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drabbles-of-writing · 2 years

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Haunted Hallways

“The Painter”

AO3

Chapters: 1, 3

In which Hunter meets someone far too talkative, much too uncanny, and maybe just a bit familiar, in more than one way.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He was seven when it happened again.

This time, he remembered why he was afraid. This time, his Uncle had pushed himself too hard. Had strung himself thin, had given himself a craving only a palisman could stop.

It was a terrifying sight every time it happened. He’d been lucky enough to be hiding behind Belos’s throne this time around, as his uncle preferred him back there so he could watch as he worked, but not be seen by any of his subordinates.

His uncle had hissed through his orders to the guards, and it’d taken much too long before they were hastily ushered out and Belos managed to dig out a palisman to ease his pain.

He’d gasped and wheezed like a dying animal, groaning and growling noises that echoed in Hunter’s head. His arms contorted and shifted, black goo bursting from his back and wrapping around his throat—

Hunter had run before he could see Belos calm from his frenzy. He probably still would’ve run if he had.

He was likely running to his room. But like he said, hazy memory, so he couldn’t say for certain.

But he knew he was running away, down through the back hallways that only those hoping to move undetected would take, hood pulled over his head as he raced as far as he could.

He remembered rounding a corner, skidding on his feet, and promptly hit what felt like a giant ball of sludge.

He yelped, tumbling to the ground as swears sounded off behind him. His breathing came out in frantic gasps, scrabbling at the carpet as he whirled around onto his back, pushing to get away and on his feet—

A familiar, circular mask stared back at him.

This time, it was different. His mask was covered in cracks, clearly splintered into large pieces at some point before being clumsily glued back together. It was wonky and misshapen, with one eye hole a bit higher than the other.

His outfit was different, too. Cloak lined with two thick, dull-gold lines, the outer line being paler than the other. The hood was frazzled with a large piece ripped out, as was most of the right side, reminding him of Head Witch Deamonne’s shoulder cape. It was probably because of the hole that this figure didn’t bother to have the hood over his head. This exposed crazed, unbrushed dirty blond hair and a long strand hanging off the left side of his face, pointed ears sticking out the sides.

He had a frayed dark brown shirt rather than a tunic, though he still had black pants with a similarly black belt and gold buckle. The boots were thinner and a darker brown than his shirt, scuffed and marked everywhere. This one wasn’t wearing any gloves.

“Oh,” The masked guy said, voice more nasally and higher than the last one, “he is young.”

“You!” Hunter pointed, the figure startling as he sat up. “Is—there you are!”

“Me?” The figure repeated, pointing to himself.

“Yes! Why’s your mask all weird?” He demanded, eyes squinting.

“Why…oh!” The figure perked up. “Oh, you’re the kiddie the others—ohhh I see. Huh, we kinda thought your magical days were over.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.” The figure waved his hand, then held it out. “Sorry about that, kiddie. Need a hand?”

Hunter squinted at him. Then at the hand. No matter how judgemental he looked, the hand still remained.

“…did I make you up?” Hunter wound up asking.

“Pfft, nah.” The figure chuckled. “We’re one-of-a-kind. Figuratively, not literally.” He corrected, holding his hand out further. “You gonna get off the floor, or what?”

Hunter hesitated for a brief moment. But, well, he’d take confusion over fear. So, he gingerly took his hand.

It felt just as soggy and not-quite-solid as the other guy.

“Huh,” the figure said as he stepped back, “dunno why I thought I’d be able to feel you.”

He gave a tug, Hunter’s hand nearly phasing right through as he scrambled up to his feet. But they made it, and as his arm dropped, Hunter noticed that he had short sleeves, whereas the last guy had longer ones.

The one he used to help him up, his right arm, was entirely uncovered due to how burnt his cloak was, with an X scar just above his elbow and two claw-like gashes on the underside of his forearm. His other arm remained hidden under his cloak, unmoving.

Self-consciously, Hunter rubbed at the hidden mark over his left arm, close to his shoulder. That one had been an accident, he remembered, when his uncle got mad at something that Hunter hadn’t been part of.

He didn’t think that was the first wound his uncle gave him, probably not even the first scar. But at the time, he thought it’d been the biggest.

“Was there another guy?” He asked anyway, looking up.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, there was.” The guy nodded. He was shorter than most of the members in the Coven, he noticed. He thought he was shorter than the first figure, but that might’ve been due to the fact five-year-olds are notoriously tiny. “Don’t worry, you’re not going crazy yet.” He teased. Paused. “Well, maybe you are. Sentience isn’t really as obvious for me as it used to be, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I was a figment of imagination.”

“What?” Hunter asked again, blinking.

“Nothing,” the guy waved it off again, “don’t mind me. I ramble when I’m excited.” He chuckled, feet shifting near constantly. “Haven’t talked to a guy like you in so long, Titan below.”

“Like me?” Hunter echoed, feeling a sense of deja vu.

“Yeah, y’know, solid.” The masked guy shrugged. “And not some witch who’s a million years old. Haven’t had that happen to me personally, but I’ve been told it happens. Word of advice;” He said, pointing to himself with his thumb, “people who claim they see guys like us are ninety-eight percent full of it. The other two percent can’t do more than know that we exist, and sure can’t talk to us. You’d be pretty good at that profession, actually.” He said, talking much too fast. “If you keep this freaky ability, that is. I hope you do. Wait, no, never mind, it’s probably better if you don’t. Or maybe it won’t be. You’ll already have inside-jokes when you end up with our lot.”

Hunter slowly blinked at him. The masked figure stared silently back.

“Did I talk too much again?” He asked.

“What are you saying?” Hunter demanded, exasperated.

“Hell if I know!” The guy laughed. “Titan, sorry, yeah, not about me. Where are you off to in such a hurry?” He inquired, looking around.

“Oh, uh,” Hunter cleared his throat, ears pressing back, “I-I was just—wait, no,” he shook his head, “who are you?”

“Pardon?” The guy ticked his head to the side.

“You aren’t wearing a Coven-officiated mask!” Hunter accused, pointing at him. “And-and my uncle sure doesn’t want you in the castle! Or talking to me.” He added quickly. “What-what are you?”

“Oh, dude,” the guy sucked in a breath, “he went down the uncle route this time? Damn, he does love that one, doesn’t he? Yikes. I definitely got off luckier.”

“Answer my question!” Hunter barked.

“You asked multiple.” He pointed out, stepping around Hunter in an inspecting manner.

“Then who are you?” Hunter growled, whirling so his back wasn’t exposed.

“I’m you!” He said cheerfully. Paused. “Well, not in the literal sense. Metaphorically? Genetically? Wait, no, that would just be twins, wouldn’t it?”

“You are not me.” Hunter scoffed, glowering. “I’m me.”

“Oh, good, you still have individuality.” He nodded, satisfied. “Make sure you keep it, Titan knows you’re gonna go crazy without it. It’s a kinda shitty, situation—oh, sorry, shoot.” He corrected quickly. “Can't swear in front of a child.”

“Answer me!” Hunter snapped.

“I just did.” He said, infuriatingly calm.

“No, you didn’t!” He hissed, hairs along his neck raising as he moved back. “You don’t even know who I am.” He muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, sure I do.” The figure said easily. “You’re the Hunter kid,” He continued, as if Hunter’s blood didn’t just go cold, “at least, I’m pretty sure I heard your name was Hunter—no, that’s definitely your name. Which, gotta say, horrible luck on the name department, just horrible, I send my sympathy. But, I mean, I do know you, kiddie. Kind of. Belos squanders a lot, and you’re still in the ‘following him around everywhere’ phase—”

“You don’t—” Hunter croaked, feeling frantic as he coughed to clear his throat. “You can’t know that! You’re not—Belos doesn’t—you’re not even supposed to be here!” He exclaimed desperately.

“Well, obviously.” The guy scoffed. “This place is awful, I can’t believe some of you guys have lived—oh, this is actually a problem, isn’t it?”

Hunter’s heart was pounding again, overwhelmed by the onslaught of words. By the fear of someone knowing. By this figure that Belos does not like. No one was supposed to know, that was the rule.

There were two of them, so it had to be some kind of rank, right? But he wasn’t supposed to know about the rank. Or talk about them, at least. And both of them were transparent, and they were weird and way too personal, and they knew him—

Something moved by Hunter’s face. In a moment of instinct-fueled panic, he hissed and snapped his jaws around it.

And promptly got what he imagined mist, slime, fish guts, cotton, and rotting meat would taste like. And the feel of it.

The panic vanished from his mind in a snap, replaced with him recoiling as fast he could, head nearly hitting the wall and sticking out his tongue as he started hacking.

The masked figure stared at him for a moment, looking between Hunter shuddering and spitting to get the unnerving taste and texture out of his mouth, then down to his hand, which Hunter had apparently tried to bite.

“Well, if it works.” He shrugged, retracting it. “Are we still freaking out? Cause I’m bad at panic attacks. From the perspective of a witness and a haver, for clarification.”

“What the Titan?” Hunter gagged, shoving his hand in his mouth. It also tasted awful, but he’d rather the taste of old leather and sweat than that.

“Yeesh, do I taste that bad?” The masked figure huffed, crouching down a bit, though he gave Hunter his space. “Guess those other pricks were right, biting lemons does work.”

“‘soo alking.” Hunter muffled around his hand.

“I’m gonna pretend I understood that. I’m just gonna ask again; where are you heading, kid?”

Hunter stayed glaring a moment longer. But the guy simply kept his head turned and didn’t move. It was unnatural. Not even a single twitch to signal he was breathing.

Slowly, Hunter removed his shaking hand from his mouth. He was quick to wipe off the spit on his shirt and clasp it out of his own sightline. His hands had been scarred longer than any part of him, longer than he could try to remember, calloused as if they’d dug through solid rock.

And this wasn’t even mentioning the unnatural crookedness to all of it. He kept meaning to use those gloves he stole from the trainees quarters, but they were way too big, and someone might ask.

“Nothing?” The figure asked, then shrugged. “Fair enough. Some of us forget where we’re going, too. Especially me.” He said, pointing to himself. He still hadn’t moved his arm covered by the cloak. “But it’s mostly just directions. Those got messed up a while back. But so did everything else!” He joked, gesturing to himself. “So it fits a theme.”

“Like your mask?” Hunter mumbled, still glowering.

“I put a little effort into it.” The figure scoffed. “I had creativity. Have you ever tried making art when your hand is as useless as a cardboard tube? Nightmarish.”

Hunter squeezed his hands a little tighter, pointedly looking directly at his uncovered hand. At the single scar over the back of it, at the completely average fingers and unmarred palms. At how infuriatingly normal it looked.

“Your hand looks fine.” He spit out bitterly, lip curling. “You're such a whiner.” He growled, jerking his head to the side. “My uncle doesn’t like whiners.”

The figure went way, way too quiet. Hunter shot him a glance from his turned head, noting that he’d gone incredibly still, too. His mask was still staring directly at Hunter. He was starting to prefer it when he never shut up.

Then, slowly, the figure’s hand went across his chest to grip the cloak over his shoulder.

“Ah, yeah, that…yeah.” He hummed, head tilted down. Hunter quickly crossed his gnarled hands behind his back. “Shoulda specified. I still got a working hand, but I don’t know how well yours work, do I? My bad.”

