#jean is not there but will be there in the middle of the night

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.

Moonlight guides you north. 

Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.

Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly. 

You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.

"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."

"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."

"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"

"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Of course not."

Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.

Time is an enemy you've already lost a day to. With a sigh, you drop onto the hood of a rusted car, pull the knife from your waist, and hack at the fabric’s ends. A serrated blade would make this easier. The hems are jagged, but at least they won’t get in the way.

Ghost’s fever is bad, but the real threat is sepsis—the blood poisoning, organ failure, the things you haven’t told Blue. At best, he has a week. At worst, another day. The thought has you scrubbing a hand over your tired eyes before pushing off the car. You toss the cut scraps into the grass just as a disturbance prickles the back of your neck.

You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol. 

"Just me."

"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."

"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."

You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.

He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders. 

"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."

You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."

"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.

Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."

"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."

There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.

"You should eat."

Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."

His jaw ticks. "Ah."

"Damn good food, too."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky us."

Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.

"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.

"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."

The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.

Other than that, there aren't any close calls.

You reach the house that fits Blue's description.

The door is wide open.

Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.

You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun. 

"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."

More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.  

Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."

Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.

More nothing under the bed. 

You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.

A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it. 

"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."

He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials. 

You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."

"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."

"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."

You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book. 

What else?

What else?

"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."

"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."

"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."

You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."

"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."

Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.

In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.

He said that when he heard the dove.

Why?

Birds.

She talked about birds.

You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.

"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"

The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.

Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.

"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."

It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.

You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.

"Kyle!"

Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.

"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?" 

He doesn't question it, the flicker of relief in his face quickly replaced by a grim determination as he musters his strength, raising the rifle and bringing the butt down hard against the lock. A sharp clang echoes through the room, metal chipping but holding firm. He exhales through his nose, adjusting his grip, and you meet his eyes, nodding once—keep going.

He hammers at the lock repeatedly, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. You glance away for a second when the dove returns to the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.

Greys.

When did they—

"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed. 

He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."

The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.

"Anything to climb?" he barks.

You look up. "A gutter!"

You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.

A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.

Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.

He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.

Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.

He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.

"It's me," you say.

"What?"

"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."

His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.

"We can use it. Look away."

His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."

You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."

You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.

"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."

Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.

You land roughly on your side, losing hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.

You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.

You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.

It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face. 

The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.

Her swollen belly.

You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.

"Come on!"

"They left her."

The words spill numbly from your lips.

When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath. 

You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.

"Shit."

Hands collect your hair.

A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.

"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."

"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."

You wipe your mouth and stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. "We need to move."

Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road. 

The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest. 

A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts. 

"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.

A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.

The scrape of rusted metal.

At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.

The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.

The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.

He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.

The front door swings open.

Blue—

She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.

"I saw you from the window."

"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.

She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.

Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"

You nod.

Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back. 

"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"

"Not as much as this should help."

Kyle begins lifting him.

"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"

The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull. 

When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.

"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."

Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again. 

Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."

He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.

Waking up on edge is nothing new.

At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.

"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."

"I..."

"Water?"

"Please," you croak.

Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.

"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."

You lick your lips. "What?"

"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."

Two days.

You inhale through lungs that feel primitive. 

"He—"

"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."

Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.

"It's helping." The words press into your teeth. 

The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments. 

A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down. 

Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.

You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.

Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry. 

You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy. 

It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead. 

"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He hums. 

"How do you feel?"

He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."

She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."

She wipes at her eyes. 

Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue, on the other hand, spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.

"It's good to have some space, if you need it."

That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.

But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.

The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.

Upward.

The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.

When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.

"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"

Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood. 

He’s in the room before you notice.

The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.

But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.

You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."

"I shouldn't."

His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.

With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.

And then he turns you.

His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself. An unformed breath fills your chest. You're unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.

Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.

His lips move.

But you don't.

It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision. 

You tremble. "Ghost, I—" 

You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, his mouth finding your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out. 

You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" you choke, "Please, I just—"

You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. You clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages. 

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"

His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.

A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.

[oceantornadoo]

the ex-wife chronicles pt.4 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

masterlist | next

follow and turn on notifications: @tornadoowarning

tw: smut. heheheh. also drunk actions also unedited

The rest of the week passes in a blur.

The men meet their mandated therapists. Sure, they’ve had psych evals and required sessions before, but these are new ones, therapizing with what happened to Soap in mind. It’s where another part of your job comes out: nanny. You have to build them up after sessions break them down. Learning what makes them tick: Ghost’s tea, Gaz’s candies, John’s cigars. Soap visits in the afternoons, going straight from physical to mental therapy. The routine is grueling and quiet a change from their normal activities when they aren’t on a mission. That’s why Friday becomes a mandatory pub night.

“Now, I’m not saying to solve your problems with alcohol,” you preach to Gaz, your third glass of white wine in hand. So what if you’re taking advantage of their Frisky Friday deals? “But sometimes, you need to get drunk with your team.” The word ‘your’ is hard and heavy in your mouth. “The people you work with. Coworkers.” You correct yourself. He nods slowly, clearly also impacted by his third drink of the night (tequila and lime).

You scored the last booth in the extremely packed pub. Gaz sits in the middle, with Ghost and Soap on his left and you and John on his right. You restrained yourself from stumbling when John waited for you to get in, instead of sitting near his sergeant, but you were too drained from the week to question it. The booth’s only meant for four, and with how much muscle this group has, you’re all thigh-to-thigh under the table. 

