet, he thought up an alternative. “Hmmm, perhaps not the question you seek, but a question nonetheless.”

He brandished a scroll from thin air, summoned with magic from his home in Babylon. The long roll of papyrus nearly nudged his feet, the list plenty long and only growing. With a grin, Solomon pointed to Diavolo’s name, shining in bolded ink towards the top. “Could I interest you in a pact?” 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

I think it's safe to assume that the Demon Lord's castle has had facelifts throughout the years. Also did you know the first version of the Great Flood is actually in the Sumerian Eridu Genesis?

OBEY ME! MONTH MASTERLIST

HUGE THANKS TO @shootingstarrfish FOR THE ART FOR THIS <3 <3 <3

[olive-may-write]

Hope

Hi! So this is the first time that I've wrote somthing this length in a while so this will be a bit rusty.

This is slightly self indulgent as someone who has chronic pain, I just thought I'd write someone up with a reader who has it in mind.

Anyway reader is someone who experiences chronic pain, it's a small insight into the mind of someone who lives with it. I tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possoble, but other than that I hope you enjoy. Please feel free to give feedback of any kind, I just ask that you are kind <3.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton X Reader

Possible triggers: Dissusion of mental health problems, mentions of chronic pain and how it can affect someone's life, Mention of feeling sick / vomiting.

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

The drawing room is not exactly the best place for you to be right now, you had initially thought that a spot of reading would be a sufficient distraction from the blinding pain shooting through your temple. unfortunately, the book you are reading, or trying to at least is not providing any useful distraction, with the words on the page becoming more blurred the more you try to preserver.

Huffing you close the book, trying to focus on something else to distract you from the burden you carry. The pain. 

You were never a sickly child, quite the opposite, you were always able to bounce back from any aliment that affected you, that was until sometime during your early adulthood. You cannot fully remember when it happened, just that one day it started, a sharp pain like a needle had been pushed through just under your kneecap and the stubborn thing would not go away.

At first, you had thought you had just over-exerted yourself during the social season with dancing, however, when that had ended, and you found yourself with more time to rest and recover you found that this pain remained. And it had gotten worse, it slowly moved upwards towards your other joints, sending sparks between all the different offending joints. 

A knock at the door breaks your train of painful thought, you slowly move towards the door, confused as you had confessed to your maid that if anyone needed or wanted you for anything to very gently turn them in another direction to not exacerbate your pain anymore with meaningless conversations. 

The door slowly creeks open, your maid’s face apologetically peeking around the frame.

“Apologies, I understand you did not want to be bothered; however, you have a visitor. One who is very adamant to see you, even after I explained that you had fallen ill today…”  she relays, she seems almost skittish, unlike her usual self. This visitor has put up more of a battle than others, who would see you? 

Sighing you looked towards her, trying not to cringe at a sudden stinging in your temples, you can’t very well be mad at her, after all, she can’t ultimately swat away everyone that wants to see you, though you had hoped that you would’ve had more time to try and calm down this headache before seeing anyone, alas, fortune is not in your favour today. 

“Please do not apologise, Ester, you tried your best,” you say sympathetically. “I do not think I would be so lucky to hide myself away for the whole day without interruptions, please do send whoever is most eager to see me in, if you would not mind.” With the housekeeper slipping back out the door you try to calm yourself, ‘breath, just breath’ you think, trying to calm yourself down, trying to calm the headache, as well as your body. 

You are not given enough time, as you hear the door opening again, this time more swiftly than before, footsteps moving quickly and a huffing breath. You then realise a slight error in your wording to your maid early, while you had instructed her to tell people that you had fallen ill, you mostly assumed that she would only need to tell people already aware of your ailment, and with that understanding they would know that you were somewhat alright and not gravely ill and not someone else. Someone who is not aware of your condition, someone who is now staring at you with anxious eyes trying to determine what it is that is wrong with you. 

With your body still positioned towards the door you fully take in your visitor, Mr Benedict Bridgerton. You watch as he steps into the room, the door slowly closing over, trapped. 

“I was told you were ill” he starts, stepping closer towards the chair you reside in, eyes still darting over you trying to determine the cause of your ‘illness.’ 

“I give my apologies for being so ardent in wanting to see you, I had initially come here under different pretences, however, the way your maid described your illness I was stricken with worry.” He speaks too quickly, staring at you with a slightly overwhelming concern.

“What ails you so?” he finishes almost crouching in front of you. The pause in the room is too stifling, this question that you hoped you would never have to answer while alone. In the past, you were always quite fortunate when the question had come up, with your father or mother there to quickly move the conversation along. Never bringing the truth to light. 

“A misstep walking down some stairs! The floors had just been washed and they were simply too enthralled within their novel to notice” was one such story that had to be shelved after multiple uses.

“Oh, you know they were just so concentrated with their needlework that they strained their hands; nothing to concern yourself about” another one, a slightly more believable story, and one that could be told repeatedly. However this time you were alone, there was no one to save you, no one to swiftly tell a half-truth. No, you were on your own, and with a mind-numbing headache in addition. 

“Ah, yes, erm please do excuse Ester, she does tend to exaggerate a little bit with her storytelling, I have but a simple headache.” You are not exactly lying, you do have a headache, you are simply omitting that the ache is also everywhere else within you. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” Benedict replies, visibly relaxing, almost bending in half with the sigh he lets out. 

“I thought you to be gravely ill with how your maid detailed your condition” he continues, “That you could hardly move, and you were racked with pain” he recounts, what you can only assume to be Esther's attempt at persuasion. And while true, you had hoped she would have chosen something along the lines of having a simple cold. 

“Yes, well, as you can see, I am in perfect health, you have nothing to worry about Mr Bridgerton, though your concern is duly appreciated. I do hope your time has not been wasted by travelling over here,” you respond, very much hoping that you can put this conversation to bed. You can feel the pain in your temples starting to come down towards your neck, you need to move, having been sitting in one position for too long but with Mr Bridgeton here you could not just up and move. You also had forgotten your cane this morning in your room, not thinking you would need it very much today, and you did not particularly want to be witnessed limping up and out of the room in front of a man who had no idea of your condition. 

Your only plausible solution was to grin and bear it, or rather, politely smile and nod along to whatever this man was about to ask you.

“Nonsense!” he exclaims loudly in a jovial manner, making the pain shoot through you once more.

“My time is never wasted when it comes to you” he speaks softly, as if he realised that by shouting, he would be causing you pain. 

“If you are in good health I was wondering if I might ask something of you?” Ah the question you have been waiting for, it could not have come quicker. 

“Yes, you may” Your response could be seen as quite rushed if you were in a normal situation, however with the pressure in your temples building and the pain slowly becoming more intense, you found yourself not caring how your actions could be perceived as by others of the ton.

There is a moment of silence where neither of you say anything, staring at him expectingly, you choose to prompt him by nodding your head towards him, hoping he catches onto your hint. 

“Oh Right!” he starts with a jump. “Well I came here today with a confession of sorts, I have witnessed you, wait! Ah!” he suddenly stops almost aware of how slightly strange he must sound. 

“Oh goodness, well- I, god” You take some pity on him as he seems to stumble over his words, ablet not enough pity to warrant sitting patiently in an increasingly uncomfortable chair. 

“Mr Bridgton, I do not mean to rush you but would you please simply ask this question” huffing slightly. 

“I know this is not how I am supposed to go about this, but I cannot ignore my feelings for you any longer! Please would you do the honour of letting me court you?”

There is a pause after his confession, stunned, shocked you are not sure how to respond. You almost think it is some cruel jest that he has been set up to follow through, but as you look at him, his expression and how he holds himself you realise that he is being as truthful. You feel as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water over you, what does this mean? This cannot be real. This man of high stature wants to court you. While not lowly in rank, you certainly are not what you would expect a Bridgerton to go for and certainly not someone as seemingly broken as yourself. 

Sitting there for a few more moments you realise that he is still waiting for your response. 

“I, I cannot” you start “I am very sorry, but I cannot accept this offer.” You state, dropping your focus to the floor. 