There was a moment of silence. Hunter almost snipped at him for talking about his hands, how it was his fault, he should know his place—but he didn’t. The words got lost somewhere between his throat and tongue.

Then, cautiously, in a movement that looked very grudging, the figure grasped their cloak tighter and lifted it to the side. Hunter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

He didn’t know the words to describe it at the time. But nowadays, he’d call the state of the figure’s arm distorted.

Mangled and twisted in all the wrong ways, though the injuries looked long-since healed over. His arm was bent a tiny bit at the elbow, as though stuck in that position, though that might have been him tensing it. It was notably thinner than his other arm, a clear difference in how much muscle he’d built up on his left side.

There was a long, winding scar all up that arm, as well as other patches of contorted skin. It went up and vanished beyond his sleeve, curling all the way down the rest of it in jagged, disfigured marks and raised skin. It went right over the underside of his wrist, a sight which made Hunter wince, and over the back and palm of his hand.

His hand itself was…well, just as pretty as the rest of his arm. Palm dented in and twisted upwards slightly, his entire pinky and ring finger just gone. The fingers that remained weren’t crooked in the same way Hunter’s were, but they sure didn’t look like they had a lot of maneuverability.

The view couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two. Because then the figure was quickly pulling his cloak back over his arm, holding it shut, even if it already naturally covered the appendage.

“So, you know,” He said, clearing his throat as Hunter looked back up to his masked face turned away, “I get ya. Kind of. On the plus side, you don’t really need two hands to paint, do you?” He teased, a bit strained.

Hunter stared up at him for a moment. The stranger shifted on his feet, and he noticed the fabric bunching where he clung to his cape tighter.

“What happened to your arm?” He eventually asked.

“What happened to your hands?” The figure shot back, far more defensively. Hunter was quick to duck his head and hunch his shoulders, and he heard a scoff. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Sorry.” He mumbled.

“You’re not the first.” He said easily. “But, I mean, you’ll probably be the last. So there’s that. I’d take the questions just to paint again, though. Gets boring out here.”

An uncomfortable air of silence. Not as heavy as silences with Belos would be, but…not the best, either.

“I thought only the Bard’s had paints?” He questioned, if only to stop the silence.

“Oh, yeah, I saw that, too.” The masked figure said, evidently relieved for the change of topic. “That's why those guys were my favorites. Artists gotta stick together, and all that. You paint?”

“No,” Hunter drew back a bit, “I don’t, it…” He bit back a I don’t like how it feels because that was childish. It was stupid to not like doing something because of the texture. Belos had already been mad enough when Hunter didn’t do things because he didn’t like how they felt. It was beyond idiotic to be worked up over it. “I don’t paint.” He settled on.

“Dude, you totally should.” The figure said, sounding like he was smiling. “Or draw. Do you have crayons? Please tell me you at least have crayons.”

“I dunno.” He mumbled, lowering his head. “S’kinda pointless, anyway.”

“Pointless, he says!” The figure outcried, jerking back and putting a hand to his chest, startling Hunter. “Oh, no, we definitely don’t share parts, not in a thousand years. Good grief, we gotta fix that.” He said, spinning around and waving out his hand towards Hunter’s left in a herding gesture. “C’mon, we gotta grab some crafts from the Bard’s old room. Then we’ll see how pointless it is.”

“It’s just art!” Hunter protested, shying away and, unfortunately, in the direction the stranger was trying to make him go.

“Just art, he says.” The figure muttered, herding until Hunter finally started moving, if only so he wouldn’t be touched. “At least use some colored pencils! Chalk! Clay! Do you like clay?” He wondered aloud, Hunter grudgingly moving just so he wouldn’t be bowled into. “I never did, I hated the feeling of dried clay under my nails, but my friend was really good at it, I tell you.”

“I don’t—I think I drew?” He tried, almost walking backwards. “I-I don’t have ‘em anymore, though.”

“Ah, just means we’ll learn again.” The figure waved it off, easing a bit. “Can't go out of practice now, can we? We can build up to the clay. Clay is fine though, right?” He asked again.

“I dunno,” Hunter mumbled, finally managing to scamper to the side as the figure kept moving to where the hallway made a harsh left turn, “it doesn’t matter.”

“Course it does, it’s art.” The figure scoffed. “Who, in their right mind, is gonna make art with things they hate? Defeats the entire purpose.” He clicked his tongue, stopping before the hallway turned. “Name a thing to draw.”

“What? I-I don’t—”

“Anything, doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t know, the-the sky?” Hunter puffed, a bit rude.

“Sky it is.” The figure nodded, turning away again. “C’mon, we’ll need a lot of purples and oranges.”

“Don’t you have work?” Hunter demanded, though he did start to hesitantly approach.

“Haven’t had any for two centuries or so, no.” The figure said easily, slipping out of sight down the hallway. “Time’s weird. Are we getting those crayons, or not?”

“... centuries?” Hunter repeated, pausing for a moment. He didn’t remember how long a century was, but he knew it was a really long time. Which was weird, the guy certainly didn’t act like he was ancient. Hunter picked up the pace, speed-walking to the left turn. “You don’t make any…”

Nothing.

“…sense?” Hunter blinked, staring down the long, empty hallway.

There weren’t any doors in this hallway. And the figure wasn’t walking nearly fast enough to have made it to the end, was he?

But he must have, because he wasn’t there. So Hunter scoffed and rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he sprinted down the hallways, off to where he knew the bards kept their more artsy crafts. Technically, it didn’t fall under their area of magic, but Belos hadn’t stopped them yet.

It wasn’t until Hunter was already at the room, pushing it open with a huff to the dark, empty room with curtains over the windows, that he realized the same trick had been pulled on him. Again.

It was certainly unnerving how silent the room was, and he was quick to grab a box of crayons laying out before hurrying out again, hiding them under his shirt. Just in case someone came by.

He reminded himself to berate the weird artsy guy the next time he saw him. And his lookalike friend. And then figure out what kinds of hidden passageways they had to vanish so quickly.

And not mention it to Belos. He definitely wouldn’t like that.

It wasn’t until he was within the safety of his room, setting down his new stash of crayons, that he realized how odd it was that the bard's art quarters were unlocked. They never left their doors unlocked, always paranoid that someone would steal their equipment.

He pinned it on plain luck. It was a much safer option than the alternative.

#the owl house #toh #hunter toh #golden guards #previous golden guard #ghosts #emperor belos #tw implied child abuse #tw sensory issues #tw graphic scar description #scars #young hunter #confusion #talking to dead people #brief panic attack #weird hands #hunter is negative towards sensory issues but the ghost smacks him out of that bad mindset #haunted #very light angst

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soaps-mohawk · 20 days

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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 35: Threads

Summary: Pack bonds are made up of delicate threads, small fibers webbing together the dynamics and relationships that make up each individual pack. The omega stands in the middle, holding the pieces together, keeping the pack from crumbling by clinging to those threads like a strongman holds pillars up with chains.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 11,740 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, descriptions of physical pain, brief description of drowning, medical stuff, panic, crying, panic attacks, nightmares, PTSD, very heavy emotions, alcohol and brief mention of alcoholism, language, fighting (not physically), Kyle being the best boy, aftermath of trauma, brief mentions of the events of the previous chapter, guilt and shame, angst, and finally some comfort after the hurt (but not quite what you'd expect)

A/N: So I may have been slightly wrong, the angst isn't over, but it's not quite as intense as it has been. There are little tidbits of comfort in this one, though it's not like "okay it's over, let me wrap you in this blanket and everything is fine and happy now". It's...you'll see. If you're waiting for the fine and happy comfort then...you might want to wait a few chapters still. The comfort will come on slowly, but it has officially started.

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Screaming.

Someone is screaming.

It hurts your ears, high-pitched and ringing. Your hands cover them, but even that can’t block out the sound.

It’s ringing in your own head.

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle aching and throbbing. They’ve been locked in place too long, frozen in one position, a safe position. Safety. That’s what you’re seeking, that’s what you’re trying to find. That’s why you’re here.

This isn’t a safe space anymore.

The walls are crumbling, the darkness is fading. There’s light seeping in, threatening to pull you out, make you face whatever is waiting on the other side. It’s not a comforting light, it’s bright and piercing and threatening. You don’t want to leave the darkness. You don’t want to face the light. You want to stay there, stay frozen, stay safe.

Your throat burns, raw and painful with every breath.

It’s you.

You’re screaming.

Hands are flying, mouth open in a scream. It’s a horrible sound, grating and feral sounding. Your body twists and turns as they try to hold you down. No restraints. You’ll just hurt yourself more.

Blood is flying, splattering on the gurney, the floor, the walls. Yours or someone else’s? It’s hard to tell.

Simon.

“Simon!”

He snaps out of his daze, his eyes darting up to look at Dr. Keller across the gurney. Her hand is around his wrist, your elbow knocking against his forearm as you try to fight whatever it is you think you’re seeing. Maybe you’re seeing nothing at all.

“I know.” Dr. Keller’s voice is soft despite the chaos of the moment. Her gaze is firm but comforting. She knows. “I need you to hold her still. She’s going to hurt herself further if she can’t calm down.”

She’s going to hurt someone else too.

The monitors are beeping and screaming. They managed to get a blood pressure cuff around your arm before you snapped out of the daze he’d put you in and started fighting. You’re like a wild animal, cornered and fighting for your life again with a renewed vigor. Renewed for now. If you don’t calm down again, something will give out.

There won’t be any coming back from that.

“Don’t be afraid if you hurt her.” Dr. Keller says, squeezing his wrist. “Bones can be fixed.”

He catches your wrists in his hand, pinning them down against your chest. He uses his weight to his advantage, pushing his arm into you as he leans down so you’re face to face. You let out another scream, fighting against him but he has you beat. He’s bigger, stronger, calmer.

“Look at me.” He says, his alpha rumbling low in his chest. It has even the beta nurses stopping in their tracks to look at him. The only one unaffected is Dr. Keller as she uses this moment to her advantage.

You stop fighting him, breathing in heavy gasps as you stare right up into his eyes. Wild and untamed, pupils dilated in your aggressive state. Dilated out of aggression or dilated out of fear? Perhaps both. Beads of sweat slide down your face, your body hot under his. It mixes with the blood on your skin, blood from your own injuries and from the Shadows you killed. Your cheek is bruised, discolored from broken blood vessels. Your left eye will swell shut soon. He needs to get you calm before then.

It’s almost cute, the way you bare your teeth up at him. He might have thought it cute in a different setting, if your life wasn’t dangling over a ledge right now. A low growl rumbles in your chest, a warning that has his own hackles raising. He bares his teeth back, an answering growl, deeper and angrier, rumbles in his own chest. The nurses take a step back. Even Dr. Keller pauses at the sound.

Yet, despite the threat in his growl, it doesn’t deter you one bit. Your knee drives into his side, making him grunt from the impact, but he doesn’t let up. You’re fighting him again, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold. If he pushes any harder, he might break a rib. You’re going to break something if you don’t stop.

You’re too far gone to recognize anything but fear and danger. You’re only going to fight, only going to attack anything you perceive as a threat. You won’t even recognise him. He has to get you to calm down before you have a heart attack. He considers getting one of the nurses to bring Johnny in, but there’s no guarantee that will work. You’ll just perceive him as another threat, another danger. More people in the room will only make you more aggressive...make your omega more aggressive.