“‘Ve got an idea.” Soap pipes up from across the way. He’s been nursing a beer while Ghost occasionally sipped on his scotch. Doctor’s orders are no alcohol, but you told him he owed one drink for his troubles. “Was tha’?” Gaz replies. “Never have I ever.” Everyone groans, even Ghost and John. That you find comical, sending you snickering and leaning on your shoulder towards Gaz until John tugs at the belt of your jeans. It’s under the table but somehow sends the whole group stock-still, watching. You send a glare towards John, and he sends you an unimpressed stare back. 

Gaz starts asking Soap about his favorite drinking games, giving you enough cover to reprimand your ex-husband. “Don’t do that.” You whisper sharply. He leans forward into your airspace until his lips meet your ear, soft stubble rasping against your cheek. “Y’ were about to fall into Gaz’s lap.” It’s pissed you off, this handsyness of his that’s been suddenly acquired in the past week.

His hands on your stomach during the ATV ride. His thumb swiping under your eye as he murmured ‘eyelash’ under his breath. A guiding pat on the back as he moved behind you in the kitchen, completely unnecessary with how much space there was. A squeeze to your shoulder after his therapy session before he shut himself in his room for hours.

“What if I wanted to?” You snip. A lie, but cutting all the same. John Price is too practiced to show his emotions on his face, but you are were his wife. You can see how he grinds his jaw under his beard, how his eyes flicker with darkness. That same disregard for compromise that shows up in his file, time and time again. Except in the military, he’s done enough good deeds to earn it. With you, he has years to make up.

“Let’s play!” You turn back to the group, aiming a smile at Soap. He cheers, nudging Ghost who gives him a mellow look underneath his black balaclava. Soap completely ignores it.

“Aye, hen. Never have I ever shot at hostiles while hangin’ from a heli.” Gaz grumbles and takes a swig from his drink. Ghost’s eyes seem to sparkle at the memory. Soap gestures at Gaz to ask the next question, to which he rolls his eyes. “Never have I ever fucked a coworker.” You can tell he meant it to call out Soap, who makes a production out of guzzling his beer while Ghost takes a slow sip, but they all freeze when you and John drink at the same time. 

You didn’t expect him to admit it. You wonder if there were others, if you were the start of a pattern.

Then you wonder why you care.

“Cap’n!” Even though he seems more laidback than the others, you’ve never seen Soap so…loose. He’s only had half a drink too, but there seems to be a weight off his shoulders. John doesn’t respond to his taunts, simply raising an eyebrow. After a second, he shrugs and gives a non-answer. “A man’s got to have his secrets.” Soap shrugs, then turns to you. “Doc?” You shrug as well, fighting the urge to tuck your chin under the heat of four pairs of eyes. You haven’t worked your way up and invented a whole new occupation just to fold after a few drinks of wine, but you do like to stir the pot. “Don’t know why you’re singling me out, Soap. Seems here everyone does it.” He snorts, satisfied that you won’t given in. “Righ’ ye are, hen.”

The game gets fiery as Soap delivers another round of drinks (and a ginger beer for himself). You learn new things about the team: Gaz has a sister that loves to prank him, Soap’s nickname does not mean what you think it does, Ghost likes to tell bad dad jokes. John seems to be more restrained, commenting on the others while refusing to acknowledge his own answers.

As Gaz starts his fifth drink, there’s a twinkle in his eye that puts you on guard. “My turn. Never have I ever been married.” Underneath the table, your thigh goes rigid. John can feel it, you know, which means Gaz can as well. It’s a giveaway you’ll allow only due to the new glass in your hand. You sip slowly.

John does too.

He could have lied and no one would’ve known. He’s not drunk, on his second glass of whiskey when you know he practically has a tolerance. 

Ghost doesn’t seem surprised, so you wonder if he sniffed it out. On the other hand, Gaz and Soap are frozen, like someone dumped a bucket of water over their heads. Their eyes are on him but Ghost’s are on you. You feel akin to a mouse caught in a trap.

“Cap?” It’s Gaz, questioning something he never knew about his mentor. Like a son discovering his father’s lie. John swallows slowly, then cocks his head with that disarming close-lipped smile of his. “A few years ago. Not married anymore.” Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat. You take an extra sip of wine for good measure.

“Doc?” Ghost asks. The sergeants turn their gazes to you, no less interested. The bare skin on your left hand vibrates under their attention. “Mine was a while ago. We were young and…”, you trail off, shrugging. 

“Ain’t tha’ funny.” Ghost grunts. You cock your head at him. “What’s that?” His eyes flick to John, then back to you. “Both were married awhile ago. Might’ve crossed paths at th’ license office.” Soap and Gaz laugh; forced, choked sounds. You smile slightly, then look down into your glass of wine. You don’t look at John.

“Makin’ it sound like I’m a hundred years old, Ghost.” John shoots back. With his approval, or more lack of disapproval, the game continues on. You nod at certain intervals, drinking when necessary. When Gaz asks if you’re okay, you mutter that the wine got to your head.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

“You’re insane, Lieutenant Price.”

He snorts into your hair, tucked under his chin as you cuddle in the early Sunday light. A rare weekend of leave, hunkered down in the flat you share in London. Six months ago, he reasoned it was easier to split one rent instead of paying for two, since you were both barely home. Things are still in boxes and there’s no art on the walls. No bedframe either, a full mattress on the floor covered in floral sheets you insisted on. 