“I. what?” Benedict almost laughs, stunned. 

“Why can you not? Are you intended to another?”

“No, I am very much not.”

“Are you interested in someone else?” You scoff at the question. 

“No, not that it matters either way” The pain starting to build up even more now that you are having to argue your case.

“I have refused your offer, Mr Bridgton, I do fear that Ester had some truth in her words and I feel a headache coming on. I think it best that you leave for the day” You aren’t lying per se,  you have had a headache for the best part of the day. 

“But why not? I do apologise, but I am simply confused. You are not intended to another, and you are not interested in anyone else, so why refuse my offer.” He states.

“At least agree to court me, and then you can make your decision afterwards, at least let me have a chance to show you how I care for you.”

You are starting to get frustrated, and the pain in your head has started to become unbearable, like someone smashing pots and pans together, you feel a ringing in your ears, and you almost want to throw up. 

“I am not well!” you explode, your breathing is ragged as your chest moves quickly. The pain in your temples is more present than ever, cringing you move to push your forefinger and thumb to either side of your nose bridge and start to pinch, hoping that brute force would almost will the pain to subside. 

‘Pathetic’ you think to yourself, ‘I can’t even argue correctly, must everything I do be muddled with pain?’ You try and calm your breathing, focusing on the feeling of your fingers on your face, the clothes you are wearing, your breathing, anything to try and calm the pain down before it loses control. 

There is a strange tension between the both of you, a quiet blanket that has been placed over the room as you do not know what to say. 

“I am not well sir… I have not been for quite some time” you start again, still pressing your finger and thumb into the sockets below your eyebrows. 

“Ester was right. I am riddled with pain, every day. I cannot dress without the pain, eat without it, speak, walk, laugh; live without it, I am tormented by it…” You begin to feel a sharp pain behind your eyes as tears start to fall onto your cheeks. Realising that by unravelling this thread that you would not be able to stop, you cannot tangle it back up again and simply throw it into your sewing box never to be spoken about again. 

“I cannot be who you want me to be, I cannot offer you anything. It hurts to live, and I cannot burden you with that, you would be throwing away your freedom if I were to agree to your request. Do you want that? To be saddled with an intended that cannot do the simplest of tasks without the burden of pain?” You seem to burst out into a frenzy of words. 

Without giving him a chance to argue back you move to stand, using a hand to brace yourself on the side of the chair you are occupying, you push down to give your body the momentum to move, your elbow shaking as it strains under the surplus of weight it is not normally used to. You curse yourself for not bringing your cane with you.

You pause while trying to catch your breath, frustrated that you simply cannot run out of the room and hide after such a shocking outburst, left to just stand there trying to muster up the strength and energy to try and move towards the door. With your head tilted down you were fortunate enough that you could not see his face, which was one of pain and shock. 

Starting again you move towards the door, gripping the backs of chairs and the edges of side tables, with your back turned you don’t see Benedict moving as well, like a kicked puppy wanting to be comforted he follows behind you, he does keep his distance, not wanting to upset you further than you already are.

As you place your hand on the door, dropping it down so you are grabbing the handle, you feel a presence behind you. From the corner of your vision, you see a hand place itself on the door. You slowly turn around to face him, you thank some part of him that he is not crowding you up against the door, that he has given you some space. 

“Please let me go, let me go. You can be free, you can move on, let me be.” you pleaded, looking up at him, your eyes flitting over his face looking for a sign, any sign that would indicate that he headed your prayer. You slowly focus on his eyes, looking within them, your breath hitches as all you see is a kindness so gut-wrenching it makes you feel physically sick. 

There is no malice, no pity, or any inclination that he will follow your word. All you see within his gaze is kindness, one of love and hope. You start to feel overwhelmed, having such a kind affectionate gaze homed in on you. You think back to all the times you caught his gaze; at balls, gatherings, when he would come to speak to you, when he came to visit today to ask to court you. You think about how there was no pity within his stare, no sympathy, no looks of “such a shame, one so young yet so ill,” none of that. 

You start to think about how you have brushed him off, how you have ignored him, at times even running away from him, too wrapped up in your melancholy to even look, actually look at how he was gazing at you, too scared to even admit that someone might even look at you within out an ounce of pity. 

You start to think about how you could allow this, the love and admiration of another person, how this could happen. Could this happen? Could you willingly put your anxieties aside and let someone in, could they be your rock, could they hold you when the pain becomes overwhelming, suffocating you, pulling you down into despair? 

Could you let him? As this question appears within your mind you feel a spark, like flint and rock smashing together, start within you. It is almost unnerving, unnatural. You have not felt this for an extraordinarily long time, almost losing belief that you could ever feel it again.

Hope. Hope that you could be loved and cherished, that you could have someone there for your bad days, as well as your good days where you could go for a walk or a carriage ride, where you could go to socials and visit family. 

This line of thought left you almost breathless, as you still stood within the drawing room of your home. Slightly pressed up against the door, with one of your hands behind your back on the handle as you were trying to escape…again. 

As this chaos was happening within your head, Benedict slowly brought his hand to your cheek, hesitating as if unsure if his action would cause you more pain than comfort. 

Pushing the feeling of guilt down, you take a leap of faith by slowly moving your head towards him, tilting it so your cheek rests within his palm. You flinch slightly, Benedict moving his band away from you, nervous that he might have caused you more anguish. Quickly you stop him, bringing your other hand to cage his, gently placing his hand back onto your face, cupping your cheek and jaw slightly through his hand.

“It…it did not hurt that much, I was just surprised is all” you whispered “It has been a very long time since anyone has held my face this way” You can feel your reserve beginning to crack, you pushed forward, that small spark of hope within you starting to burn brighter.

“It is quite lovely actually, I don’t have to use as much energy to hold my head up when it is being held for me” you ramble, trying to ease the tension and hopefully his nerves. 

“I see” he replies slowly, looking over you to make sure that his actions are not upsetting you in any way. Slowing analysing your features, sketching your appearance in his mind, unsure if he might get an opportunity to be this close to you again. 

Bringing his focus to your eyes he is startled at what he finds, hope. A small whisp of it, and while surrounded by what he can assume is anxieties and doubt, he is so certain that it is there. 

 “If you would let me” he continues “it would be an honour to hold your head for you if only for a moment, to provide but a small reprieve.” Realising that you are not stopping him from speaking, he continues.

“You are so extraordinarily strong, a remarkable person. Willing to take on so much and push through it all, despite the load you carry” he feels your head rest slightly more in his hand, seeing your eyes fluttering before you shut them for a moment. He is worried slightly that he might have messed up, saying something that pushed you down into the darkness rather than bringing you up into the light. However, as you open your eyes again, slowly raising your focus from his chest to his face, then to meet his gaze once more, he disregards his previous concern. He can see that spark burning ever so slightly brighter.

You gently pressed his hand between your own and your face, turning the latter into his palm so that your lips were ever so gently touching below his thumb. If he would be so bold he could move the digit with a feather-like touch across your cheek and wipe away any tear marks from earlier. 

“But you do not have to carry this load alone, I am not sacrificing my freedom wanting to be with you” parroting one of your earlier statements with earnestness.

“I am not sacrificing anything, I come forward willingly, I come to you after hearing about you and your life. I come to you as a willing partner if you would have me. Allow me to carry some of your load, let me hold your head and hands for you. Allow me the honour of holding you during your dark moments as well as your light.” 

“I want to be there for you, with you, I am not here out of pity, I am here out of admiration and love. I fear that if I loved you any less, I would be able to talk about it more, my heart is but a reflection of you.” He felt like he was rambling, struggling to find the words to convey his true feelings, how he was frazzled by you, in a way he had not been before. 

There was a pause and he started to doubt himself, his words, and his abilities before he saw a subtle movement from the outskirts of his vision.

As you looked into his eyes you could feel your grip on the door handle slipping, becoming less tense, less firm. Overcome with emotions from Benedict’s confession your hand goes limp, falling from the handle completely. 