He’s not dealing with you. He’s dealing with your omega in her raw form, the animal deep underneath forced out of her hiding place. Whoever said omegas are weak never had to face one in this state.

He stares down at you as you fight and scream, battering his side with your knees but he can hardly feel the pain. His arm is still throbbing where you bit him, but he can hardly see the blood streaked on his skin.

He has to save you.

He can’t let all of this go to waste.

They’ll never recover if they lose you now.

He moves almost seamlessly, time seeming to slow as he lets you go. He unclips his vest and rips it over his head in one movement, uncaring as it hits the floor with a heavy thud. You lunge up at him but he’s ready, catching you before your lower body can leave the gurney. It’s a risk. A huge risk, but it’s all he can think of doing. It’s hardly the worst place to be if things go wrong, if this fails. If he does fail, at least he’ll know he tried.

He pushes his mask up to his chin, pressing your face right into his neck.

Your nose pushes against his scent gland as he cups the back of your head, holding you there. He projects his scent as strong as he can, hoping it can reach some deep part of your mind, some glimmer of you that’s left in there.

If this goes wrong, you’ll rip out skin and veins with your teeth. He’ll bleed out on the floor before they can even get him on a gurney.

He wraps his other arm around you, holding you as still as he can. Tears prick his eyes as he holds you, shoving away the beeping machines, the panic still thrumming inside of him. Scruffing you was only round one of this fight. He should have held it longer, should have been brave enough to do it a second time.

He can still feel it, your neck in his hand, the way you gave in so easily. You had no choice, he gave you none. It was necessary, it was vital that he did it. You wouldn’t have made it this far if he hadn’t.

He should do it again. It would be easy, just slip his hand down and squeeze and you’ll be gone, lost in your head again and under his control. Maybe then he’d get you to calm down, get you out of this state and free from the danger looming closer and closer.

Heart attack, stroke, organ failure.

Why couldn’t Price be the one to go after you? Why couldn’t it be Price standing here making this decision.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers before slipping his hand down, wrapping it around the back of your neck again.

Pain.

You’re in pain.

You try to fade away again, try to push yourself back into the darkness to avoid the pain, but you can’t.

There’s no escaping it.

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle throbbing. Fire licks at your very cells, burning hot through your veins, scorching your skin. Safety. You want safety again. You want to retreat back into yourself, back into the comfort only the darkness can offer you.

Nowhere is safe anymore.

Tears are rolling down your cheeks, the light pressing closer and closer. It’s somewhere above you, shining down in offending shades of white. You can see it behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to squeeze them together. There’s no escaping this light. There’s no retreating back into safety. There’s no safety anymore.

You’re underwater, slowly rising to the surface. There’s sounds around you, muffled and dampened by the water. You need to breathe, you need to inhale precious oxygen but you can’t get to the surface fast enough. Lungs burning, your fingers claw at the water but you can’t reach it, you can’t swim fast enough.

Your hands curl into soft fabric as you cough, choking on imaginary water. There’s warmth surrounding you, pressed in on all sides. You’re leaning against something, something hard and solid and warm. The sounds are louder now, mixing into a convoluted cocktail of constant noise. You hate it.

Pain ripples through your throat as you let out a groan, the sound catching and cracking on the rough edges of your vocal chords. Another choked sound leaves your lips, pain rippling through your very nerves. The skin on your face is burning, simmering ashes being fanned by every tear sliding down your cheeks.

You’re crying.

There’s a deep sound coming from under you. It’s vibrating against your body, your pulsing ears focusing on that sound. It’s familiar. You’ve heard it before, somewhere back in the recesses of your mind.

Your mind.

It’s there. You can feel it beginning to take shape, thoughts beginning to form out of the fractured darkness. You’re not in your mind anymore, your mind is in you. You’re a being inside of a body, a body wracked with pain. The urge to retreat back is strong, but you can’t. That part of you has been closed off, sealed away by the light.

Fingers and toes twitch, tingling and throbbing with the cold despite the fire blazing its way through your veins. It is cold, your hand pulling at the softness you’re clinging to. The low vibration begins again, rumbling through you, igniting something in the back of your mind.

You know it. It’s familiar.

Something tingles in the back of your mind, starting to come to life. Despite the agony there’s something in there, something warm and comforting. There’s no name for it, no thought flashing through the swirling mass of neurons slowly taking shape. It’s soft and warm and whispering to you.

Wake up.

Wake up!

Your eyes open before you can stop them. You’re immediately blinded, eyes throbbing from the bright white light above you, a high pitched whine leaving your lips. It rattles through your throat, broken and squeaking through your shredded trachea. You clench your eyes shut again, wincing away from the intrusive light, the movement sending a bolt of pain through your body like an electric shock. You let out another garbled sound, your fist tugging on the fabric it’s clenching.

“I know, I’m sorry sweetie.” A voice says, the light disappearing before another takes its place, softer and lighter and less painful.

Your eyes crack open again, still throbbing despite the light being removed. Your entire body is throbbing, pulsing like an exposed nerve. You feel like an exposed nerve, weak and vulnerable. It triggers something deep in your brain, the light starting to dim. Something is rising, something is coming. You want to lay back, let it take over, let it take control. You want to sink into the darkness again. The darkness is safe, the darkness is secure.

The beeping is getting louder. Beeping, that’s what that sound is. There’s something beeping. It’s getting faster and faster. You’re starting to go numb, the tingling in your fingers and toes fading away. It’s not so cold anymore, the ache in your limbs fading into oblivion. You’re fading into oblivion.

“Oi! None of that.”

You’re awake. You let out a disgruntled sound as the warmth and comfort leaves you, deserting you in favor of retreating into the recesses of your mind again. A shiver runs down your spine, your very skin tingling with pinpricks of pain as it goes.

“Open your eyes again for me, love.”

Your body moves before you can tell it not to, your eyes fluttering open again. You’re squinting despite the bright light being gone. Any light is too much, your mind seeking out the comforting darkness once more.

Darkness makes you vulnerable.

In the dark, you’re blind to things that may be hiding there.

No.

No more darkness.

You want the light.

Scents flood your brain as your eyes fully open, slamming into you like a wave. It’s too much, nearly choking you again as you try to register everything. The burning scent of sterilizer, the soft scent of clean linens, the harsh scent of chemicals. There’s a soft scent mixing in with the others, something easing the turmoil in your mind just slightly. Above all else, though, is the intense smell of leather and something soft and fresh. It overpowers almost all of them, standing out distinctly. It makes your nose throb, something tickling in the back of your mind. You’re afraid of the scent, yet...there’s something else. Something...familiar.

“Back with us yet?” The sound rumbles under you again.

“Nearly there.” Another voice says. “Heart rate is coming down again. Still feverish, though.”

You’re suddenly aware of your body again, the pains, the aches, the burning, the cold. You’re trembling, your skin prickling from how cold it is. You try to press forward against the warmth in front of you, but the movement has pain slashing through your very cells. Another pathetic whine tears through your throat, every movement sending stabbing pain through your very being.

“C...C-Cold.” You manage to croak out, the word forming clumsily on your tongue. It feels heavy, like you’re relearning how to speak.

“I know.” The softer voice says, something dragging across your skin. “We’re trying our best.”

Something moves against your back, dragging against your skin. Whatever it is, it’s warm, but it’s rough. You push into it, something telling you to get closer, to wrap yourself in it and let it suffocate you. Somehow it’s comforting to you, somehow it’s familiar.

Slowly thoughts and sensations begin to return to you, your mind dragging itself from the depths it had sunk into.

It was purposeful.

You did it to save yourself.

You’re shaking for a different reason now, suddenly aware of the parts of your body that ache the most. Your shoulder, your cheek, your throat, your wrists. There’s a deep chill that has settled in your bones, sinking past the fever and the pain, past the memories beginning to resurface, past the hopelessness and the anger and the fear.

“Simon?” You croak out, the name burning its way through your dry throat. You desperately want something to drink, anything to ease the burning desert in your mouth.

“It’s me, love.” The sound rumbles under you again.

Leather. Eucalyptus. Warmth. Alpha.

You groan, trying to shift closer but the tensing of your muscles has pain screaming through your body. A shuddering breath leaves your lips, your body tensing until it passes.

“Try not to move too much.” The other voice says, a hand coming to rest on your arm. You’re still clutching Simon’s sweatshirt in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this earthly plane.

It might be.

“Dr. Keller?” You croak out, recognizing that voice.

“I’m here too sweetie.” She says somewhere behind you. “Take it easy, you’ve had a rough go of it.”

She’s not wrong.

The memories are coming back slowly, each one playing through your head like an episode of some fucked up television show. Except, it isn’t a television show. It’s your life.

You hate it.

“John?” You ask, trying to get your tongue to work, but you desperately need water.

“Probably yelling at every person who crosses his path.” Simon says. “He was blazing a path to hell and back earlier trying to get ahold of anyone he could yell at involved in this.” He rubs your back. “He’ll be here as soon as he’s calmed down. Kyle and Johnny are working overtime trying to help restrain him.”

You'll always be a second thought.

“You?” You ask, unable to form the whole question you want to ask. Why are you here and not with your pack?

He's quiet for a moment. “We got here before John and Kyle did.” His hand stills against your back, palm pressing below your shoulder blades. “You wouldn't let anyone close to you. The doc said it's normal, coming out of that state. I had to help keep you calm so you could get patched up. Then you wouldn't let me leave.”

Your fingers ache from how hard they're gripping his sweatshirt. He stayed. He's the one here with you, not your alpha.

You let out a groan, the pain starting to intensify. There’s a throbbing in your calf, and a deep ache starting to pulse in your joints. You’re almost glad for it, the turmoil in your mind starting to twist and fog your thoughts pushed aside in favor of the pain screaming at the forefront of your brain.

“Time for more pain medicine.” Dr. Keller says somewhere behind you. “You’ll probably get sleepy, but rest is what you need right now.”

You let out another groan, pressing your face back against Simon’s chest. Despite the pain in your body, there’s an even deeper ache in your chest. It’s not a physical one. Your alpha isn’t here. He’s left you again, abandoned you in favor of something else, something he deems more important.

Tears are brimming in your eyes as they slip closed, the exhaustion and the drowsiness from the pain medicine taking over.

It’s not quite so cold when you wake up next. It’s brighter in the room, the light not quite so artificial as it had been the first time. There’s no body against yours, no warmth seeping into your skin or scent in your nose. Your fingers twitch, almost like they want to seek it out again.

You’re alone.

You let out a quiet breath, your brows furrowing. Your shoulder aches, throbbing in time with the beep of the heart monitor. It hurts less to move as you shift your arm to itch the other. It’s horribly itchy, but your fingers meet gauze instead.

Right. Phil had cut you there. Not very deep, but still deep enough to hurt. Just another injury to add to the list.

You try to lift your arm but burning pain shoots through your shoulder. You wince, letting out a quiet moan of pain as you drop it back into the bed. You breathe as the pain shoots through you, swirling through your veins before it begins to settle.

“You shouldn’t try to move too much.” A voice cuts through the silence.