“Two Lieutenant Prices. That’ll fuck with the Captain.” Your Captain is a piece of work, but not enough to the point where you’d get married just to fuck with his head. “You really know how to propose to a girl, John. I’m near fainting over here.” He snorts, the bare skin of his chin brushing your forehead as he nuzzles him. Last night, you told him he’d look good with a beard. He said he’d look like a bear, which made you growl at him until he bent you over the couch (the singular piece of furniture you own) and fucked you into its cushy fabric.

“Stay here.” You whine as he gets up, a terribly ugly roll out of the bed because of its proximity to the floor. There’s scratch marks on his bed, new ones on top of those that had barely healed. You’d been sent on a training mission, separated for a month, and couldn’t wait to get your hands on him. Lover. Boyfriend. John.

“Close your eyes.” You closed them, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around your bare body. He never got you gifts, and neither could you, too busy being grunt workers to the captains you both got tossed around to. It was a miracle you were granted leave together. Something that had never happened before.

“Open.” He was sitting, no, kneeling in front of the bed in a fresh pair of boxers. You squinted at his face, confused. His eyes flicked over somewhere to your left and you followed them and – 

Oh.

“John.” The ring is beautiful. Older than the minimalistic styles now, which means he didn’t go out and buy it. “Baby.” His face is open and calm, always self-assured. A second look reveals a twitch in his jaw, a tell. “It’s a ring.” You point out stupidly. He laughs, something that’s become deeper recently, which you blame on his newly acquired cigar habit. “Found it in the bin an’ thought ya might like it.” He jokes. “John.” You plead.

“Marry me, sweetheart. Become the better Lieutenant Price. Yell at me when I get you pregnant and your back aches. Pick out the grey hairs in my beard.” There’s something in your eye. It’s the only explanation for the tear that trickles down your cheek, the one he swipes at with his thumb and brings to his mouth. “I can’t be a housewife, John. I mix my colors with my whites in the wash and I’m more comfortable with a gun in my hands than kids and I can’t plan a wedding.” He captures your lips in a kiss, then pulls back smiling. “Let’s elope and I’ll get a vasectomy. What’dya say?” You think. You think about how you don’t even need to think. Then you nod.

“Let’s get married.”

Soap calls it a night an hour later, muttering how he needs to take his meds. There’s an ache in his voice when he says it, mourning his past life. Ghost follows him out with a hand hovering at his shoulders. Gaz sticks around longer, talking footie with John and making eyes with a woman across the bar. He’s gone half an hour later, his arm around her waist and his mouth at her jaw.

“Forgot how easy it is.” You mutter, eyes on the sway of her hips as they exit the bar, Gaz turning back and winking. It makes you feel like a bitter hag, mourning the fun you used to have. John nudges your knee with his own, compelling you to look up. “What’s easy?” You nod in the direction of the doors. “Pickin’ up someone for the night. Not thinkin’ ‘bout the next day.” He grunts in agreement. John signals a waiter, mutters something to him, and then turns back to you. “You sayin’ you haven’t fucked anyone in a decade.” You scoff and roll your eyes. “I have, in fact. Used to be just like Gaz, pickin’ up someone new everytime I got stationed somewhere. Fun for a few nights and then gone.” John takes a sip of his drink, his jaw straining with effort.

“Gets tirin’ after a while.” He grunts. You blink, then nod. “Playin’ coy about the dog tags, the scars an’ the bullet wounds. Wakin’ up in the middle of the night an’ not bein’ about to explain a nightmare.” Though you haven’t been in combat in a while, you can relate. There’s a new layer of horror when you’re trying to heal soldiers and you get a glimpse inside their head, the bloody carcass of the beaten thing they call a brain, warped by gunpowder and bomb residue. 

“Why’d you tell them you were married?” You wonder aloud. He shrugs, shifting the hand that’s been laying on his knee. Because of the movement, it slides between the two of you, the tips of his outer fingers grazing your thigh. You should pull back. The wine argues you shouldn’t. It wins.

“You’d rather I lie?” This time it’s you shrugging, your leg pressing closer to his. He doesn’t pull away. “I wouldn’t have cared. You don’t owe me anything.” His other hand leaves its position on his drink and finds your wine glass. You watch, enraptured, as he brings it to his mouth and swallows. You thought he hated wine.

“I think about it.” He murmurs. You know the answer, but you ask anyway. “Think about what?” He turns to look at you, blue eyes searing into you. “Our marriage. ‘Fore you came, still thought about it.” Before you can answer, a paper container of fried food pops out of thin air. The smell wafts over and you perk up immediately. 

“Are those cheese curds?” You became obsessed after your first trip to America when you were stationed in the Midwest. “C’mere.” He wraps an arm around you and pulls. You decide not to question it and stay silent.

“Open.” There’s a cheese curd in front of you. Obediently, you open. He hums as he places it in your mouth, your lips wrapping around his fingers and tasting the grease on them before letting go. As you chew, he pops one into his mouth, licking at his thumb. You whine at the loss of fried goodness. “Still a vulture with food, hm?” Instead of answering, you reach for another one, but he pins your hand to the table with the hand that isn’t around your waist. That’s when you register your position on his lap, propped on his leg as he feeds you a treat you didn’t think he knew existed. (You were divorced by then, no contact for a few weeks.) The way you’re sitting is unprofessional and comfortable and so delicious when he feeds you another bite. And then another. It continues until the container is empty and your belly is full and your head is slightly clearer.

You look up and he’s there. Bearded and wrinkled and hardened. The bright blue of his eyes has dulled into a stormy ocean grey. His hat is stupid and you want to curse whoever bought it for him. There’s no ring on his finger and by the sound of it, no one waiting in his bed. And you, his ex-wife, are here in his lap, your thigh pressed against the hardness that strains the denim of his jeans.