As you stare into his eye you slowly bring now limp hand up towards his face, almost parallel to his still cupping onto your own. You move slowly, akin to a dazed animal who is wary of any sudden movements; as you reach, you settle your arm on his chest resting so that your palm now cups his jawbone. 

Benedict sees the movement, your hand dropping and moving up, towards him, he feels like he might faint, being able to touch you is one thing, but you, touching him is something he did not consider. He shuts his eyes, almost squeezing them closed not wanting to frighten you with how shocked he must look. 

When you finally rest your hand against his chest, he felt like his heart must have stopped beating, he froze, willing himself to take a breath, to steel himself before opening his eyes. 

For when he did, he was in awe, the spark that was once so dim, nearly stamped out was burning and it was burning bright. 

“Do you mean it?” you ask, voice shaking slightly.

“With my whole heart, with the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins. I will be by your side till you are through with me, till I drive you mad, till we are grey and even then, I will still hold your head for you so you can rest for a while.” Benedict tries to convey every ounce of his emotions that he feels so you can be sure that you are fully aware of what he is experiencing. 

“I think I would like that” your reply is rushed. Not wanting to waste a moment, not letting it run away or hide. You finally made your choice, you would let hope win, you would lose the battle but win the war and your victory prize did not seem all that bad. 

[egglain]

Feel You (In My Bones) - Prayer (On Your Knees, To My Strap)

Rating: E (18+) - mdni Pairing: Toji x reader Content: gender-neutral reader (you/yours pronouns), afab language for reader's anatomy, gunplay, oral (both receive), ass play (ass job/non-penetrative), copious amounts of dirty talk, mentions of breeding, mild exhibitionism, hit-it-n-quit-it toji fushiguro Word Count: 2.9k/?

Summary: You accept a drink from the scarred man at Gojo's Halloween party.

The Toji route of Feel You (In My Bones)

“One drink.”

Green eyes danced with amusement—predatory hunger subdued by your willing submission. Heat flooded the pits of your belly.

“You got it, gorgeous.”

“And I’m coming with you to get it.”

“I didn’t expect anything less.”

A large hand dwarfed yours, pulling you through the crowd. It was warm and sandpaper rough; clearly a working man’s hands. Electricity shot from where you were connected to your shoulder, shivers following in close pursuit. His large frame managed to split the sea partygoers like it was nothing, merely small ships capsizing in the wake of his size.

In the kitchen—a luxurious thing, closed off from the rest of the house—he poured you a drink like a gentleman, though the way he was looking at you was anything but. Your hand stretched out to grab the solo cup, but he brought the brim to your lips himself.

“Allow me.”

Weird, but… alright.

Your lips parted around the plastic, heat spreading down your throat as the alcohol trickled across your tongue and down your chin.

“Good.”

Something between your legs pulsed.

What the fuck?

He hadn’t done anything sexual; yet, the way he said it, the way he was grinning down at you, felt embarrassingly intimate.

As you emptied the cup, a thick thumb wiped away the droplets gathering at the corners of your mouth and the trails of alcohol along your chin.

“All done already?” He licked his thumb clean.

Once again, you were throbbing.

Fuck.

Who was this guy?

He looked older—too old to have hung out with Shoko and Utahime in high school. He wasn’t Gojo Satoru. No— aside from the age, the working hands made that unlikely. What did he say his name was again? Did he even mention it?

You opened your mouth to ask, but he beat you to it.

“Throat all warmed up?”

You choked back a little laugh. Mirth danced in those emerald eyes, coupled with something else—something akin to a secret. A thinly-veiled suggestion.

“Yeah, I… I guess you could say that.”

“Good. You’ll be needing that.”

***

Turns out, you did.

He was huge.

In a large hand, a cock seemingly the size of your forearm pulsed angrily. The man—Toji, you’d come to learn—leaned against the counter with his back to the kitchen entryway.

“Toji…” you trailed off, eyes flicking between the doorway and his exposed lower half. It wasn’t much; he had only lowered his fly and pulled himself out. But the shake of his arm as he stroked himself was unmistakable. Anyone who came in would know what was happening. “What if someone comes in here?”

He shrugged with one arm—the one that wasn’t busy—and grunted non-committally.

“Guess we’ll have to make this quick then, doll. Knees.”

Just like that, kneecaps hit cold marble.

That thing was a monster. Veins bulged down to his fat base and up his untrimmed pelvis, feeding into the sliver of abdomen peeking out from under the hem of his tight shirt. It was beautifully tanned, bulbous head flushed in pretty need. Hefty, it hung low as he moved his hand to cup your jaw. At the lack of stimulation, his dick twitched in protest—once, twice—precum welling up at the tip.

Your throat went dry.

A fat thumb pressed to your lower lip, salty and tangy. The unmistakable taste of precum. You closed your lips around it, and the man hummed his approval.

“Ya like that, gorgeous? Open up f’me.”

The thumb gave way to his cock, leaky tip tapping against your bottom lip and smearing more of that sticky, salty precum. As your tongue darted out to lap it up, Toji rutted against your mouth.

“C’mon,” he huffed. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was whining.

“Keep being impatient n’ I’ll bite this dick off.” God, Shoko really did rub off on you. “I’m getting to it.”

The hitman barked a laugh above you, head thrown back.

“Getting lippy now, are we? Bad fuckin’ move.”

Just like that, a big hand weaved its way through your hair at the scalp, clenching around roots. The pressure was heady—a dull ache built in your skull as he pulled that mouth forward, lips splitting at the seams as his impossible girth worked your mouth open. Saliva bubbled out from behind your lips, forced out by the intrusion, and he was laughing once more.

“Not so chatty now, huh? That’s it, doll. Take it nice.”

He pulled you forwards by your hair, leaking tip dragging a trail of sweltering precum across your tongue and down your throat. As glans met uvula, tears prickled the backs of your eyelids. Your gag reflex wasn’t bad, but it was there—and his width would have even the most experienced choking. You stifled a cough, but the saliva was dripping down your chin now, throat working to eject the intruder.

“Hands on my thighs, baby. Squeeze if you needa tap out.”

Your nails met his jean-clad thighs, meaty and hot. Grounding.

You focused on breathing through your nose as he slid in deep, fat cock pulsing low in your throat. You could feel your skin molding to his shape, bulging at the entry.

As nose met pubic bone, you felt more than heard the man grunt. He smelled strong. Masculine. Musky. Sweaty, earthy, with a hint of Old Spice; it had your heart fluttering and your underwear uncomfortably wet.

“There we go.” He said it on an exhale, rolling off the tongue as if praise was second nature. His hips canted forward with need, but his grip loosened on your hair, giving you some room to breathe. “Suck this cock.”

Lips pursed around his girth, you slid backward, then forward again. Building up a rhythm, you bobbed your head up and down his too-hot length. Each time it found its way a little too deep, your eyes rolled into your skull on their own as you fought back a gag. Every time this happened, he rolled his hips forward, pressing just a little deeper down your throat. If the grunts and pants were anything to go by, he liked it better when you were gagging on it.

The wetness between your legs was impossible to ignore now.

You pressed your thighs together, shifting your seating position to mitigate the feeling. Toji didn’t miss the movement. His gaze—which you hadn’t even realized was on the ceiling—landed heavy on yours.

“Open those legs.”

You pulled off his cock with a pop, sucking back spit as you wiped your mouth with a sleeve. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“I’m not playin’ around. Open your legs.”

“Or what?” You grinned, and fuck that musk had to be messing with your head because you’d never felt better. You held all the power here. “You’ll make me throat your little dick again?”

Cold metal pressed against your chin.

The barrel of a gun nudged your face up to meet his.

When did he—?

“Don’t get mouthy with me.”

With the weight and the cold feel of the polished metal, it had to be the real deal. Your stomach fell into your toes.

Something between your legs throbbed.

“Stand.”

Heart slamming into ribs, you complied. Big hands brought you to the counter, lifting you up to sit on the cool stone. The pistol lay discarded next to you, glinting in the low kitchen lights. Thick fingers made quick work of the lower half of your costume, and before long, the man was between your thighs.