Your head whips to the side, your arm shooting out to grip the side rail as pain burns through your body like lava. It seeps slowly from your left shoulder down to your toes and into your very hair follicles. You let out another groan of pain, your eyes squeezing closed as you wait for it to pass.

“Sorry.” The voice says softly. “I suppose that didn’t help any.”

You open your eyes, still breathing heavily as the pain begins to fade. Your hand is still wrapped around the side rail as you stare at John. He’s seated next to the bed, his elbows on his knees as he stares at you. He looks tired, eyes puffy with dark circles around them. He’s in a simple green shirt and cargo pants, yet he’s not quite as put together as he normally is. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his beard scruffier than normal. There’s a faint pink line of what was probably once a cut on his cheek.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in weeks.

You should be happy.

You should be ecstatic.

You should be relieved.

Yet, all you can feel is pain and anger and betrayal.

“There’s nothing I can say that will make this better.” He says, his voice rougher than usual, even after returning from a deployment. His eyes shine with emotion. You hate it. “There’s nothing I can say that will undo what happened.” He runs a hand over his mouth, letting out a breath through his nose. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. We should have known better, we should have questioned it.” He shakes his head. “We put too much trust in those above us, and we were all fooled.”

Tears blur your eyes as you stare at him. He’s not just talking about Shepherd and the initiative. He’s talking about you too.

“I regret it more than any decision I’ve ever made. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life,” He continues. “You put your trust in me, and I failed you. I let this happen to you because I got too caught up thinking about the greater good of the pack and I ignored what was right in front of me. You’re here because of me, because of the decisions I made. I had one job, and now you’re paying for my failure.”

He pauses for a moment, tears shining in his own eyes. You should feel surprise, sympathy, something. All you can feel is hatred. He doesn’t deserve to cry over you. He doesn’t deserve this chance to try and explain himself to you, to try and give excuses for his actions. He made his choice. He made it very clear where his loyalties lie, where they’ve always been, where that line was laid before he even claimed you. It was never about you. Nothing was ever about you. It was always the initiative, and then when the initiative turned out to be false, it was about the ‘greater good’. You should have been the greater good. You should have been their focus. Instead they all betrayed you.

They betrayed you in the end.

“I made a bad call.” He continues on. “I shouldn’t have left you there. I shouldn’t have made that decision. It never would have played out how I thought it would in my head at that moment. Now you’re here, like this, because I made a stupid mistake.”

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s waiting for you to say something, as if you should have something to say in response. He’s waiting for an acceptance to his half-assed apology, as if his words can somehow undo the pain, the burning in your wrists, the throbbing in your shoulder, the agony every time you simply move a limb. As if his half-assed apology can somehow undo the weeks of depression and anguish and the worry and the fear. As if his half-assed apology can make up for the way they all cut you off, treating you like a traitor before abandoning you. As if his half-assed apology can undo the hours and hours of torment and pain the man you once thought of as a family friend unleashed on you all because of them.

The hatred burns almost as hot as the lava in your veins, so hot you’re surprised the tear that slides down your cheek doesn’t start steaming. Your heart rate is picking up again, the monitor beeping with the sound of the anger simmering inside of you. The blood pressure cuff squeezes around your arm, a grunt of pain cracking in your throat.

“Yeah,” You say, your voice hardly more than a whisper. You turn your head away from him, wincing as an electric shock of pain jolts through you from the motion. You drop your hand from the side rail before he can touch you, tucking your arm back under the rough blanket. “You did.”

You have nothing more to say to him.

John enters the room solemnly, the silence nearly palpable as they all wait in anticipation. They’re all looking at him, waiting patiently for their captain, their alpha, to speak. They always look to him, they always rely on him, they always trust him and now look where he’s led them. So rarely does he make the wrong decision, so rarely does he lead them astray.

What happened this time?

Why did he so easily turn them away from you? Why did he so easily turn his back on you?

What words are there to say? He knew his words would do little to calm the raging storm inside of you, the hurt and the pain and the betrayal they put you through all because of him.

The rejection still hurts, but it should. They all rejected you as soon as they left you behind.

It’s only a fraction of the pain you must be feeling.

“How is she?” Kyle asks, breaking the tense silence.

“Upset.” He sighs, sinking down in a chair.

“Fuckin’ sure she is.” Johnny snaps, anger radiating off of him in steaming waves. He’s been on edge, they all have, since the four of them were reunited. He had been there, stuck in the hall as you screamed and fought. He thought the worst when your screams cut off until he was finally updated by one of the nurses leaving the room. “Of course she doesnae want to see any of us! We just fucking left her, just like that, and it was your fuckin’ fault!”

Simon grabs his beta before he can throw a fist at John, holding him back. Johnny lets out a string of curses none of them understand, fighting against his alpha. Simon holds him tightly, the image of your bloody form fighting against him still at the forefront of his mind. He grips Johnny tightly, muscles straining. Johnny is bigger. Johnny is stronger.

He has half a mind to let him go.

John doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch as Johnny yells and rages. He’d welcome a good beating right now. He could use some physical pain to distract from the ache in his chest.

“Calm down,” Kyle says, getting in Johnny’s face. “I said calm down!” Kyle yells, Johnny stilling for a moment. It’s not often Kyle raises his voice at one of them. “We’re not doing any good being upset with each other. We all made mistakes over these last few weeks, especially these past few days. None of us are guilt free in this. We all have our omega’s blood on our hands. Fighting amongst ourselves will only fray the bonds more than they already have been.”

Johnny deflates with a sigh, standing there in Simon’s arms for a moment. Kyle is right. They all can feel it, the way their bonds are fraying. Their pack is resting on a dangerous ledge, tipping back and forth with every strong emotion, every argument, every sour feeling. They’re all holding onto that bond, trying to pull it back to keep it from falling into the abyss. As angry as they are with each other, just one of them letting go will be the end of the pack.

“There’s nothing we can do to change what happened.” John says, looking up at the other three. “Kyle’s right. I led us all in the wrong direction, but we can’t go back and change it. We can’t undo what happened to us, we can’t undo what we did, we can’t undo what we...” He lets out a breath. “What I let happen to our omega.”

“She won’t trust us again.” Simon says, his hands still shaking as he releases Johnny. They haven’t stopped shaking since he scruffed you a second time.

“She won’t.” John affirms, no matter how badly it hurts him. “She won’t forgive us either. The best we can do is to give her what she needs, what she wants. Right now that’s space. Dr. Keller will keep us updated as things develop.” He pushes himself up to stand, looking at each member of his team, of his pack. They all share the same guilty look on their faces, they all hold the same anger at themselves deep inside. “This may be the hardest mission we’ve ever had. No matter what we feel...none of that matters anymore. What matters is keeping our pack together. What matters is that we keep those bonds from fraying. We lose ourselves, we lose everything.”

“Still sore?”

You nod, wincing as it sends a bolt of pain through your body.

“I know.” Dr. Keller says, adjusting the ice pack on your shoulder. “Hurts like a bitch, but luckily it won’t cause any lasting damage.”

You blink at Dr. Keller, staring at her for a beat. You don’t think you’ve ever heard her curse before. You’re not sure she was ever capable of it.

“What? I use swear words. Sometimes.” She says, almost like she can read your thoughts. “Sometimes expletives fit the moment better than any flouncy, sophisticated words do. This feels like the proper situation to use some.” She lets out a sigh. “Your shoulder will be the worst of the pain, at least physically. The mental pain...well, that’s not something I can treat with pain medicine. Shouldn’t, would be the proper wording there.”

Some people do use it to numb the pain.

“We all made a lot of bad decisions these last few days. Your support system, those you were supposed to be able to trust, failed you.” She stares down at you, emotion shining in her eyes. It’s a mirror of John’s own stare when he’d looked at you, but this time there’s no anger burning inside of you. Dr. Keller didn’t betray you. Dr. Keller will mean her apology, because you know that’s what’s coming. “I know you’ve probably heard this a lot over the last few hours, but I am sorry too. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that. I shouldn’t have fallen for that phone call...I should have been there.”

You stare up at her, tears pooling in your eyes. If she had stayed, things would have been worse. It was almost better she left you. You can’t lose her. You need her now more than you ever did.

Tears streak a flaming path down your face, a choked sob tearing its way through your trachea up through your lips. It burns your throat, no amount of water you’ve had in the last few hours has been able to ease the ache that’s taken up permanent residence there.

Graves choked you. It’s the bruising from his hand squeezing your windpipe making you ache. Your voice may never recover, may never go back to normal. Crying hurts, hurts more than just your mind, your chest. It hurts your whole body, yet you can’t stop.

“I know, I know.” She says, petting your hair as you sob. “I’m not going anywhere this time. We’ll get through this, okay? It’ll be a long road, but you won’t be walking it alone. You’ve got me, and you’ve got your pack.”

Your gaze hardens at the mention of your pack, the sob in your throat coming out almost as an angry grunt. The thought of them makes your chest ache, the pain of their betrayal burning hot in you. “I don’t want them.” You whisper.

“I don’t blame you.” Dr. Keller says, leaning against the side rail of your bed. “They let you down. The betrayed your trust in a lot of ways. They made you feel abandoned, and then abandoned you when you needed them most, even if they thought they were doing the right thing at the time. You have every right to be angry at them, upset with them. They hurt you in the worst way they could.” She pulls the blanket higher over you, tucking you in. “You’ve gone through a lot these last few days. Some very traumatic events, on top of being injured and your body going through extreme stress. You’re exhausted in every way you can be. Rest first. Worry about everything else later. Doctor’s orders.”

“I did it to myself.” You say before she can walk away.

She turns back to look at you. “What?”

“I made myself distress.” You say. “I made my omega come out.”

“That was very brave of you.” She says, giving you a soft smile. “Sometimes we have to take drastic measures even knowing the risks. You did what you had to in the moment and I think it was the right choice. You didn’t know what was going to happen, what was happening. Things worked out and you’re still here. That’s all that matters.”

You think about her words for a moment. You did make it out. The fact you’re here means someone found you, someone saved you. Someone scruffed you.

“It was Simon, wasn’t it?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to that.

You wouldn’t let him leave.

“You’ll have to ask him for the whole story, but yes. He’s the one that rescued you.” She adjusts the blanket around you again. “Get some rest.” She moves the call button closer. “I’m on the other end of that button if you need me.”

You stare up at the ceiling after she leaves, counting the tiles above you. It looks like every other ceiling you’ve ever seen in a doctor's office or clinic or hospital. It’s not all that different from the ceiling in the med center on base.

Base.

You don’t ever want to see that place again. You don’t want to step foot in the barracks, you don’t even want to think about the clinical sterility of the buildings and the cold comfortless spaces meant for nothing more than to serve their purpose. Just like you. You served your purpose. You proved their point, even if it was never the true point of the initiative. Packs will get stronger with an omega, but it will come at the detriment of that omega.

The job always comes first.

There was a time you thought perhaps it wouldn’t. Maybe they could put it all behind them and put themselves first, put you first. Then they proved they can’t. They won’t even put you first when you’re at the threat of being tortured. You were hurt because they wouldn’t put you first. You are hurt because they wouldn’t put you first.

You don’t care about them. You don’t care about their excuses. You don’t care about the bonds or the claims or the emotions.