There’s crumbs on your face. He’s seen you pimply on your period and heaving after a bad hangover and squatting in a dark forest after a spoiled MRE (who knew they could go bad). Yet, he still yanked you onto his lap and now his face is tucked into the crook of your neck, sniffing. His nose brushes the skin behind your ear and trails around it until your earlobe is between his teeth. 

“John.” Your hands curl into the khaki fabric of the black button-up he wears. He groans into your neck, shifting you further into his lap. “John, you’re drunk.” He licks at the skin above your shirt and you gasp, the feeling so alien. You’ve been celibate for a year now and this much physical contact, all-consuming with the man you once loved and made vows to, is overwhelming. John doesn’t answer, tongue occupied with licking the salt on your skin. Your view is blocked by his stupid, stupid hat so you rectify the situation by taking it off him and plopping it on your own head. He pulls up immediately.

“You’re drunk too, sweetheart.” He hasn’t called you that in years. Something inside you clenches, too difficult to tell if it’s your heart or your core or the space in between. “C’mon.” He pushes you off his lap and out of the booth, hands at your hips to help you stand. John crowds your back as he guides you to the one-room bathroom. Are you really doing this, with him? The  monsters of your marriage turn out to be just trees when you think back, blurred by the pressure of him behind you.

“We’re not fucking.” The bathroom door opens, and shuts closed with a click. “Tha’s fine.” You’re pressed against the wall. “And I’m not getting on my knees in this filthy bathroom, John.” A knee slots between your thighs. “I ain’t either.” You scoff. “Then what-”

“Y’gonna let me kiss my wife now?” He shuts you up with a kiss. Lips you haven’t felt in ten years, five months, and three days. Not that you remember that last fuck, the night before you agreed to sign the papers.

His hands pull you forward, your clothed cunt sliding against his denim-clad thigh, and you whine with understanding. It was your favorite way to get off (still is, but no one else can do it correctly) when you were together. Grinding against him, the seam of your jeans hitting your clit as you pant into his mouth. Strong hands guide you up and down and wetness pools in your underwear, simple cotton ones you didn’t think anyone would see. You bite down hard on his lips, wanting him to feel your frustration at how well he still knows your body. All he does is smile against your lips.

“Now y’r quiet, pet. Ten years an’ so fuckin’ predictable.” You whimper at the new nickname. His presence has changed from upstanding to all consuming, his words from sweetheart to pet. Lips trail down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. That godforsaken hat is still on your head and almost slips off, but the strap catches on your chin. The pressure in your core is unbearable, encouraged by the firm muscle under you that hits every angle. Your hands curl around the nape of his neck, nails digging into the skin there, wanting to make him hurt a little. To feel the same bodily betrayal that seeps into your veins, murmuring all the reasons this is wrong. Except all it does is urge him on, those paws tugging you up and down.

“Probably soakin’ through your jeans, huh?” He murmurs in between bites to your jaw. “Not possible, would have to be wet for that.” You attempt. He growls, bearlike. “Can fuckin’ hear the sound of you, pet. Don’t play dumb now, I know you’re close.” You give up on being coy and tuck your head into the nape of his neck, losing steam as your thighs burn. He makes up for it, maintaining the rhythm that has something coiling deep in your core.

“John, John, I’m right there, will you-” He bites the juncture of your neck, a vampire in another life. You squeak at the thrill it sends down your spine, at how you tip over and into your orgasm as your cunt clenches and spasms. He helps you through it until you beat at his back and plead for him to stop, your voice almost gone from all your whines. John gently places you on your feet, your head against his chest as you catch your breath. And he just stands there patiently, hands at your waist until your breathing evens out.

“Feel ok?” You nod, then shake your head. “That can’t happen again. It’s not- this isn’t professional and I’m going to be here a while.” His hand sneaks under your shirt and presses into your stomach, like he’s checking for something. “Yeah, baby. Whatever you say.” You tug on his shirt until he meets your eyes, choosing to not acknowledge the hold he has on you. “I’m serious, John.” He kisses a spot near your lips and you mourn that he ignored them. “I’m serious, too. Let’s get you back now.”

It’s a short walk back to base, time passing by as fast as the stars overhead. When you reach the barracks, you shoo him away and tell him to go through the back entrance. All he does is pat your ass before walking away. When you walk through the entrance, smoothing down your shirt, you stop at the light in the kitchen. Ghost sits statue-still, nursing a steaming mug of tea. Eerie, since you thought he and Soap weren’t sleeping here. That thought floats away when he opens his mouth.

“Nice hat, Doc.”

Fuck.

-

comment if you spot the t swift lyric! it's not from this decade (2020s) if that helps...

[eraserbread]

the night u meet your boyfriends nerdy other half doesn't go too well... oh, well. it's not like gojo satoru can ignore you - he's in your chem lectures.

see more of this au :))

➽───────────────���─────────────❥

the night geto swallowed his pride and finally referred to you as his -- his girlfriend, his fuck toy, his situation, its all interchangeable, was the night he introduced you to his 'boy' - he referred to him as. gojo satoru, deans list baby. his unlimited cheating material, and the kid who would move mountains just to see geto smile.

he has an arm draped across your shoulders at the shitty campus dive bar, not paying you any attention as his friends go on about hazings, girls they fucked and hated, and annoying ass professors who they swear are failing them purposefully.

it's all noise. you're over the moon right now, tangling your fingers in geto's longer ones. you wish he would look down and compliment the outfit you wore for him, tonight, but he's with his friends... it's okay if he didn't see you, yet.

it's what you tell yourself. it's what you always told yourself. thank god for the bare minimum.

then, you meet gojo. he slumps through the low-bearing doorway into the bar, ivory hair all ruffled out of place. suguru's still got you by the shoulders, not letting you walk more than a step away from him all night.

when he sees gojo, though, he jumps out of his seat and crowds the kid, pushing his glasses further on his nose and nit-picking at his simple outfit.