Nose met pubic bone, dragging down the sensitive skin of your pelvis. Deep breaths sent shivers up your spine, ghosting against your too-wet cunt. The tip of his nose bumped against your clit as his mouth opened against your entrance. A thick tongue swiped at the wetness there, gliding from your ass to the bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs.

“Smells delicious. Can’t believe you were tryna keep this from me.”

He sniffed you like a dog as he devoured your pussy, strong tip of his meaty tongue dipping into your entrance and under your clitoral hood to coax the bud to stiffness. The slurping was obscene as he sucked the wetness out of you, lapping at your entrance like a parched man.

With a firm clasp of his lips around your clit, you were bowing back on the counter, red solo cups and empty liquor bottles toppling over. A big hand held you down, fat digits splayed across your pelvis. The other wasn’t visible from your line of sight—but the tremor in his huffing breaths and the distinct shaking of his body gave you a good idea of where it was.

He sucked at your clit, hand on your pelvis sliding down to prod at your entrance. Your warm flesh parted for him, massive middle finger slipping inside naturally. Stars blinded your vision as he curled it upwards, drumming against your G spot with practiced ease. Canines scraped gingerly against the nerves between his lips, and you had to bite the back of your hand to muffle the embarrassing noise that threatened to escape.

“Hiding from me now?” Toji grinned up at you sleazily.

Your juices ruined his chin, glimmering gold in the warm lighting as they dripped obscenely from his mouth.

You shook your head, too scared to answer aloud; you weren’t confident in the integrity of your voice right now.

“Better not be…”

Green shifted from you to the gun by your hip. You followed his gaze, swallowing—dry and painful.

“Wouldn’t want to hafta punish you for misbehaving now.”

A shiver tore through you, zapping towards your aching hole.

“Cummin’ on me already? Without askin’ first?” Toji laughed, leaning back in to lap at your pussy around his big finger. “Gonna hafta punish this slutty pussy real good then.”

Your hole clenched and unclenched around his finger, sensitive where it was still toying with you.

“Toji—”

“You whining now?” He pulled out, licking himself clean. “Haven’t even started. You gonna be good for me n’ take it?”

His eyes fell once more on the gun, then back between your legs. Your hole sputtered out fluid at the sight. The older man grinned, cracking his neck.

“Ya like, baby?”  The hand that was inside you, covered in his spit, reached for the handle. “Just got so wet.”

Cold metal pressed against heated flesh as the barrel of the gun rested heavily on your thigh. Your legs flinched at the contact, flying shut. With a tsk of his tongue, Toji nudged your knees apart using the muzzle. He dragged it up the inside of your left thigh, and you watched, transfixed, as it made contact with your clit. He nudged the nerves experimentally, watching as the nub twitched, throbbing with fear and arousal.

“Needy little thing.”

He dragged the muzzle down between your labia, bumping it up against your hole experimentally. Shivers ran down your legs and up to the top of your head, leaking out as the gun pressed inside slowly.

Toji fucked the barrel of the gun into you shallowly, head tilted to the size lazily as he took in his handiwork. Clear watery fluid dribbled down the polished barrel and onto his hand, your need spilling onto his wrist.

The intrusion sent chills up your walls, electrified as the muzzle stretched you out wider than his fat finger. The sight of it disappearing inside was alarming; your heart slammed behind your sternum, jostling you minutely. It was impossible to watch. Each thrust hit a little deeper, and soon the older man’s hand was bumping up against you from where it was wrapped around the handle.

Thick index on the trigger, your eyes screwed shut; you bore down on the barrel, hips pushing back onto the gun rhythmically.

“Good… ride that gun f’me, slut.”

Your orgasm slammed into you before you could process you were even close, thighs trembling with the effort of staying open and the zaps of pleasure from your untouched clit.

Toji pulled the gun out, inspecting your handiwork as you caught your breath. He whistled, low, as he dried it off on his shirt.

“My turn.”

Before you could gather your thoughts, you were being flipped, chest-down on the cold marble of the counter. Like this, you faced the entrance to the kitchen; with all the adrenaline and dopamine, you had completely forgotten where you were. A large hand pushed up the top of your costume, exposing the soft skin of your back. You pushed up onto your elbows, trying to get your footing back, but a smack to your ass had you stilling.

Warmth spread up your spine as the man pressed his chest against you, nosing at the column of your throat. Hot lips left hotter kisses at the junction of your jaw and neck—up, up, up—before teeth met earlobe.

“Not done yet.”

“Toji, we really shouldn’t be—”

Smack.

“Just shut up n’ take what I give ya.”

Long and hot, the shape of his cock was unmistakable as it slipped between the mounds of your ass. And just like that, he was thrusting—humping like a dog in heat.

You could feel the glide smoothen out as precum slicked your crevice, drooling out from his pulsing cock.

It was hot.

He was hot. Burning up from where he was pressed up behind you.

And fuck, was he vocal.

Grunting in your ear, panting against your hair, he was an animal.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—fuckin’ hell.”

Heavy balls smacked against your swollen clit, one hand dropping to pull your cheeks open. A thumb pressed dangerously close to the entrance of your ass, and you flinched at the sensation. The older man chuckled, rewarding you with a softer smack to the meat of your thigh.

“Dirty fuckin’ whore for it… beggin’ to have this little hole wrecked, huh?”

You could feel the roughened skin of his lip working against your ear as he spoke, warm and low.

“Gaped open on this fat cock, leakin’ seed all over this wet lil’ pussy.”

You gasped into the tile, hiding your face behind an arm. If people saw now—the way he was moving behind you, the flush on your face—your actions would be unmistakable. Pearls of arousal rolled down your right thigh slowly.

“You want this dirty old man knockin’ you up, huh? Hey, now—” a thick arm bullied its way under your neck, lifting your head up in a chokehold, forcing you to arch back into him. “Answer me when I’m talkin’ to ya. Or is your little pussy feelin’ too good, even though I’m not even touchin’ her?”

“No—”

“Address me properly.” The bicep flexed, and your head spun. You could breathe, but it wasn’t enough—he was pressing against something in your throat that had you seeing stars, heart pounding in your ears.

“No, sir,” you bit out, voice roughened from the hold he had on your esophagus.

“Good.” He relaxed his arm, rewarding you with a grunt.

Your forehead met stone as you trembled, the movement of his too-hot cock coupled with the rush of oxygen absolutely dizzying. You could feel the flex of his abdomen with each thrust against your body, and the heat of precum pooling in the small of your back.

Wet heat flooded the inside of your ear as his tongue flicked against it.

“Gonna cum all over this perfect ass.”

Sparks shot through your legs as two fat fingers met your clit, pinching and rolling as his thrusts grew erratic. His tip snagged on your rim over and over, sticky and twitching.

“Scream my name, baby. Want everyone at the party to hear my little whore.”

He worked your clit with a rapid finger, tapping, swiping, and vibrating against it in a way that had your mind blanking out. You swallowed back a yelp, biting into the back of your hand to stifle the embarrassing noises threatening to spill out.

With a grunt, heat coated the mounds of your ass; thick milky ropes of cum coated your back and cheeks, fat cock twitching wildly where it was sandwiched in your crack. Those fingers never stopped, pussy clenching around nothing as he wrung out another orgasm from you.

A broken moan escaped your lips as your release coated his fat balls, black and blue dancing behind your eyelids as they squeezed shut so tight it hurt. Toes curling, you pressed back into him, rewarding you with one last spurt—thick nut drooling down the cleft of your ass.

Hot breath fanned against your cheek as he panted, sweat dripping from his bangs onto the counter as his head hung low.

“Fuck, baby…”

Just like that, he was pulling away, tucking his softening cock back into his black jeans. He lifted the bottom of your costume back over the swell of your ass, not even bothering to clean you off first.

“Toji—”

The doors to the kitchen burst open, drunken partygoers spilling in just as the older man pulled away.

“This was fun. Let’s do it again sometime.”

Before you could ask for his number, a tissue, or anything at all—he was gone.