You’d be happy if they left you here. Just a few days ago you were panicking about them leaving you, about them deciding you weren’t enough and abandoning you.

Now you wish they would.

“Has she said anything?”

“Not much.” He sighs. “She won’t see any of us. I can hardly blame her.”

“You made a choice, John.” Kate says, hands wrapped around her cup of coffee. “Choices have consequences.”

“You were right. Then again, you usually are.” He sips at his tea. Bitter without milk, but then again, he’d prefer a glass of whiskey right now over tea. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I don’t think you can.” Kate takes a sip of her coffee. “She’s going to decide when she wants you to fix this, if she wants you to fix it.”

John lets out a sigh. “We’re her pack, it’s our job-”

“You’ve failed at your job.” Kate says, her gaze hardening as she stares at him. “You’re good at being a soldier, you’re good at being a leader, you’re good at saving the world, but that’s not your only job. You have a responsibility to take care of your omega, and you failed. You made your choice, and you turned your back on her. She’s not a soldier, John. She’s never been tortured, she’s never been left for dead, she’s never taken a life before and here she’s been through all of that in the span of two days. You made a choice, John. You made a choice knowing damn well what the consequences would be.”

He sits in silence, staring at Kate. It’s not often she gets mad at him, the frustration evident on her face. It’s a mirror of the anger and disappointment on the faces of his packmates. They’re all feeling the weight of his decision, of his mistakes. They’re all feeling the weight of their rapidly fraying bonds.

“You have a choice to make now, John.” She stares at him pointedly. “You pick up the pieces from this, you all take the time to recover and heal. Then what? Things aren’t as simple as we thought they were, John. None of us knew what was going to happen. We were all so focused on the potential benefits that we all overlooked just how much of a detriment this would be. Your omega hasn’t had a choice in anything in her entire life. Every decision has been made for her, whether or not she wanted it. She has had no say in any of this. She’s been nothing more than a variable in an experiment, a statistic, a number, a list of pros and cons. She’s been reduced down to nothing more than an object.”

John winces at her words, the weight on his shoulders growing heavier and heavier. He’s treated you as nothing more than an object, even if not directly. Leaving you so easily, yelling at you when you made an innocent mistake, letting you be tortured because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse.

“We all know she’s more than that. Far more than that. But she will never have any say in anything, unless you let her. Outside of your pack, she has nothing. In your pack? She should have the loudest voice.” Kate leans her arms on the table, shifting closer to him. “Right now she has no voice because you’ve proven where your loyalties lie, and they’re not with her. You have one more decision to make, John. Do you keep standing where you are, put the job first and wear your omega down until she’s nothing but an empty shell? Or, do you take this chance while you have it and finally put her first?”

Kate pushes herself up to stand, grabbing her cup of coffee. John’s not used to feeling small. He’s used to being in charge, being the captain, being in control. People look to him, they listen to him, he’s the one everyone turns to when things go to shit to lead them out.

He’s not even capable of doing that anymore.

“Your life as you knew it ended as soon as she was placed in your pack. It’s up to you to decide how it continues.” Kate leaves with those heavy parting words, the door clicking shut behind her.

John stares down at his cup of tea, the cup half full, or perhaps half empty depending on how one looks at it. It feels more than half empty now, spilling slowly through some microscopic hole in the side. It’ll only be so long before that hole will widen, worn down by the weak paper the cup is made of, the liquid eating away at the cup until there’s nothing but a puddle of tea on the table, slowly rolling towards the edge to dip onto the floor.

That microscopic hole started as soon as they left you alone for the first time, and none of them were aware enough to even notice it.

That hole is a gaping wound now. The contents inside turned acidic as soon as he cut you off in his disappointment, as soon as he started digging into the belly of the initiative. That acid has been eating away slowly at the fragile bonds that were in place. Fragile. They really were. No matter how strong they all thought those bonds were growing to be, they were built with fear and anxiety and uncertainty. Uncertainty of the future and what it may hold, anxiety towards a new pack and an entirely new shift in lifestyle, and fear of one day losing a pack member.

Bonds built upon such frailty can hold no weight should one piece fall.

How strong can bonds really be when you live with that knowledge, that constant fear that someone could die at any time? Someone in the pack, someone you’ve bonded with, someone you’ve grown a relationship with, might leave and never return because of the risks of their job. How strong can those bonds be? Was that the point of the experiments all along, the 141 and the initiative? Testing the limits a pack could be pushed to, testing if bonds could be formed in such a high stress environment and if so, how strong they’d be? What limits would they have gone to, to test that theory? Would they have gone to the point of sacrificing one of them to test those theories, had the truth not come out when it did? One wrong decision, one wrong step in the field and everything can crumble. Would they have gone to that length to test just how a bonded pack would react, if they could still function after everything?

The sacrifice was you.

Kate is right. You’re not part of their world. You’re not a soldier, you haven’t been conditioned to live with that fear, you can’t be conditioned to live with that fear. You shouldn’t have to be conditioned to live with that fear. You had no choice in this. None of it. From the moment you presented, nothing in your life would be yours. From the moment you presented, you would never make a choice for yourself again.

The sacrifice was you.

And he played right into their hands.

The cup is blurring as he stares at it, his eyes blinking rapidly.

They say an omega is the balance that holds a pack together. It’s a delicate bond, a single thread coiled around the structure of the pack. Wear that thread down until it snaps and everything crumbles. How long have you been fraying? How long have you been silently screaming for help, desperately trying to hold the pieces of the pack together like a strongman holds two pillars up by chains? You never had chains, you’ve been holding everything together with sewing thread, fighting desperately to keep the pieces from crumbling at the risk of being torn in half.

How long have you been silently screaming?

It’s all his fault. He’s been wearing you down, he’s been fraying that bond fiber by fiber. He’s been standing there watching you fight to hold the pack together while screaming at him to help, screaming at him to take one of those threads and hold at least half of the weight for you.

That’s what he’s supposed to do.

The threads have snapped. You were torn in half by the weight and those threads are gone. They’re crumbling, the bonds coming undone, unraveling minute by minute, second by second. They’re losing each other because they lost you.

He covers his face with his hands, not even bothering to try and silence his sobs.

Something has pulled you from the sweet arms of sleep.

It’s dark in the room, the only light coming from the one behind the bed. The curtains are drawn over the window, keeping you hidden from the darkness outside the window. It’s late, or at least you think it is. You can’t quite see the clock in the darkness with your one good eye. It’s fuzzy in the darkness, too far away for you to truly find where the hands lie.

Shadows fill the corners of the room, oppressive and claustrophobic. The longer you stare, the bigger they seem to grow as if they might suck the light right out of the room and swallow you in darkness. The longer you stare, the more it seems like there’s something there, something hidden in the darkness.

Something is staring at you from the shadows. There’s eyes on you, your skin prickling from the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. The more you stare into the darkness, the more the shadows begin to take shape, forming monstrous beasts just being held at bay by the light.

“Hi, darlin’.”

No. No, no, no, no.

“Miss me? It’s been a long time.”

You shake your head, your heart monitor starting to beep rapidly as your heart pounds in your chest. “N-No.”

Phil sits forward in the chair in the corner, his face coming into the light. It is him, blonde hair, blue eyes, that disarming grin on his face. He can’t be here...unless he escaped before your pack could catch him. Did they manage to catch him? You don’t know. You hadn’t even thought to ask about Phil or his whereabouts. No one informed you either.

“No? You didn’t miss me?” He tilts his head, his eyes shining with faux hurt and disappointment. “That’s not very nice of you to say. I thought your father taught you your manners. Have you forgotten them in the time you’ve been away.” He tsks, shaking his head. “Those boys have been letting you get lazy.”

Your breathing is picking up, panic starting to fill you as you stare at him. It’s impossible. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. He couldn’t have just walked onto base and walked into the medical center, could he? Corporal McKinney fooled everyone for months and drove right off base with you in his car and no one said anything. How much would the guards at the front entrance of the base take as a bribe to let him in?

Why isn’t your pack outside your door? Why would they let him in?

They had to have put out a warning. Someone should have put Phil’s face everywhere, sent out a message, something.

He lets out a sigh, pushing himself to stand. “I guess I’ll have to teach you some manners myself.”

The glint of metal catches your eye, the icepick catching the light as he steps closer.

“No, no,” You shake your head, your fingers scrambling for the call button.

Not again. Please, not again.

Your fingers close around the call button, your thumb pushing it over and over and over again. Someone has to hear it.

He lifts the ice pick, reaching out for you...

You’re being shaken. A scream tears from your lips as you struggle, trying to get away from whoever is holding you. Your body is alight with pain but you wait for more, for the ice pick to drive into your scent gland again, open the wound and light your body on fire once more. You expect it to come down again and again, filling your body with holes so you bleed out on the floor.

Where is your pack?

“Easy, easy. You’re alright.”

You know that voice.

You’re sobbing, your brain slowly beginning to come back into consciousness. You had been asleep. You were dreaming. The light is on in the room, the harsh fluorescent a welcome presence for once. The shadows are gone, dissipated by the bright light overhead. Phil is gone, wiped away with the rest of the shadows.

He’s nowhere to be seen because he wasn’t there in the first place.

It was just a dream. It was just a nightmare.

There’s a hand on yours, gently easing your fingers from the call button. You’re still trying to press it, your thumb moving almost automatically. You started pressing it in your sleep.

“You’re okay. Breathe for me.”

It’s Dr. Keller’s voice. It’s her arms wrapped around you, trying to stop you from moving as much. Your body is screaming in pain, but the panic flooding your body makes you almost numb to it. The pain in your chest is screaming with every rapid inhale, tightening and tightening the more until your fingers and toes start to go numb.

“Deep breaths.” Dr. Keller says, her own breaths slow as she holds you. “In and out.”

The inhale catches, the air shuddering into your lungs before you hold it, trying to force your body to calm down, just like the two of you practiced so many times. The heart monitor is beeping rapidly, another thing that must have translated in your state between wakefulness and sleep when Phil had shown up. Your heart is beating rapidly, thudding in your chest almost violently. It’s been through a lot these last few days. You wouldn’t be surprised if it just gave out suddenly.

“Phil.” You gasp out, still trying to slow your breathing. “Phil was here.”

“It was just a nightmare.” Dr. Keller says calmly, keeping her arms wrapped around you. “No one has come in or out of this room besides me. The guard outside won’t let anyone else in.”

Guard. There’s someone outside the door. Your pack? No. She would have said so.

Where is your pack?

Phil was never here. It was just a nightmare.

The last two thoughts repeat over and over in your head like a mantra as you start to cry, sobs wracking your body. You hate it, the fear, the terror, the anguish you felt as he lifted that ice pick, ready to stab you with it.

“I hate it.” You croak out, voicing your thoughts for the first time in a few hours.

“I know.” Dr. Keller says. “It’s normal to have nightmares after a traumatic event.” She adjusts her hold on you, tucking you against her chest. “It’s your brain trying to process what happened, trying to work its way through the trauma of the last few days. It’s cruel, but it’s a necessary part of healing.”

Healing.

Are you healing? Can you heal after everything? The pain is intense, not just outside but inside as well. The hurt, the anger, the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the depression, the rage, the betrayal. It’s too much. It’s so much all at once. You hate it. You hate that this happened in the first place. You hate that you have to go through this, have to heal, have to live through more nightmares.