"it's just jeans and a shirt."

"but, c'mon, no effort?"

"geto," you whisper, needing to insert yourself into the situation for a few reasons: you had no idea the chem 402 nerd was the gojo he told you about, and you always thought he was the cutest.

"my bad, this is gojo. the chem major I was telling you about." there goes his arm back across your shoulders, pulling you close. he's so territorial, it makes your head spin. "gojo, this is my girl... the one I was telling you about."

geto smirks down at you, so you smile to gojo. he shrugs you off with a sideways smirk, too wary to meet your eyes.

so shy, but so pretty. what an easy go of things...

you watch them bounce off each other all night. geto doesn't drink much... anymore. it's what he told you to have your arm tonight, but he was perfectly fine feeding gojo shot after shot, then beer after beer. the goal was to get the spindly blonde drunk, and it was working a little too well.

it's only when he's drunk, do you get to step between geto and nanami to talk to him.

"you've been my classmate so long and I'm just finding out your name." you smile at him, trying to come off somewhat tame as he swallows, too shy to meet your gaze just yet. "little chem puppy. so cute."

"w-what?" that makes him look at you -- crystalline blue eyes wide and afraid. you bite over your bottom lip, totally conscious of geto next to you throwing flirts to the bartender. "you're calling me cute?"

"well, you're certainly not sexy. glasses aren't my vibe." you tease just a bit. what can you say - you and suguru are a match made in heaven. "mr. all arms and legs. stupid glasses, too. 's not 1994 anymore."

"have you been drinking? is that why you're bullying me?"

"bullying? we're not in fucking middle school either, pretty boy."

geto turns back around just when gojo needs saving. there's a glint in his eye that makes him want to run away and stew with his thoughts away from you. away from geto.

"got that look on your face like you wanna cry." geto leans against the side of the bar like you are. it's just second nature, but you take a step to the left to feel his figure over yours.

"actually, you two are perfect for each other. just mean. I'm gonna head out." gojo's feeling brave, in geto's eyes. must be the liquor - he wasn't having it.

"fuckin' twenty-year-old crybaby. go ahead, then, gojo."

"you can call me when you're not with her," he adds, standing too close to geto when he says it. he stays there for a second, breathing down his face in unwavering eye contact.

perhaps its the aid of your presence, but geto is brave enough to lean forward and chomp gojo's bottom lip. the blonde immediately retracts, covering his mouth and blushing all the way down to his fingertips.

watching him, you and geto laugh. it's that same humiliatingly familiar laugh he had to face his entire childhood. mocking, mean, belittling...

he fucking books it out of that shitty dive bar, leaving you and suguru to feed off of each other for the rest of the long night. what gojo didn't have to know, was the fact that you and geto found any excuse to bring him up.

gojo satoru and his stupid glasses.

gojo satoru and his long eyelashes

gojo satoru and his sweet, caring tone.

[souridealist]

Oh ho ho what if Wade and Logan and pet names 😎

Well this turned out. A length. No warnings besides the canon itself I don't think.

--

Wade will call people fucking anything in the world except their name, Logan is learning.

It’s mostly Logan and the dog who get the brunt of it, which frankly is not a fact that Logan wants to think too much about. Half of what he calls the dog isn’t even words, unless a cuntchkin is something somebody’s invented while Logan wasn’t paying attention, and it better not be. But it’s not just them. Logan only knows Peter’s name from the other Deadpools; their Wade calls him ‘sugar bear’ like that’s a normal fucking thing to call a guy you’re not sleeping with, which Logan’s about 80% sure he’s not.

The X-Men get it over the phone — who is Logan kidding, Colossus gets it over the phone, there’s no one else Wade would be calling his favorite tinfoil sculpture or a sexy sexy hood ornament or whatever’s coming out of his mouth this week. (For a guy who’ll leave the bathroom door half-open while he takes a shit and sing Britney Spears in the shower at three in the morning, Wade is freakishly, quietly kind about that whole… thing; he took a minute to warn Logan the first time Colossus came over, still ducks out of the room to take calls from the mansion, doesn’t ask questions about them even when he’s cheerfully asking Logan if he’s ever eaten ass.) (Logan is two hundred years old and he was a bouncer at a leather bar for a while, which is an answer that shut Wade up for an entire seven seconds.)

The kids get it too, the ones who Logan’s world never had a chance to teach. He hopes they’re out there somewhere, keeping their heads down, maybe living long enough to live out the hate. Ellie mostly gets musicians, Joan Jett and Bikini Kill, which Logan happens to know is four people; sometimes she’s Negasonic Teenage IED or Supersonic Adult Missile or whatever kind of bomb that Wade last saw. Russell gets ‘kid’ and ‘my favorite brat’ and more ways of getting Firefist wrong than Logan would have thought was possible in English, even though the kid apparently hasn’t gone by that in six years.