Once more, you were alone.

[fanaticsnail]

I need the " I'm a little boy and I've hurt my knee 😭"skit for 'hey doc' soo bad

Bubblegum & Quincy

Hey Doc Masterlist here

Word Count: 730+

Synopsis: You are never given a moments peace. Where a welcome change of pace is offered as Bubblegum's injury, Quincy keeps you on your toes.

Warnings: surgical talk, mention of injury, exhausted Doctor, grumpy doctor. gn!reader x platonic!crewmates, undressing crewmates, medical administration, swearing.

Notes: I also needed these additions from Aunty Donna's skit. I love writing you as this silly doctor in the Kid Pirate crew. Can't leave it alone. I hope this does your request justice, anon!

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @sinning-23

“Hey Doc?” a whimpery baritone stuttered over your title, a panicked tap at your door trembled and shook the doorframe beyond the door, “L-Let me in right now? I n-need your support.” 

A soft pout formed on your face when you spotted the lengthy violet zig-zags sprouting from the sides of your tall crewman’s head. Bubblegum, although he was tall in stature and lanky in height, was one of the more sensitive members of the crew. His lip quivered as his nose sniffed, entering your office and taking a seat in a chair beside your surgery bed. 

“I’m a little boy and I’ve hurt my knee,” he sniveled with the soft rumble in his deep voice. You sucked your lips in, noticing the soft, insignificant graze on his leg, and triangulated your brows up your forehead in sympathy. Crouching down, you noticed the injury on the tip of his kneecap and clicked your tongue.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you reached for your rubber gloves and a soft vial of antiseptic oil, “You’re being such a brave boy.” Dipping your fingertips in the ointment, you dabbed at the wound and cleaned up the shallow scratch without much issue. 

“You want me to call Killer on my personal den-den for you?” you offered him once you cleaned the barely visible scratch. You reached for the drawer and offered him his choice of brightly colored, punk-band aids. 

“I would love for you to call Killer for me,” he sobbed, his bottom lip sucked into his lip and heart full of genuinity. “Please don’t tell the other crew, though. I know I’m too sensitive sometimes.. They'll mock me.” Upon selecting his favored pattern, you applied the plaster over his knee and reached for the Den-Den to call the blonde, mask wearing first-mate. 

“It’s alright, Bubblegum,” you reassure him with a gentle hand on his shoulder and giving him a gentle squeeze, “I find your sensitivity a welcome change of pace.”

In comparison to Bubblegum’s soft sniffles and gratitude for your aid, you were not entirely certain what to expect when Quincy entered your office. 

Swaying her hips and hovering her hands out in front of her face with a soft wave, you turn from your desk and witness her little dance. Without further words, she continues making heavy eye contact and tapping her toes in an elaborate jig on the floor. 

Quincy was a wildcard. Her pain tolerance was high, and her attitude was always positive and uplifting. Her ginger hair bobbed with her motions, her pastel pink dress swirling at her knees the longer she danced for you. Withdrawing your seat from within your desk, you arched your brow up at her and looked at her inquisitively. 

Without warning, she reaches down and opens her maroon patterned blazer and flashes you the side of her torso. Blood seeped through the soft material of her dress and pooled down her legs as she dead-pans her explanation.

“A stab wound,” she smiles at you and keeps on dancing her little jig. 

“A fucking what?!” you immediately stood and rushed over to her side and reopened her blazer with wide, panicked eyes. She giggles at you, halting her dance and allowing you to begin your treatment. “Where did this come from? Were we attacked? Who attacked you? Are they still breathing?” 

“I’ve had a stab wound to my abdomen” she giggles at your questions, her own tone not reflecting the severity of her injury, “Everyone else is fine. No attack, just sparring.” Sighing out in frustration, you usher her to the surgical table and lay her on her uninjured side to begin treatment. 

“Quince,” you huffed out your vexation before hanging your head low in defeat. “You want a lollipop or something?” She perks up, bobbing her head along in agreement to your offerance. 

“Oh, fuck yes I want a lollipop,” she confirmed, looking over her shoulder and extending out her hand in anticipation for her sweet treat. You exhaled your defeat, handing her a lime green, cherry red and white candy swirl on a stick as you continued stitching her up and treating her wound. 

It was never a dull day for you aboard the Victoria Punk as the resident doctor. You were hoping that this upcoming Nakama encounter with the Straw-Hat captain and the Surgeon of Death may provide you some reprieve from your regular duties serving under Captain Kid.

[lirotation]

WI Freaking P. I am stuck =( I wanted to do a set of drawings depict my CP in the past, present, and the future. (yes inspired by your idea @not-so-lost-after-all.) It supposed to show Amaara as the noble lady in Silverymoon mourning for her parents while Astarion suffered under Cazador in the dormitory.

But, as you can see, it started to look like a confrontation between the two. So, with each brushstroke a story about overthrown AA and his new master, Vampire Ascendant Amaara kept playing in my head.

Love perverted meets perverted love, A twisted dance beneath the moon above. Ask me to kneel, and I'll shatter your pride, Crash your kneecaps, in a swift, vengeful stride. Torment awakens the man you once were, only In anguish, your essence would stir. The despair in your eyes, that snarl I adore, Faint reminders of the love we once swore.

I think i consumed too much AA content recently. I need to draw something super sweet to counter this darkness.

[veryace-ficrecs]

Batman Outsider POV Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

Wait... you're backup? by Ceciliedr - Rated T

When her team is captured by Lex Luther, Traci can do little more than cross her fingers for a rescue. When someone does crash the party, it isn't anyone she knows. Traci sincerely hopes the guy in the red helmet is on their side.

library card by mikkal - Rated T

Jason Todd, Red Hood, and the Park Row Public Library (and her librarians).

Finding a New Perspective by njw - Rated T

“I got this, Hood.” Red Robin sounds annoyed as he arcs and twists through the air, kicking one henchman into another and wrenching the gun away from a third while simultaneously retracting his grappling line and then launching it to catch another unwary henchman. Just, how?

“I can see you do,” Red Hood says, and wait. Was his voice always that deep? Is he… Maya squints. Is he staring at Red Robin’s ass?

She blinks, then studies the line of sight more closely. Maybe he’s just checking out Red Robin’s kneecaps, in preparation for shooting at them? That seems more his style. Sexual attraction is kind of confusing and she still doesn’t totally believe Tosh that it’s actually as big a thing as people make it out to be—seriously, do other people really spend that much time thinking about it? Sounds fake but okay.

But no, Red Hood’s helmet is totally pointed at Red Robin’s ass. Huh. That’s new.

Captain Marvel's Adopted? by Len_suilon_mellon - Rated T

When Captain Marvel sends out a distress call, the only League member available is Batman. Bruce comes to his aid, but he finds out that Billy is a 10-year-old homeless orphan with black hair and blue eyes. Obviously, he makes the only logical decision and adopts Billy. Because it's Bruce—who's allergic to revealing life-changing information—the League is left in the dark. This story is written as 5+1 story from the Justice League's POV as they attempt to define the weird relationship between Batman and Captain Marvel. 5 times they didn't realize Batman had adopted Captain Marvel, and the 1 time they did.

The Startling Secret Identity of The Batman by Nokomis - Rated T

Good evening, super-sleuths! Boy, do we have a treat for you today. We’re delving into one of the biggest unsolved mysteries of the modern era. The million-dollar question. The billion-dollar question, if one of these theories holds water. That’s right. We’re gonna risk life, limb and sanity by asking the question… who is The Batman? [In-universe Buzzfeed Unsolved accidentally stumbles on Batman’s secret identity. The Batfam reacts.]

playacting by nex_et_nox - Rated G

“So,” Jim said, “are you one of Wayne’s new kids?” Because only siblings acted that way toward each other, and it seemed like every time Gotham turned around, Bruce Wayne was adopting more kids. It was a reasonable question. “What?” Jay asked. “No, I’m—” He paused. Very slowly, his head tilted as he looked over Jim’s shoulder in the most obvious way he possibly could. Jim Gordon accidentally meets the "newest" member of the Wayne family.