You hate your pack. That’s why they’re not here.

For all you know they’ve left you. For all you know they’re on a plane back to the UK.

Why would they want a broken, angry omega?

“I just want to be okay.” You sob, face pressed against her shoulder.

“I know.” She says, cradling the back of your head, keeping you tight in her arms. “I'm so sorry this happened to you. I know words can't change that it happened, words can't make it all better, but we'll get you to where you're as okay as you can be again. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to get you there.” She leans her chin on the top of your head, squeezing you against her chest. “We'll get there, no matter how long it takes.”

How long will it take? How long will your pain and suffering drag on for? Your body will heal eventually, but will your mind? Are you going to be this way for the rest of your life? Will you ever know peace again? But...have you ever really known peace? Your home growing up certainly wasn’t peaceful. Your presentation wasn’t peaceful, and neither was life at the institute. Being chosen by the FBI for this initiative that never existed in the first place certainly wasn’t peaceful. Despite how happy you became with your pack, even that life wasn’t peaceful. What little peace you thought you had was upended in the blink of an eye.

How easily everything crumbled.

Will it be possible to put it all back together again?

Do you want to put it back together again?

Alcohol is easy to find in a place like this. Soldiers gravitate towards whatever crutch they can find to erase the nightmares they live in. It numbs the pain and the brain and keeps one sane, or at least that’s what his father used to say.

Of course his father would drink himself into a stupor every Friday night, and he’d wake Saturday morning still in his chair with a full breakfast waiting for him.

Much like his father, John has lost track of how many times he’s filled his glass.

It’s been a long time since he’s gotten this drunk. He shook that habit after a shameful morning over ten years ago. He’d just gotten back from a bad deployment, one that gets labeled as a “mission gone wrong.” It failed under his command. He lost a lot of lives, not just his fellow soldiers. He’d drunk himself past a stupor and woke up passed out in a bush covered in vomit outside the gate with a rather angry CO over him.

He shook the habit after that, easing himself to just a glass every so often on those days he needs to take the edge off, on those days he needs to numb the aches.

Then Kyle came along. Kyle, his sweet beta with his ethical moral compass. His sweet beta who deserved a better life than what he was pulled into. Dutiful, loyal, principled. A good soldier, but a better man than John could ever be. He could fall into Kyle, bury himself under those soft touches, the soothing whispers, the comfort Kyle could offer him. The screaming in his head became less and less as he allowed Kyle to do what he was meant to do at his core.

Comfort.

Then you came along.

He found himself turning to the liquid medicine less and less because he could bury himself in you. He had an omega, he had someone he could lean on, someone who understood without having to be told. The bond between alpha and omega is something so sacred and special, something to be cherished.

And he threw it all away.

He downs another glass, staring at the almost empty bottle. It had been sealed when he got it, brand new and fresh. He can feel it, the fogginess of alcohol clouding his brain. The world is swirling, melting together. He can’t feel much of anything anymore, yet that pain lingers deep in his chest.

The bond.

It’s like an open wound, gaping and pulsing. Eventually it’ll slow, eventually it’ll give out. That bond will be cut and everything will crumble.

It’s all his fault.

He ended things, he ended the pack, he ended the bond, he ended you.

Would Graves have killed you? Would Shepherd have given those orders if they pushed onward, if they caught up to him? Graves would have done it slowly, taken his time, reveled in it. They would have gotten a video of it, hours long as you were tortured to death, zoomed in on your face as the life left your eyes.

The thought makes his stomach churn. He wants to vomit at the mental picture of you laying there, covered in blood, those lifeless eyes staring at him. Eyes that once shone with life and happiness. Despite everything you had been happy. Despite everything that spark inside you was never extinguished. A fiery little thing that would give what they gave right back to them.

Now you’re not even smoldering.

You’ve been reduced to ashes, and it’s all his fault. It’s all his doing.

He skips the glass this time, drinking straight from the bottle.

“Have you seen John recently?” Kyle asks, standing in the doorway to their temporary living quarters. It’s a single room with two bunk beds. Far too tight of a space for their quickly souring dynamics.

“No, not recently.” Johnny says, lifting his head up from his pillow. He’s been crying again. “You, LT?”

LT. They argued earlier...more like yelled in each others’ faces until they had to be separated at the risk of things getting physical. Kyle’s not even sure what they had been arguing about in the first place. Probably something miniscule and unimportant. Everything seems to be setting them off like grenades. Pull the pin and watch them explode. They’re all on edge, all of them feeling the distance growing wider and wider despite their best efforts to stop it.

“No.” Simon says simply, staring up at the bottom of the bunk over him. He’s flat on his back, hands folded on his stomach. He looks like a corpse, might have been mistaken for one if it hadn’t been for the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s still in his mask. He hasn’t taken it off since he arrived in the field.

It’s late, but none of them can sleep. None of them have been able to get much sleep since they arrived nearly two days ago. Weeks without good, decent sleep wears on the brain too.

“If he comes back here, text me.” Kyle says before closing the door, resuming his search for their missing captain.

John has been beating himself up for nearly two days now. Kyle’s never seen his captain quite so distraught and lost. He’s blaming himself, which in all fairness, he should be doing. It is his fault. Kyle will be the first to point blame in this situation, but none of them are truly blameless. None of them questioned it, none of them even argued with him on that decision. They followed blindly as they were supposed to for the first time in a long time. They didn’t question their captain, their alpha, their leader.

He hates himself for it.

Why didn’t he question it? Why didn’t he argue? Why didn’t he voice his opinion, fight back against that decision? He trusted his alpha when he shouldn’t have, and you paid for it.

He’s glad he didn’t have to see you. He’s glad he didn’t have to face down the state Johnny and Simon found you in. He’s glad he didn’t have to see what you looked like even after the blood had been cleaned off and the true horror was revealed.

He hasn’t gone to see you at all.

He’s not sure he could handle it. You won’t care either way from the sound of it. You’ve been reduced to a shell, silent and empty. You’ve barely said a word since this morning, instead just lying there and staring at the ceiling according to the doctor when she’d updated them this afternoon.

Your body will heal slowly, but your mind will remain a battleground.

He leaves the barracks, looking up at the dark sky. It’s clear tonight. He’d probably see the stars if there wasn’t constant light pollution around the base. What do the stars look like here? He’s stared up at the stars constantly in the last few weeks in places there was little light pollution. His only comfort about being away from you so long was the knowledge that you were under the same sky. Be it day or night, the stars were overhead. You wouldn’t be able to see them either way, but they were shining for you too.

Now you’re both under the same stars, but you’re both still so far away.

He lets out a sigh, lowering his gaze. He has a job to do, a captain to find.

“Where are you John?” He breathes, looking in all directions, trying to decide which way to go next. He had stopped in at the med center already, but he wasn’t there. No one had seen him, even the doctor. He’s searched everywhere he could think to search, but his captain is nowhere to be found.

John will kill him if he requests a base-wide search.

He walks around the side of the barracks, hoping maybe he’ll run into John coming back this way. Usually he wouldn’t bother searching for him, but with his mind how it has been, Kyle can’t help but be worried. Even with the bonds fraying between them, he still has that instinctual need to make sure his alpha is okay. Instincts can’t be ignored. No matter how much bonds between packs fray, instincts will always remain the same.

That’s why he still feels that urge to go and see you.

John will kill him if he requests a base-wide search.

He knows how self-destructive John can be despite how composed he makes himself appear. He’s only seen his alpha in that state once, and he has a feeling he’s about to a second time.

He leans against the wall with a sigh when he reaches the other side of the barracks. Nothing. No sign of him. No texts from Johnny or Simon either. He’d asked Dr. Keller to let him know if he shows up in the med center too, but there’s been nothing. No word. No signs.

Maybe he should just give up looking. John will find his way back to the barracks eventually. Or he won’t.

That could be tomorrow’s problem. A distraction, a mission, something to give them purpose and force them to unite again.

Find their missing captain. Find their missing alpha.

He turns back around to follow the sidewalk back to the front of the barracks when he hears shuffling footsteps dragging on the concrete. He turns, squinting into the darkness between lamps as a figure stumbles through the shadows, muttering under its breath. He knows that voice, he knows that figure.

John.

John stumbles forward, nearly falling but Kyle reaches out, catching him. His mind is racing, silently checking for any blood, any sign of injury, but there’s nothing.

Maybe everything is finally getting to him. Maybe his body has finally been pushed to the limit and it’s giving out. He’s having a medical emergency.

“Easy, sir.” He says, trying to calm his panic as he fights to keep John upright despite John’s body wanting to fall the rest of the way onto the ground. Kyle takes a breath in, catching the sour scent of alcohol wafting off his captain.

Not a medical emergency, then.

He sought out some liquid comfort instead.

The thought makes Kyle’s chest twinge still.

“’S all over.” John slurs, his weight getting heavier and heavier. “Everything is over.” He turns his head, blinking slowly. “Kyle?”

“It’s me, sir. I’ve got you.” He slings John’s arm over his shoulders, making his weight easier to hold.

“Kyle.” He slurs again, the two syllables blurring together. “Too good to me, Kyle.” John pulls his arm free, stumbling forward.

Kyle just manages to lessen his fall onto the concrete, making sure John doesn’t smack the back of his head at least. He’ll have some scrapes and bruises tomorrow, though. Right now he probably can’t even feel it. If he was responsible, he’d take John to the med center, let him sleep off the alcohol on the safety of a gurney, but that would probably just cause more problems for everyone.

John would be pissed when he woke up.

He lets out a sigh as he stands there, staring down at his captain. John’s on his back, eyes up and focused on the sky, hiccuping every so often. He’s never seen his captain quite this drunk before, though he has heard stories of when John was younger.

“I’ve killed her.” John mumbles. “I’ve killed all of us.”

Kyle drops to a knee beside John. “You haven’t killed anyone.”

“She’s fading away. Soon she’ll be gone.” He murmurs. “We’ll go too.” John pushes himself up to sit. “It’s all over. Everything is over.”

Kyle grips John’s arms before he can fall back again, holding him in place. “Nothing is over yet, sir. We can still do something. It’ll just take time.”

John turns to look at him, his eyes hazy and far away. “Kyle.” John says his name softly, reaching out to brush his fingers across Kyle’s cheek. “Pretty boy.” He slumps against Kyle’s chest, his weight nearly making both of them topple over. “Too good to me, Kyle.”

“I care about you a lot, sir.” Kyle says, rubbing his back. “More than I think you realize.” He murmurs the last bit more to himself than anything. Not that John will likely remember any of this in the morning. “We should get you in bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

They do. They have to decide what to do next.

“Come on.” He says, hauling John to his feet carefully. John lets him, letting Kyle wrap his arm around his shoulders.

It’s slow going, Kyle half dragging John back to the barracks. He’s quiet at least, only the occasional scuffle of his footsteps as he stumbles breaking the quiet night. He gets John back to their room fairly easily, easing him into the other bottom bunk across from Simon. The room is still and silent aside from the occasional sniffle from one of the top bunks.

He grabs the blanket from his own bunk, draping it across John instead. Maybe in his drunk state, the scent will bring him some comfort, help ease that ache inside of him.

He’s hoping John’s scent will do the same for him.