There’s exceptions, though. Yukio is just Yukio, Althea is only ever Blind Al, Vanessa is always Vanessa. No, Logan doesn’t know why he’s keeping track of this shit, or at least he doesn’t want to look at his own reasons.

 And Logan? Logan’s pretty sure Wade’s just fucking with him at this point, because Logan’s been Log, Clint Eastwood, grizzly bear, knife block, jackass, and baby. If that last one made him blush like a fucking schoolgirl in the middle of the grocery store and furiously examine some beets until he got his face under control, that’s his business. It’s mostly ‘peanut,’ though, and of everyone that Logan’s ever met, only Wade Wilson could ever look at him and decide to call him something that… cute.

And then it turns out that Wade using his actual name can knock all sense and sanity right out of his head. (It’s the third time Wade’s called him by name.)

How it happens is that they’re on the building’s roof, because Logan jimmied the lock on the second day here. At the time he’d wanted somewhere to smoke; he’s since learned that Althea couldn’t care less if he smoked in the apartment, but he still comes up here often as not. It’s nice up here, in between the city and the moon.

It’s late, the night it happens. Logan is leaning against one of the chimneys, enjoying the warmth through the November chill, and Wade is — of course — hopping all over the roof, to start. He’s just Wade tonight; no suit, just jeans and a tank top that hangs low on his chest and one of those loose fuzzy sweaters of his. Logan likes him like this, a little less manic, a little less on. Logan likes him too damn much.

At first it’s just Wade talking, the steady flow of chatter that Logan lets flow over him. Great British Bake Off and the ways it compares to Cutthroat Kitchen and the best food Wade’s had in his life and all the places he’d like to eat one of these days. Then in the middle of the stream Wade adds, “Oh, and Vanessa sent me this thing for a banging good grilled cheese, like, not better than all sex but better than a decent fingerbanging — her words, not mine — so I need to give that a try,” and suddenly Logan’s mind isn’t on his cigar anymore.

“That going well, then?” He wants the answer to be yes. He does. Wade deserves to be happy, and maybe once he and Vanessa pick things back up, Logan can get himself going, get gone, shake loose this thing in his chest before it gets any deeper into him. But Wade just sighs, long and gusty, and then flops a seat on the ground next to Logan.

“Depends on your definition of well,” he says. “Compared to her being dead and me trying to blow up the building so I could go after her, it’s going great. Compared to us getting married and raising a bunch of kids, mmm, not so great.”

“Oh.” Logan keeps his voice steady; he knows how. “So, uh…”

“It’s not gonna happen,” Wade says, soft and somber in the dark, all the rest falling away like wrapping paper off a gift. “Not… in another life, maybe. Some other part of the multiverse, she could’ve been the one. But not this time. Turns out if someone dies on you and you deal with it really, really badly, and then she comes back to life, it makes it really, really hard to deal with anything else that pops up in your relationship. Funny how that works, y’know?” He tilts his head back against the poured concrete. “But the thing is it kind of is going well. I mean, I think we’re friends again. It’s not all… you know, hovering like a bad fart.” Logan muffles a laugh, can’t help it. “It’s nice. I missed her, you know? I missed being with her, but I also just missed her. It’s nice that we can actually, you know, joke around again.”

If Logan tries to say a single word right now then what’s going to come out of his mouth is something awful, something incoherent and sentimental about the way Wade loves, which is damn well. He takes a long drag on his cigar, lets the smoke fill up his chest as if it won’t leave space for anything else.

“Hey, Logan?” Wade says, bumping their shoulders together. “Thanks. I mean, for helping to save my world, big old thank you for that, but also — thanks for sticking around when I asked. Looking after Blind Al, spoiling the dog, y’know. Just… thanks.” The moon and the light pollution catch on the texture of his scars, on his eyes, on the tiny wistful curve of his mouth.

Time jumps about a second and a half, and then Logan’s half-smoked cigar is somewhere on the roof and his hands are on Wade’s cheeks and Wade’s mouth is under his.

He doesn’t pull back. He probably should. He strokes his thumb across Wade’s cheek, the leathery ridges of it, and catches Wade’s lip gently between his, and keeps kissing him.

When the kiss breaks, they’re still close enough that he can feel Wade’s breath against his mouth. Neither of them is breathing easy. Logan can’t think of a single thing to say.

“I don’t —” Wade is ragged, rough, and Logan aches. “Hold on, I’m very confused, that — is this some kind of multiversal culture clash? Are you feeling okay? That was, that was an extremely cinematic kiss, ten out of ten, very romance hero, definite bonus points for the moonlight, God your hands are big, but I really don’t think I’m supposed to be in this scene, I think somebody screwed up, I’m not — why did you do that?”

“Why the fuck do you think?” It’s hard to speak. Logan wants to run like hell and to punch him and to put his claws through his own head and to kiss him again. “I’m feeling fine and I sure as hell wasn’t trying to kiss anyone else. I.” He gives in to it, lets his forehead fall against Wade’s and curls one hand over the back of Wade’s head, just over the ridge of his skull. In for a penny, in for a pound. “The way you are with the people you love, I.” I want that. I wanna try and love you half as good. “I want to stay.”

Wade blinks furiously, eyes glittering. No tears quite fall, which is maybe good, because Logan might do something fucking stupid like try to kiss them and then he’d just plain have to shoot himself. “Aw, peanut. You gotta be — are you sure?”

“Yeah, darlin’.” Logan has to force the words past the lump clogging his throat. “I’m sure.”

Wade’s eyes go very, very wide, and then Logan is being kissed breathless against the chimney, while the cars honk on the street below and the moon gets outshone by the city.