5 times the Justice League catch Bruce acting domestically by TimesBeingWhatTheyAre - Rated G

...and the one time he lets them see it aka 5 times the kids torment Bruce, and the time that he actually arranges a meet-up and minds are blown

the politics of dancing by TheResurrectionist - Not Rated

After months of silence following his mysterious resurrection from the dead, the prodigal Wayne heir shows up at an unlikely meeting. “Where is Mr. Wayne?” Jason crossed his legs, cracking his neck. “He’s not coming.” “I was assured Mr. Wayne would be here.” “Tough. Looks like you’ll have to settle for me, huh?”

I Love My Gay Son(s) by reeby10 - Rated G

But the part that had everyone’s attention was the shirt, a plain white t-shirt with “I LOVE MY GAY SON” emblazoned across the chest in bold, rainbow letters.

Bat Out Of Hell by arguablysomaya - Rated G

Five times the Bats are weird, and one time that weirdness saves the world Or, the Bats are weird, everyone that’s even remotely aware of the superhero game knows this. But, odd as they are, they’re still humans. Which is why it should probably be impossible that they’re such forces of chaos. And when they’re all together? Well, most people are just glad they’re on the good side. And they are. Mostly.

The five times Flash came to Gotham for help and the one time he didn't need to (5+1) by Silver_Athena - Not Rated

Barry needs help solving a murder, he goes to Gotham for help. Though he's looking for Batman he seems to constantly run into new heroes. Why do they all seem connected to Batman? --- “You know where he lives?” “I practically live there myself, why is this so surprising to you? You’ve worked with him for- Oh… oh my God, you guys don’t know!"

A Break in Tradition by incogneat_oh - Not Rated

Gordon had seen something when he caught the canary yellow cape out the corner of his eye– something in the way the kid had moved. So he figures he should ask, “You doing okay up there, son?” AKA: The one where Jim Gordon minds a tiny vigilante until his bigger, scarier partner can collect him.

gotham aviary by pepperfield - Rated G

“I see you have a new addition to the family,” Bella says, smiling at the group pushing their father along toward the plaza stairs. “Yeah, we stole him from his backyard,” Jason tells her brightly.

“average billionaire adopts 1000 children a year” factoid actualy just statistical error. average billionaire adopts 0 children per year. Orphans Bruc, who lives in cave & adopts over 1 child each month, is an outlier adn should not have been counted.

what goes around by Goldmonger - Rated G

A civilian accidentally kills the Joker. It’s a confusing time for everybody.

artemis crock coming to the wrong conclusions by impravidus - Rated G

Nightwing has his hands outstretched, his palms opening and closing exaggeratedly. Red Hood shakes his head. “I am not gonna—” “Just one?” Nightwing interjects sweetly. “Please please please?” “You are such an idiot—” “Just ooone. C’mon, Hood. Don’t these arms look so warm and inviting?” “Inviting for a stab, yeah.” Artemis sees Nightwing being his affectionate (or as Red Hood would put it, extremely annoying) self and comes to the wrong conclusions.

[daisymylove]

Hi can we talk about how James Herondale is a jealous bitch (much like his mama mind you) but he handles it so gracefully that this trait of his personality goes pretty much unnoticed?

Modern society sees jealously as inherently toxic, but honestly, to me, it's a normal, healthy emotion, and what matters and defines whether or not a relationship is healthy is how a person deals with it, and James aces it with flying colours (and so does "young" tessa by the way)

It's actually comical cause Cordelia, who is fully aware of her feelings for him, isn't jealous herself.She knows a shit ton of girls swoon over James herondale and it is what it is, to the point of actually finding it funny when filomena says she wants to bite him.James on the other hand is like those fuckers are ogling my wife? I want to kick them on the kneecaps. Cordelia will have another husband, who will touch her and expect things from her? HATE THIS BITCH ALREADY AND HOPE HE DIES. Even Matthew's interactions with Cordelia made him unconfortable to the point of "oh yeah I'm going there" even before he knew matt had feelings for her.Like when they arrive together at curzon after seeing "wayland the smith", or when they are dancing together at James and Cordelia's engagement party. I'm actually 99% sure he cuts in in Choi and asks Cordelia to waltz with him after she dances with Matthew bc he was jealous

But he never makes it Cordelia's or anyone else's problem, so Cordelia (or anyone really) has absolutely no idea that he feels like this. I think from a narrative point this, along with horny JamesTM, was a great call on CCs part, bc Jordelia is the " fake couple" and she had to convince us of his feelings specifically.And anyway this is comedic gold and I've never seen anyone talk about it

@faithfromanewperspective I think you would like this discussion

[mawrblaidddrwg]

WIP Wednesday - Sons of the Saiyans

“Please don’t make me go in there. Chi-Chi will never let me see the light of day again if she finds out that I was in a strip club,” Goku was half hiding behind his hands as Vegeta dragged him by his arms towards the black painting building.

“I don’t want to fucking go in there either! I’m not a pervert like R—” Vegeta stopped mid sentence realizing what he was about to say. He swallowed hard, pushing the name down his throat. Still not able to speak it out loud. “But that’s where the people we need to talk to are,” Vegeta said.

“Easy for you to say, Vegeta! Bulma would probably be thrilled to be in there. She probably has a stack of dollar bills ready to go,” Goku grumbled, his cheeks turning crimson. “Chi-Chi is going to throw hot coffee in my face if she finds out.”

Vegeta had to think very long and very hard about anything else other than the visual of Bulma at the Red Ribbon. He took a deep breath in; he had to focus on the task at hand.

When they entered the doors of the Red Ribbon, Vegeta clicked the safety of his gun that was tucked into his jeans immediately. After all, he was the one who ended the ceasefire, so it seemed only appropriate for him to be ready to fire at any moment. Goku put the hood of his sweatshirt on over his head trying to squeeze it as tight as possible to himself, resembling a turtle attempting to hide inside of its shell.

“Kakarot you’re so fucking embarrassing,” Vegeta sneered feeling even more disgusted about having to enter the Red Ribbon with his cousin.

Vegeta braced for the loud, violent sounds of dance music pounding his skull once the door opened, but instead was greeted with the melancholy riffs of How Soon is Now. Several dancers paused upon his entrance into the bar and he noticed the lack of patrons. His black eyes did a quick sweep of the premises and right away he noticed the blonde woman who shot him the last time he was here. She immediately pulled out a shotgun from behind the bar. She was wearing clothes this time and seemed to be the bartender instead of a dancer, adorned in a short acid washed skirt and off the shoulder top.

“We come in peace,” Vegeta said holding his hands up and pretending as though he hadn’t just clicked the safety off of his gun.

“Right, sure. And I’m Madonna. Nice try, asshole,” she cocked the shotgun and aimed it at Vegeta’s head, who held his ground with his hands still up.

“Hi, um Miss. We are here to talk to someone named 17,” Goku said realizing that any impression Vegeta would attempt to make would result in their heads getting blown off.

“You look very familiar,” she said warily, nodding towards Goku behind the barrel of the shotgun.

“My uh—” Goku swallowed the bitter pit lodged in his throat, “my brother, Raditz was a frequent visitor here.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a long while until she seemed to accept his answer. “Are you here to shoot 17’s kneecaps off too?”

“Technically, I only shot one of Gero’s kneecaps,” Vegeta corrected her before she gave him a pointed glare. “But no, that’s not why I’m here. I have a business matter to discuss with him.”

“Fine, hand over your gun then,” she walked around the bar still pointing the shotgun at him.

“I don’t have a gun,” Vegeta lied.

She shot the gun at the floor near Vegeta’s Dr Martens and shattered a black tile from the black and white checkerboard pattern on the floor. Goku nearly jumped out of his sweatpants, but Vegeta didn’t even flinch. The sound of bullets ricocheting being the closest thing he could think of to a bedtime story.

[rebelspykatie]

Rushin' through me like a fire Part 2

A Steddie Club AU

AO3 | Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

“Well I do. I don’t even know your last name or how old you are, but you want to get in my pants already?” 