“It’ll be alright, sir.” He says, making sure his captain is comfortable. He stands up, staring down at his Captain. “Everything will be fine.”

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

John stares down into his tea as they sit around a table. His head is throbbing, pulsing heavily behind his eyes. It’s his own damn fault, going out and getting drunk like that. He hasn’t done it in years, yet he couldn’t stand the pain gnawing away at his chest. Alcohol hadn’t fixed it. It’s still there, still pulsing away. The alcohol had only numbed it at least for a few hours, and if anything, it made it worse.

“Kate left this morning back to DC.” He says, glancing up at the other three members of his team. “They're still working on cleanup and helping Alex and Farah track Shepherd. I spoke with Dr. Keller this morning. We’ll be able to fly out soon.”

The words hang heavy in the air. He hadn’t mentioned you at all, but he’s not sure he could without breaking down. You are improving slowly, Christine had said, giving him a sympathetic look as he squinted in the harsh fluorescents. She knew. She could tell just by looking at him. She’s that good at her job.

He’s glad they have her. He’s glad you have her.

“Where are we going tae go?” Johnny asks.

“We can’t go back to base.” Simon says.

“You’re right. Going back to base is too risky.” John says. “Shepherd could have eyes there already. And with her mind where it is...” Taking you back would be too much too soon, even without the risk. One of their own had already betrayed them once. They can’t trust anyone anymore. “We need somewhere secluded and quiet. Somewhere no one will know we’re going where we can lay low for a while.” Both out of necessity for their safety, but also for your sake.

It falls silent between them. Shepherd knows all of their possible safehouses, all of the places they mind go to stay hidden. Those only they know off the record are hard to get to, requiring miles of hiking. You wouldn't be up for that even without the physical injuries, and they doubt you'd let one of them carry you. If they had to get out quickly...

“My parents have a place,” Kyle says, glancing up at them from his own cup of tea. “Out in Cornwall. A cottage near the cliffs. It’s quiet, secluded. No one knows about it but us. Tourist season is over too. There won't be many out there poking around this time of year.” Anyone wandering around out there that close would be suspicious.

“It’s a good option.” Johnny shrugs.

“It’s our only option.” Simon says.

“It’s exactly what we need.” Kyle says. “Trying to rent this time of year will only draw attention, and we can't trust we won't be ratted out. Shepherd likely still has allies. We were betrayed by one of our own before.” Kyle says.

“You're sure no one else knows about it?” John asks, looking at his beta.

“Just my parents and my siblings. They wouldn’t ask any questions if I told them it was being used.” Kyle shrugs. “It might be our best option.”

John looks around at them. It is their best option for now. He knows Kyle's family is just like the rest of theirs. They know they can't know and they won't ask questions.

“We had a conversation once, months ago.” John says. “She told me she wanted to live next to the sea someday. She wants to be close enough that she can smell it and see it.”

He pauses thinking back months ago after Simon left, after you were so affected by his absence. That conversation when you asked if he’d ever leave for you, when he told you if your life was ever in danger because of them he’d leave in a heartbeat. He’s made a liar out of himself. He broke his promise, so many promises, made not just to you. Not just to the pack.

He glances at the other three, fighting back the lump in his throat, the endless threat of tears that has been rising like the tide and threatening to drown him at any moment. He’s made his decision, he’s made up his mind.

You have to come first.

His priorities have changed. There’s no initiative to follow, no orders to be given out. Kate was right. This is their moment to change things, this is his moment to change things. His pack will follow. Despite everything, they’ll trust him to make the right decision. They won’t hesitate to challenge him anymore, but there’s still that deeply ingrained trust in their alpha and captain.

The alpha comes first.

No, the omega comes first.

He takes a sip of his tea, bitter without any milk, but it’ll do. “She wanted to be close to the sea.” He looks back up at the other three having made his decision. “Taking her there might just be what she needs.”

NEXT ->

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #task force 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #poly 141 #John price x reader #captain price x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Simon ghost riley x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #Johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #Kyle Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #Kyle gaz Garrick x reader #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

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gemstone-roses · 10 months

Text

Keep me warm

Summary: reader is terrified of storms, soaking wet, she shows up at hannibals door, terrified and needing comfort. Size kink. Cock warming.

Warnings: 18 plus only. NSFW, descriptions of a panic attack, cock warming, size kink, smut, hurt/comfort. You know the drill.

A:N- thankyou for requesting this I have been thinking about this scenario ever since! Hope your okay! Much love ❤️. I know you said you'd be fine with hc but you get a whole fic instead🥰 also I got rained on so much last week and now I'm full of cold I HATE this time of year ugh. I hope you like this I really do 🥰🥰

This might be one of my favourite things I've written.

You regret every decision you've made leading up to this point.

Grey clouds gather above you, you look up, wincing.

You thought you could make it home before the rain. Only wearing a light jacket, definitely not equipped for the kind of weather about to unleash on your head.

Fuck you whisper, hands clenching as thunder rolls in.

You shove your jacket off and hold it above your head in a pathetic attempt to retain at least a bit of dignity. You know you can't make it home with the storm, your anxiety already heightening with every crack you hear.

But you can make it to hannibal.

He's the only one who knew of your fear. Having to reveal it one day when you were both on the way to a crime scene.

The rain falls hard on the front of the car, wipers working overtime to clear it, your amazed hannibal can even see through the haze of rain. Your breath hitches as you hear the beginnings of a storm. You hoped he didn't notice. But this is hannibal. Of course he did. He glances over at you, sees your chest heaving and pulls over.

"Y/N" he says softly, shifting in his seat to face you.

But the rain is coming down so fast and hard and it's like you can feel it, in your soul. Your head spins as you try and take a deep breath. Hannibal places his hand on your thigh and squeezes, once again calling your name. When you don't look at him, he reaches out and grips your chin gently.

His face is flooded with concern

"I- can't

You push your hand into your chest, trying to ease the weight that's settled there.

"I know, I know, y/n, keep your eyes on me, okay?" Hannibal soothes.

You force yourself to keep looking at him, his big hand still rests cupping your chin, applying a slight pressure.

"Good" he smiles, hannibal weighs up the options in his head. Getting out of the car is out of the question, and he asks "do you trust me?" And you nod, so hannibal unclips your belt and says "Come here" before pulling you onto his lap. He immediately holds you tight, pushing you into his chest. "It'll be over soon my love" he soothes as he holds you against him. You can hear his heart beat as you lay on him, and eventually it calms you.

By the time you knock frantically at his door, your positively soaking wet, teeth chattering, tears blending in with the rain running down your face.

Hannibal opens the door and your hit instantly with a wall of warm. His brow furrows in concern as he takes in your state.

"S-storm" you mutter, looking down at the floor before you feel two hands wrap around your waist and pull you into the house.

Hannibal immediately pulls you into his embrace, placing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You shrink into his embrace, his presence beginning to melt away the fear you felt.

Shivers rack your body, cold setting in, hannibal holds you tighter.

'I've got you' he says.

"Come on, let's get you warmed up hm?" His hand comes to cup your face as he speaks.

He leads you to the lounge, where the fire is roaring.

"Let's get out of those wet clothes my love" he says, his hands rest lightly on your waist. Waiting.

You look at him, his eyes blown wide, hannibal swallows visibly.

"Would you like me to leave while you change?" He asks.

"No" you whisper.

Hannibal lifts your soaking shirt over your head. His breath catches in his throat as he does, lips parted slightly as he takes you in.

You slip out of your pants just as hannibal places the dry shirt over your head. It falls just below your knees.

Hannibal runs his fingers over your neck "you, are exquisite" he says, slightly breathless.

Heat rises to your face, warming you. Your still shivering slightly though, and hannibal of course, notices.

"Come here" he whispers, sitting down on the sofa and pulling you on top of him.

You let out a moan as you feel his cock against you, sitting deliciously against your core.

Hannibals cock hardens even more at the noise you made.

"Your still colder than I'd like darling" he says seriously, running his hands up and down your exposed thigh.

"Mm" is all you manage to say.

"I was working on my memory palace, when you knocked"

"M sorry" you mutter, ducking your head.

Hannibal tuts, lifting your chin to look at him.

"No, do not apologise, but, I do need to finish my thoughts" he says as his cock twitches.

"How about we stay like this until I'm done hm? And then I'll cook and you can spend the night?" He asks.

You nod.

"Words, darling" hannibal says sternly.

"Yes" you breathe out.

You shift slightly, his clothed cock pushing against you making you drip with need.

Hannibal grips your hips and stills you.

"Not until I'm finished" he grins. Before pushing you back slightly so he can free his cock from his pants.

You watch in awe as his thick cock springs up against his stomach.

Hannibal places his hands back on your hips before guiding you to sit on his cock.

You close your eyes, pleasure overtaking you as he sinks inside.

"No my love, you keep your eyes on me" he says, his voice gravelly.

"Hanni, please" you whisper, his cock filling you stretching you so good.

He ignores you. Continuing his thoughts as he twitches his cock every now and then inside you.

He keeps one hand gripping your chin, looking at him as you warm his cock.

"You feel so good, sitting on my cock like this, so perfect" he says.

Your chest heaves at his words.

"M so full, please, I need you" you choke out, feeling every ridge of his cock inside you, he pushed himself up on the couch slightly, causing him to hit another spot inside you.

"Fuck" you cry out.

Hannibal smirks, before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him. He begins to trace small patterns on your back.

"Hanni, it feels so good" you whisper into his chest, clenching around him.

"I know my love, just a bit longer I promise, your doing so well for me".

You whine at his words, and hannibal keeps talking to you like that, you relax into him, his cock still snug inside you as he holds you, warming you up, as you warm his cock.

#hannibal x reader #hannibal hurt/comfort #hannibal imagine #hannibal smut #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter imagine #hannibal lecter smut

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flowerandblood · 1 month

Text

The Price of Pride (1/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: the angst, kidnapping and imprisonment, abuse of power, violence, panic attack ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

It took him a long time to bring her to the Red Keep. Too long, to his frustration – while Aegon on his throne preferred to loudly announce to his subjects things he could not provide for them, he acted in silence, trying to ensure that he was always one step ahead of their sister-whore.

When Larys Strong's spies reported to them that Rhaenyra was seeking dragon seed among the bastards in King's Landing his brother laughed, but he, their mother and all the lords were horrified.

This meant that the slight advantage Vhagar had given them was going to be in vain, as she stood no chance in a confrontation with so many dragons.

Helaena was riding Dreamfyre, but at his words to move into battle with him she covered her ears and turned her head away, saying she would never burn anyone. Daeron's dragon was still too small, so that left him and Aegon, who was the King and could not die, on the battlefield.

That was not enough.

And then it dawned on him.

Rhea Royce must have been devastated after learning that her hated husband's seed had taken root in her womb. The whole kingdom knew that she and his uncle loathed each other sincerely, and while he stayed in King's Landing, she remained in Runestone.

He thought she certainly felt satisfaction when she gave him a daughter, although the Rough Prince wanted a son.

According to rumour, she was born accompanied by her mother's loud groans a few months apart after his own birth, and was supposed to be the reason Daemon waited with murdering her mother: he did not want the burden of caring for a newborn child to fall on him.