[drivestraight]

yesssss plsss post maxmax in vegas!!!!

i've been toying with different sequels to write/what angles (like, from girlmax pov, from an outsider pov, from some point in the future looking back, etc.) but this is something i had written.

“Fucking hell,” Lando groans, swinging his bag over one shoulder and shutting the door to his McLaren behind him. “I’m gonna have to get used to this, aren’t I?”

They’ve been waiting for Lando outside the hangar, since they’re the last three passengers, and even though Lando’s a bit of a regular, it’d all be easier for the flight crew if they just entered together.

Glaring, Max squeezes Fewtrell’s hand tighter, gives him one last kiss, and flatly says, “Yes,” just to see Lando roll his eyes but grin at the two of them anyway, and they amble over to the jet, where the crew has been waiting for them.

It’s Fewtrell’s first time on her jet, so in their approach, he’s wide-eyed and making these comments about how big it is, and Lando snickers as they come up the steps and says That’s what she said, and then he and Fewtrell bicker back and forth, and Max just listens, a pleasant smile on her face. Makes her feel a little happy that everything’s alright now.

And then Fewtrell goes all quiet as they’re entering the first cabin, where her dad and Raymond are gathered by the fridge—both of whom who don’t even bat an eye—and he’s nervous and squeezing her hand very tight, like a deer in headlights, as they sit down in the back cabin in one of the four-seater blocks.

Next to her, Fewtrell keeps angling his head into the aisle, looking at her dad, and Max, amused, asks, “Do you want me to introduce you two?”

And then Fewtrell goes into this long, incoherent treatise about how maybe it’s too early, but if she wants to, then he’s fine with that, but maybe he isn’t fine with that, it’s just that her dad is kind of scary, and he wasn’t prepared, and Lando sitting across from them almost pisses himself laughing at the whole scene.

Max tells him it’s fine, and that her dad doesn’t really care about things like this, because he doesn’t. Anyway, she already told her team—not Red Bull, but her personal team—that her boyfriend would be flying with them to Vegas, so he already knows.

/

Lando parts ways with them soon after they land, as his team picks him up at the hangar, but Fewtrell’s staying with her, so he shuffles into the backseat with Max, and they’re both tired and jetlagged, trying to adjust to the time difference, and are quiet as they head to the hotel.

They freshen up with a shower, get changed, and then Max, only half-dressed, starts rolling around on the sofa complaining about how she got last-minute swapped out for Liam in the Friday pre-race press con, as Fewtrell configures his portable streaming set-up for today and tomorrow, because he hasn’t streamed much in the past week, and won’t be able to during the weekend.

Then she gets a call from Gemma, saying that the car’s outside and they really need to get going, and Max frowns and says she’ll be down soon. She slips back into the bedroom and puts on the top pair of jeans from her suitcase, then, because it’s going to be a bit chilly at night, she grabs Fewtrell’s hoodie, lying over the foot of the bed.

When she comes out, Fewtrell’s already all set up at the desk, and he blinks at her.

“Are you really going into the paddock wearing that?” he asks, as she’s making sure she has her phone, wallet, and keys.

She looks down at herself. It’s from the new drop. She bites her lip and asks, “Can I?”

They talked about it, a little. How they’re going to keep the relationship quiet, for the most part, until Abu Dhabi, when they’ll both post something on Friday morning. As quiet as they can, because Fewtrell revealed to her that apparently most of his chat already deduced they were together, in the middle of the season.

But quiet doesn’t mean a secret.

He smiles up at her, eyes bright. He pulls her in closer by her hip and says, “I’d quite like it, honestly.”

Max’s phone dings again, and she knows that she’s keeping everyone up, so she groans but takes the time to run her hand through Fewtrell’s hair, dipping down for a quick kiss, before she says, grinning, “Be good, yeah?”

He snorts at her and says, “You too.”

[sergiocanavero]

rereading aftg again when last read was in 2020 and i was a teenager is a crazy experience so

Things I Forgot About , Missed, or Moved On From Way Too Quickly:

renee is so much more present than i remember! and she and neil do end up kind of friends (see: the trio running laps together everyday)

for some reason when i first read it I thought aaron was distant from the upperclassmen mostly of his own volition whoops

forgot just how bangin' the plot structure of tkm is and how well nora builds anticipation

SPEAKING OF WHICH idk if i'm just too familiar with the books and characters but I had zero complaints with the book. like everyone jokes about how it's a "bad story," "mid writing," "problematic," etc, and I used to as well (is it mostly to preempt being seen as cringe for loving the series? probably) but now I don't find any of these qualities to be true!

dude andrew is so fucking normal. i guess i'm jsut so used to him, I remember the second time I read the series I was kind of shocked by how harsh he was. Now everything he does makes such perfect sense, he almost seems chill . Kevin on the other hand?? wildest behavior in all of the first book

someone else brought smth similar up but I can't find it: would andrew have been willing to stab or harm nicky sober? i never questioned it before, but now it makes perfect sense that he would only be willing to do that when he was drugged out his mind

nicky isn't one of andrew's ; andrew is nicky's

andrew's monologue to luther!! all the while holding onto aaron and letting neil help him holy shit. someone kill luther too

every time I read the scene when neil goes to aaron and starts comparing drake death to tilda death to get him to understand I forget where he's going with it (saying andrew didn't want aaron to kill drake) and I get so confused

andrew is so much more quote unquote normal than I remember. like bro was volunteering so much more info about himself than he needed to - he wants to be known!!!!