Austin rolls his eyes. “Is that all it takes? It’s Lim and I’m thirty-four. Now can we move this along?” 

His gut is telling him this guy is bad news, to run in the other direction and never look back. Unease settles in his stomach. He stares at the guy for another moment before he says, “I’m not going to sleep with you tonight, if that’s all you want.” 

Another eye roll, but this one is with his whole body, pulling him off his bar stool and sipping up the last of his mojito. He leans down to say directly into Steve’s ear, “Go somewhere else if you want romance, honey.” 

As he walks away, Steve slumps back against the bar, the tension he didn’t even know he was holding draining from his body in one fell swoop. This was such a bad idea. Why did he think a bar would be the best place to meet someone? He’s all too aware of what most of the people in this room are looking for, it’s why he sticks close to Robin when they come here. Without her as a buffer, he’s left to the sharks. He thought he was ready to dive into those waters, but maybe not.

“Rough night?” An unfamiliar voice asks from behind him, startling him off the edge of the bar.

When he spins around on the stool, he’s met with a pair of brown saucers staring back at him, glittering orbs, on a face Steve’s never seen before. He thought that they knew every bartender here, but clearly that wasn’t true. Although, this guy isn’t wearing the standard all black attire or a waist apron. 

Instead, he’s donning an intricately cut band tee for another one of the groups Steve’s never heard of, something about a priest. On it, there’s a robotic looking tiger that’s about to pounce and what Steve assumes is the band’s logo surrounding the image. He’s got on black, skin-tight pants with artistic rips at knee level. Steve’s practically swooning over a little kneecap like he’s a Victorian maiden seeing an ankle in the streets. 

Scars litter his skin, snaking up his neck and down his left arm. His long, curly hair is pulled back into a ponytail, putting them on full display and Steve wants to run his fingertips over the ridges. He doesn’t let his eyes linger too long, even if he’s not looking at the scars so much as the expanse of neck he wants to sink his teeth into. Rings adorn his fingers, glittering in the lights around the bar, and a smattering of tattoos are inked onto his forearms. He just thought that Austin was hotter than the sun, but he has nothing on this man. Mouth dry and heart beating uncomfortably in his chest, he shakes his head, refocusing on what the guy said. 

“You could say that,” Steve huffs self-deprecatingly and shrugs. “I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Didn’t look that bad from here,” he leans against the bar, “seems like it was that guy’s loss.” 

His stare is intense, burning against Steve’s skin. He’s not quite sure what’s different about it, but his gaze doesn’t feel as predatory as Austin’s, or any other person in the room. It’s striking, a little playful and flirtatious, but not overly hungry. It’s been too long since someone flirted with him just for the sake of flirting. 

“Are you new here?” Steve asks, unable to tear his eyes away from this guy’s face, trying to memorize the dimples and sharp cheekbones. 

That makes him laugh, a sly smirk popping up that intrigues Steve. “No, and you’re not either, dancing queen. Does that line work on most people?”

He sputters for a second, thrown by the question. “I- that wasn’t a line. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before and I come here all the time with my best friend.” The dancing queen part of that statement finally clicks. Was this guy watching him? Had he been watching him? 

That makes him laugh harder and Steve is so lost. He must recognize the look on his face because he finally says, “I’m Eddie. I own the bar.” He waves a hand at the bottles. “And you’re Robin’s Steve.” 

“How do you know who I am?” 

“You do know there are cameras in here, right? I make it a point to keep an eye on all the regulars. Especially when they start showing an interest in my best friend.”

Steve feels about ten paces behind this conversation, brain moving like molasses to put the pieces together. “Wait, you’re Chrissy’s Eddie.” 

“The one and only.” He nods and gestures to Steve’s drink, “You want another one?”

“I think I need it after this,” he mutters.

Eddie chuckles and starts mixing him another round. He adds a flourish onto the end, doing a trick shot to pour the drink from the shaker to the glass. It’s impressive.

“She never said anything about you owning the bar.” 

“Probably a weird thing to work into a conversation,” Eddie leans against the bar, sliding the drink across it, looking like he has all the time in the world to spend on Steve. The other bartenders move around him, filling orders from other patrons. But Eddie stays right there in front of him, ignoring everyone else.

“How have we never seen you in here before? We come here all the time.” Maybe he should dial it back with the twenty questions. Steve sounds a bit accusatory, but he’s curious about how he’s never caught wind of Eddie.

“I’m a bit of a recluse. Came into some money after my parents died, used it all on medical bills and bought this bar to employ all my friends when we couldn’t get out of this podunk town. Crowds and sweaty bodies make me break out in hives.” He shudders, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to the floor. “I stay in my office or work on inventory once the club starts to fill up. I’m only out here on lighter nights.”

Ah, that’s why they’ve never seen each other. Steve and Robin come in on the weekends, when the bodies are packed elbow to elbow on the dancefloor. He’s only here on a Wednesday because he felt sorry for himself. It’s a lighter crowd than he’s used to, easier to spot prying eyes and wandering hands between writhing bodies. And apparently the way to meet the owner.

AO3 | Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

[death---dealer]

could i see 11 with caesar? i think him talking more abojt his human upbringing, maybe about charles, would be cute ^^ he barely talks about his family!

11. sharing secrets

And then i said angsty cute fluff why not you know Caesar was never told that Charles passed away right RIGHT

Title: Long Forgotten. Fandom: ( Dawn of the ) Planet of the Apes. Pairing: Slightly Implied! Caesar x Human! Reader. Rating: K. ( Fluffy and angsty-ish. ) Words: 2.3K+ READ IT ON AO3.

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There was nothing like the sound of rain pattering against the sleek nature of the cliffside of which the Colony was placed. The dim lights that peppered against the slaten rock were the only semblance of color beyond that of the rusted and worn crimson charters of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, poking its head out from the torrent of rain that was drenching the surrounding area. It was eerie to look at, much less think about.

All of those movies that you had seen as a child about an apocalypse and how there could be a time where Humanity had to subside for the greater good. It was strange to think of the routines that Humans had at one point, being driven now to do unimaginable things in order to survive. Wake up, make your coffee and head to work. The millions of people who had driven their car against the crackling pavement of the bridge on their daily commute seemed so far away as your fingers rubbed at your cargo pant clad kneecaps, curled into a small ball near the edge of the natural balcony that the Colony had to offer in times of weather.

There was the bustling of a fire behind you, large enough to capsize your back in warmth, but not enough to engulf your entire frame with heat as you drew your gaze downwards to the few scattering Apes that were actually doing something in the chill of the rain. Their fur made you so jealous as you brought your hands to cradle your knees into your chest.

The rain slid right off and kissed the ground below without worry. The jacket you were wearing was worn from years of use and was too big, much to your own pleasure as you enjoyed the oversized fit; made it easier to wear you sweaters underneath and layer properly. The group of Apes behind you, a clutch of a few Chimps and Bonobo got quiet as your eyes laid bare to the commandeering shadow of a familiar gait and body coming to rest beside you.

The wetness of his fur captivated you first, the way that the droplets were clinging to the outer edges of his fur and seemed to strand each individual hair for your delectation and caused the already large Ape to appear even larger with a minor fluff, the darkening of it to the point where it appeared nearly black in the ambient lighting and you were able to see more of his skin as the fur had risen in an umbrella-esque attempt to keep him warm and shielded. Caesar’s eyes were alight as always, they never disappointed you as you drew into them without reserve and felt drowned in the golden flecks that resided within his green irises.

“A lot of rain today.” You whispered minutely, feeling the sheer force of gravity from the Ape King next to you as he huffed in agreement, nostrils flaring. “Reminds me of when I was a kid. I used to go dance out in the rain during the storms we had during the Summer. Th---…” Nodding softly as reminiscent melancholy hit you, your gaze drifted back outwards to the scape of the forgotten city that lay in the lush and foliaged distance. “That was different, I guess… Summer rain is usually hot. This is… Cold. Makes me want to do nothing.”