PARALLELS between robin and kevin, namely: andrew only showing interest and going to join night practices once kevin resists riko by playing with his left hand, But only plays and helps once kevin gets fed up and hits him in the helmet with the ball VS andrew shows interest in robin and her playing exy is resistance to her captor, to being hidden away, but only helps her and teaches her once he pushes her to the edge of the roof and she finally hits him - when they each give up their respective inactions!!

god damn i need robin cross books, please nora

the "I've never understood why he likes knives" scene. holy mother of god

the king's men being far and away the best book of the trilogy. incredibly bonkers pacing, the kidnapping being only the first of three climaxes of the book, the second being jean's rescue by renee, the third the visceral, euphoric final match

I didn't know about "you were always going to lose him" until a few days ago WHAT of course andrew lost his shit kev baby where did that pr training go

but in all seriousness it's so insane for their relationship in so many ways

andrew covering neil's mouth as soon as he says proust's name -> i think i'm going to vomit

NEIL CONVINCED ANDREW TO GO FOR THANKSGIVING I completely forgot about this. what the fuck. what the Fuck. and I think this would have been a lot more irreparable for their relationship if riko hadn't paid drake off

i have never and will never forget renee showing up in the middle of the night for andrew's keys, not requesting, grim and calm and so determined you need to take a breath.

the drama of neil not realizing the buzzer was a goal

Andrew orchestrated their entire match against the ravens. no one understood it, but they trusted him enough. andrew literally won them the championship

andrew would have had to start running the second neil dropped to his knees right???

riko death my shayla. nora's writing is so visceral and this scene. my god, this scene. the face cradle + so much emotion that neil-readspeoplelikeabook-josten couldn't understand him

allison going back to play because andrew tells her about riko <3

renee guilt!!! over seth

renee guilt over not being able to protect allison

renee guilt over not being as good of a goalie (eg first half against the ravens)

monsters (and the rest of the foxes) comfortability with abby

"Same old Kevin, as unforgiving and obnoxious as always" "his tone was fond" - Jeremy Knox knows who kevin day is!! and likes him! not the fake, perfect, polite kevin that the other teams and the press usually see

dan wilds, an obsessive and manipulative babe. and successful at both

"Matt looked at Andrew. "one of these days you have to let me hit [Kevin]." Andrew gazed back at him in unimpressed silence." babe!! matt unafraid of andrew, casual "conversation" between them. I love their potential lighthearted friendship/understanding

[the-shy-skeleton]

[tara-fantastico]

I think a big part of why aftg (the original triology) so often gets referred to as bad writing is because the language is a bit plain. It does have some absolute bangers, but compared to Jean's way with words, a lot of Neil's inner monologue is rather straightforward.

Which is probably largely due to Nora's writing evolving over a decade, but it also works so well inverse.

Given that Neil never was allowed to see the beauty in anything because it was considered dangerous, and was scrutinised by his mother from a very young age to make sure his sole focus was survival, his one track mind makes sense.

Jean, meanwhile, was punished for every little action and behaviour his abusers didn't like while also being told over and over that he himself had no value, but no one ever cared about him enough to warn him of the world. He was not allowed a lot, if any, positive experiences while in the Nest, and he was not allowed to actively want things, but unlke Neil he was never taught to fear pleasure because it itself was a risk, only because he might be punished for it.

Therefore, when they are both free out in the world, it makes sense that Jean is faster to see and express beauty, while Neil takes longer before he can see happiness as anything but bait for a trap.

[mapbottakeamap]

I'm pretty sure consistently not getting a good amount of sleep can like, actually be damaging to your heath. I know Tetsuiji wanted to maximize time on the court but I'm pretty sure having all of this athletes sleep deprived constantly is actually going to make his entire team worse.

[meowyjean]

isaac hugging the book and feeling sparks bc he finally found the words to his feelings!!!! cried my eyes out at 3am! <3

[alifeoffairytales]

Léon Georges Jean-Baptiste Carré (1878 ~ 1942) 1926 illustration for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights'

[sygneth]

Am I lost in some addiction? Or just chasing state of mind? We are trapped by my ambitions. I don’t mean to sound unkind. Hurting people, hurt people, I’m really missing you. But I’m feeling disrespected from the screaming that you do.

inspo song | my DE comic

[wyverningx]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau Characters: Catalina Alvarez (All For The Game), Laila Dermott, Renee Walker (All For The Game), Kevin Day, Neil Josten Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Texting, Established Relationship, jerejean, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, tsc spoilers, navigating a new relationship while still experiencing the Horrors, Trauma, jean and his undiagnosed (as of yet) PTSD, Flirting, dating jean moreau is a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, Insecure Jeremy Series: Part 2 of bare your soul Summary:

As Jean tries to navigate this fragile, tender thing with Jeremy, insecurities and external obstacles plague them both.

[thegrimreaperisanerd]

scrawling through the kim tag (as is my want) and see kim+jean art (which isn't what i want to see, but its public posting, whatever) the artist HAD captioned it "old man yaoi" tho... and like...

we're pushing it when we call kim+harry old man yaoi, i only do it for the bit, but that other guy is in his fuckin' early thirties

you'll be calling cuno old next 😩

[zhniven]

OHHHH THEY'RE UNBELIEVABLE I CAN'T

[luvbug724]

jerejean warriors i respect and i love you i truly do but how did that pairing even get so big while jeanee has 45 fics total. again i truly love and respect u however i wish i could take some of the jerejean fame and transmute it to jeanee.... i want what u have