Caesar was quiet next to you and it was apparent he was listening and taking in your words syllable by syllable. He was never one for small talk like this, but there was a notch in his mind that lingered since he had woken up in his nest alone, his arm yearning for someone to hold and keep protected and warm.

The Chimp found you to be quite an enigma, having felt the pull of your body without even intending to come seek you out. In a mirror stare, Caesar glanced towards the city and felt a few raindrops fall down his face from the top furline that cased around his upper forehead. Downwards they fell, one dripping into his right nostril and the other off his strong brow ridge and onto the ground below. “Used to… wonder… what rain felt like.”

The words he used were a shell-shock as you twisted curiously towards Caesar’s barrel frame. He… Your lips parted as you exhaled slowly and felt the chill fall into your mouth as a result and it felt frigid against your lungs, Caesar never talked to you about his life before the Rise.

You knew vaguely, having seen on TV all those years ago about the Apes' escape to freedom on the very bridge that was abandoned in the distance and closed the gap of the ocean bay. Only fleetingly was it mentioned. His life with the Humans. The memories that were placed inside of his head that you wished he’d open up about in order to garner more empathy and sickeningly affectionate feelings towards him.

“Never… felt it often, growing up. Always wondered what it felt… like against… fur.”

Caesar lifted a hand and you felt entranced to watch it as he drove it forward and dipped it into the current of rain water that was diluted into a strand that was falling to his right that acted as a natural drain of sorts as it collided with the rock. You knew it would engrain itself into the sediment itself instead of flying off upon impact; it was just a matter of time as nature would take its course as it seemed to do for everything, your languid stare dragging back to the Ape next to you as he subtly shifted his own gawk towards you.

Bringing his palm back in, you looked at the gleam of the water against the leathered and darkened skin there, fingers flicking in on themselves as you wondered if it were appropriate to reach out and see how heated his skin got the water that was falling so coldly from the heavens. You refrained but the idea persisted.

“One of the… Humans… who raised me… Would… Play piano when it rained.. Like this. Made us all…” Caesar was racking his mind and vocabulary for the correct words he wanted to use, something that was slowly pulling itself together the more he openly spoke with you, “feel better.”

“That sounds really nice…” Tone was hushed and only reserved for Caesar in this moment as he finally allowed himself a full frontal gaze at you and the ease of which he moved his body to do so left you breathless, catching in your throat and unable to move as the heat from his frame was also accompanied by that.

“He is… Gone. The Flu… Maybe…” Knuckled against the hard rock ground below, Caesar rested in a hunched position next to you, a straddle position that was comfortable for Apes as their muscular thighs seemed built for the stance, not as much for Humans and their lack of definition.

“You… don’t know?”

There was silence that clung to the air as Caesar looked off to the side, towards the fire that was burning with such passion and danced his dilated pupils along the flames as they roared into the air. The other Apes did not acknowledge him aside from his arrival, normal for anyone coming into a communal space. He appreciated that. Caesar appreciated to be treated just as another one of his Colony at times and it felt like you were the one steadfast who did just that for him.

Dragging his peer back towards you, the intensity that the fire brought to his already hypnotic stare made a shiver drip down your spine as if rain had seeped into your jacket and was against your bare skin. It felt like a mutual agreement of longing was shared as the Chimpanzee brought his mouth together into a flat line, your ample eyelids admiring how he appeared to soften briefly.

“Do not think about it often enough to… seek the answer.”

“You…” It was your turn to think about your word choice as to not disturb the moment that Caesar found himself vulnerable enough to share with you. “Obviously think about it enough to wonder.”

Huffing again, you watched the aggressive state of his shoulders drifting upwards and then downwards, the cursed knowledge now resting in your mind at the way that Caesar drew his shoulder caps ever so slightly to make himself appear smaller. What an… innocent gesture for such an intimidating figure. His nostrils danced around as Caesar drew steady breaths in before nodding in solemn agreement to your astute observation.

“He was… sick. Before… All of this,” Gesturing broadly towards the Colony, you were unable to look away from Caesar as he formulated words for only you. “Could have… Succumbed to that…”

“I’m sorry.” That was more hushed than it needed to be but Caesar was still able to hear it over the small crackling of the fire that harmonized with your phrase.

“Feels like many life times ago.”

“That doesn’t take away from the pain.”

Caesar shuffled beside you once more, drawing himself to properly sit on his butt beside you. The moistened nature of his fur kissed at the polyester of your jacket and you found it difficult to find any desire to pull away from the chaste contact. Once again, he was fixated on the Colony in front of him and how it appeared so monochromatic.

There was a reciprocated feeling shared between you as Caesar shifted a centimeter towards you so his full bicep was against yours. Heart jumping into the back of your chest, you brought your knees down and crossed them to allow a more open position as you felt no need to be closed off to the Chimp regarding the conversation of his own past.

“You seem to… speak from experience.”

“Maybe I am.” Smiling dimly at that, you merely nodded and pushed the Ape King further. Your story could wait; it was always going to be there for him but you needed his. All of it. Every detail he was willing to give you on this stormy late morning. “What was his name? The Human you were talking about?”

Caesar’s shoulder fur rose out of acute disappointment that you were unwilling to share anything more with him. Maybe, he looked at you from his peripheral, admiring the way that your frown was agitated into a curled sort of smile around the corners, the fondness of shared pasts clear in the way that you accepted his body next to your own… Maybe someday, you’d talk to him… But the notion that you were cracking him open like a walnut was intriguing enough as the pitter-patter of rain seemed to urge the Ape to continue onwards.

“Charles…”

Smiling at that, you sighed and finally slotted your gaze back into Caesar’s properly with the tilt of your head. “He was a good man?”

“Yes… Gave me… my name. I think of him… When I need to recall the good… In Humans… Very hard to see at times… The way the world is.”

“Yeah.” You agreed without hesitance. “Koba’s probably right. The Flu took and took and didn't give much back. Left the worst of Humanity on the planet.”

“Koba is not… Right…” You snided a small sarcastic chuff that Caesar found mildly amusing. “Still good out there… I choose… To believe that.”

“You’re wiser than most, Caesar.” You complimented him with ease and blessed his line of vision with a genuinely pleasing grin of what he interpreted as affection before you brought head back forwards to scan the forest perimeter on the misty and foggy horizon. Caesar felt a stab of confusion inside of his chest, resting like a knife against the muscles of his diaphragm. Why… look at him like that? What was the point?

“What was Charles like? Other than a good man.”

Caesar leered out at the rain as it began falling in what appeared to be sheets of white. It would not last long, this sort of moisture and it would soon subside into the normal aspects of flatter and more calmed droplets that cried from the Heavens. You could sense him turning his muscular neck to look at you quizzically, the expression fell off of him in waves. As much as Koba told you that Humans were so easy to read from facial expressions, the same could be said about Apes and you wanted to know and page each look that Caesar had to offer.

Your side profile admittedly hard to make out much to Caesar’s displeasure as you now had yourself angled away from the fire to copy his stance towards the deeper woods cased around the Colony. You seemed genuine in wanting to know… Caesar was unable to detect any lies coming from your body language or any thoughts of deceiving him with the past he held so closely to him. Why would you want to know? They were things of little consequence now that the Apes were free and the Flu you were speaking of before you left you in the care of the Colony. In the care… of Caesar.

“You want to know…?” Caesar seemed hesitant still, brow hardening in determination when you looked back towards him.

“Is that even a question?”

“It is… a long answer…”

“I don’t think the rain is going to stop anytime soon.” That was said in a joking tone of voice which Caesar granted a chortle towards. The warmth picked up finally against your appendages but not due to the fire as you squeezed your fingers inwards and then expanded them in your lap; Caesar watched that nervous action with amusement that caught him off guard, a small crooked tilt of his mouth erupting.

The heady heat was due to the Ape next to you as he began picking apart words to use in proper sentence structure to tell you about a life that he never imagined telling anyone about. It never seemed important to those who said they wanted to listen. But the way you drank every consonant and vowel up left Caesar… Wanting to share more and more with you.