Though he would never admit it out loud, of the many lords or bastards born of dragon seed, his choice was guided not only by her close kinship to their family, but also by the fact that having her by his side could be a humiliation to his uncle, a show of his strength, prudence and sheer malice.

Of how dangerous he was not only because of Vhagar.

He had prepared an ambush for her with reverence, through Strong's spy network weaving servants close to her into his plan.

He had no idea what kind of woman she was, whether or not she resisted, whether or not she could wield a sword like her mother, but he received a letter weeks later that they had succeeded, and Daemon's daughter was heading for King's Landing against her will.

He felt a pleasant tingling in his fingertips at the thought of what he would be able to do with her: if he found her pretty and humble enough, if indeed she succeeded in taming a dragon, he could try to invalidate his betrothal to the Baratheon whore and allow her to receive the honour of bearing his heirs instead.

His own dragon inheritance.

When she finally arrived, she was, much to his mother's displeasure, placed in a dungeon – he wanted her to understand that her situation was serious and that any answer from her that did not satisfy him would end in one way.

Her death.

He went down to the underground with the guards and dismissed them when he stopped under her cell with the torch in his hand, its light exposed her face to him.

She was sitting on the ground with her knees tucked under her chin, her head raised towards him, the look of her eyes frustrated and grim, her dark brows arched in displeasure.

She was not afraid.

For now.

He looked at her figure from top to bottom, finding that he had imagined her differently: he had hoped to see any Targaryen features in her. However, her long hair was dark, her eyelashes long and black, like a fan surrounding her brown eyes, which were as big as those of a doe.

Clearly it was her mother's blood that prevailed, he thought with disappointment, however his face remained stony.

"Do you know who I am, woman?" He asked coldly, the corner of her mouth twitching, her gaze softening as if his words amused her, making him feel uneasy.

"It's hard not to guess." She replied without any pleasantries.

He licked his lower lip in a gesture of frustration, recognising that he would not allow himself to be verbally dominated by her.

He had to knock her off her guard.

"Do you understand why you're here?"

She sighed heavily, looking down at her fingers, suddenly tired and small, like a child who wanted to go to sleep already.

"Because of my father, I guess. You are wasting your time. I don't represent any value to him. He will not pact with you for my sake." She said, and he snorted, grinning broadly – she looked at him in surprise, as if she hadn't expected such a reaction from him.

"You are mistaken. We need your blood."

She shook her head, shocked by his words, raising her shoulders in a gesture as if trying to defend herself against what she just heard.

He liked the look of terror on her face, no doubt at the thought that they were about to cut her wrists open and drain her of blood like an animal.

"We will find one of the wild dragons hidden in the mountain caves and you will try to claim it. You will die, or you will succeed and join the war on our side." He said coldly, and she burst out laughing, as if she hadn't heard a greater foolishness in a long time, causing his jaw to clench in fury.

Stupid cunt.

"I know nothing about dragons or their riders and have no desire to learn about them. This, I think, is something that is destined for those endowed by the gods with white hair. I have no intention of sacrificing myself for your family. Behead me or burn me, but spare me this farce." She sneered, looking away, as if she thought she could get away with such impudent words.

She picked herself up and took a few steps back as he unlocked her cell and a moment later he was beside her, dropping the torch to the stone floor, grabbing her by the neck, her body and head hitting the wall hard.

He stared at her for a moment, listening to her heavy breath as if she was choking, panic in her big, brown eyes.

Fear suited her.

"Do you think I'm asking you for your opinion? You will serve me, and you will serve me well, or I will burn not you, but all of the fucking Vale. Only dust and ashes will be left of the people you knew. Is that what you want, my Lady?" He scoffed, and she shook her head quickly, her lower lip quivering all over, her small, soft hands clenched on his wrist.

He leaned over her, digging his fingers deeper into her delicate skin as if he wanted to break her neck.

"So we have an agreement, as I understand it?" He whispered, as if asking her a secret, something only he should hear.

Her eyebrows arched in pain, her plump lips parted in a deep, shuddering breath as she nodded, her warm gaze filled with pain and regret at the same time.

Was she now begging in her mind for her father to save her?

For him to come to her rescue?

The thought made him want to laugh.

"Mmm." He hummed, looking at her red eyes and full lips, feeling a strange kind of intimacy now that he could feel her veins, her blood, dragon's blood, pulsing under her bare skin.

Their shared heritage.

His seed was stronger than Daemon's, he thought with a confidence bordering on vanity.

Their children would have his white hair.

He felt arousal at that thought, his length pulsed softly in his breeches.

He let go of her, and she took a deep breath, sliding to the ground, clutching at her neck where he'd driven his fingers.

"You will be moved to one of the chambers. You will not lack anything. Serve me well and no more harm will befall you." He said in an offhand manner and simply left, satisfied with how childishly simple it was.

The women and their soft hearts, their despair at the thought that someone else might lose their life because of them, their eternal pondering and tenderness that made them so weak.

"I have heard of your success, brother. I was told we had a visitor in the Keep." Said Aegon, glancing at him, seated at the other end of the table, while his hand played with the marble green orb lying before him.

"Yes. She will obey us. I will personally prepare her." He said, resting his elbows on the table top.

The King laughed.

"You, brother? What does your beloved betrothed in Storm's End would say about it?" He sneered, glancing at the lords around them as if asking if his joke was in fact funny.

He grinned, trying to contain his anger and that familiar, unpleasant feeling of humiliation rippling through his chest.

"Who else would do this? You, with your superior knowledge of the language of Old Valyria will teach her commands and behaviour towards a wild dragon?" He asked, looking him straight in the eye.

His brother grew pale and swallowed hard, tense, feeling that he had lost this battle.

"Bring her in." He ordered.

Soon the door to the room opened, and she walked in, accompanied by the guards: she was wearing one of his mother's old brown gowns, its red sleeves reaching to the ground. Her hair was loose but not in disarray, falling gently down her back, as if she had not let any servant touch it and combed it herself.

"Come closer, cousin." Said Aegon with a smile, raising his hand and nodding, clearly wanting to encourage her.

She reluctantly took a few steps closer, looking around the assembled people anxiously, finally meeting his gaze – she stopped for a moment at his face, as if she was thinking hard about something, and then turned her head away, suddenly tired and resigned.

Good, he thought.

There was no need for her to stand up to him.

"We are overjoyed by your presence, even though you were brought here under not very pleasant circumstances. I hope you will quickly forget about these… discomforts and support us in our cause. My brother is extremely eager to prepare you for this." Aegon said, her lips twitching in a grimace that he didn't like when he mentioned him, but no words left her mouth.

"Are you not glad to face your father? Did he not forget you and abandon you for so many years?" Continued Aegon, their mother looked at him and shook her head, wanting him to stop.

She lifted her gaze to his brother-king and looked at him for a moment, her expression gentle and calm.

"I have nothing to say to you, cousin. Do with me what you wish."

A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell around them – he feared what Aegon would do with this insult – the fact that she had humiliated him by simply calling him her cousin, speaking to him without proper etiquette or manners.

Aegon pressed his lips together and leaned forward, as if thinking hard about something.

"Our family has forgotten you. Left you the fuck knows where, motherless and fatherless. And I am deeply sorry for it."

He looked at him shocked, not believing that he had said such a thing, apologised to her even though it was she who had offended him, and then looked at her face – her eyes turned red, her lips parted slightly, as if he had stuck a needle straight into her heart.

What was he doing?

Aegon spread himself comfortably in his chair with a loud creak of wood, smiling with satisfaction.

"You may leave."

He did not know why he had been furious all evening, why, bent over the maps of Westeros, planning his fucking war, he had been unable to focus or calm himself.

He knew why his brother had done it: he wanted to bond with her, to show him that he was the one she would obey, that he was in control of the situation, that he was the King.

"Bring our prisoner." He ordered loudly so that the servant who was just taking the tray from his table heard it.

"As you wish, Your Highness."

When she walked into his chamber she stopped immediately behind the door, which closed behind her with a loud clatter. He glanced up at her dispassionately and looked again at the books he had taken from his shelves, which he had often browsed through as a child.

This was his legacy, not hers.

But he had to do it.

"Come here. Sit down." He said dryly and after a moment he heard the rustling of her gown.

As she sat in the chair beside him he smelled her, some kind of oil that scented of field flowers, chamomile or daisies, and he thought that she had taken a bath.

Something in that thought, in the idea of her bare, soft body sunk in the warm water, made his manhood throb pleasantly, tingling heat spreading through his lower abdomen.

He moved one of the books towards her, open to the page on which was written what he wanted to discuss with her.

"Can you read?" He asked coldly, and she threw him a look from which he felt like grabbing her cheeks and shaking that little head of hers.

She didn't answer, which frustrated him even more, clutching the volume in her hands and leaning over it, following the text with her eyes.

So she could read, he thought mockingly.

"The dragons understand the language of Old Valyria, and this is how the dragon riders communicate with them. You have to learn to speak the commands properly." He sighed, running his hand over his face, feeling tired and discouraged.

"Dohaerās means serve. Rȳbās means listen. These are the most important words, right next to Lykirī, which commands a dragon to remain calm." He said, tilting his head back, closing his eyes. "Repeat."

Silence.

He pressed his lips together, opening his eyes, thinking he was about to kill her with his own hands.

He looked at her, wanting to hiss to her that he was going to slam her head against the table until she dutifully recited each of the words he was ordering her to repeat but his voice stuck in his throat when he saw the look on her face.

He had the impression that although she froze in stillness, her whole body was quivering, as if she was cold.

Her eyes were open wide in fear, and even though her lips were pressed into a thin line she was breathing heavily, as if she were suffocating, her fingers clenched on the back of the book.

Was it possible that she had heard these words before, had read a book similar to this?

Did Daemon try to teach her the language of Old Valyria when she was a child?

He didn't know what he should do, feeling that if he touched her she would just fall apart, so he merely looked at her, wondering how such a person was supposed to tame a dragon.

He rose from his seat as if burned, snapped out of his reverie when her eyes rolled back and she simply fainted, her body, numb and heavy slid to the floor beneath their feet.

He circled the table and knelt beside her, slapping his palm against her cheek in an attempt to revive her, but she did not wake up.

"Bring the Maester, quickly!" He called out and cursed loudly, restraining himself from screaming with rage.

"What have you done to her?" His mother hissed quietly, so that only he could hear it while the Maester examined her.

He turned his face away and shook his head, wondering if everyone in this damned fortress was against him.

After all, he was doing this for them.

For their family.

"Nothing. She was only supposed to read a few words. I didn't even touch her." He growled, his hands intertwined behind his back clenched into a fist.

Why didn't she trust him?

Why was she looking at him like this, as if she didn't recognise him?

Hadn't he always been faithful to her?

"What words? What did you say to her?"

"Words in Old Valyrian, nothing more. She must learn it if she is not to burn in the dragon fire, and our efforts are not to be in vain." He scoffed impatiently.

"We do not know what Daemon did to her. Whether she saw her mother die."

"I don't care what he did to her or what she saw." He said, throwing her a look from which she froze. "We have an agreement and she knows what will happen if she doesn't fulfill it."

"What will happen? You'll burn the Vale?" Alicent asked with a sneer, and he pressed his lips together, feeling a terrible, piercing shame.

"She will stay in my care tonight. Don't go near her until she recovers." She told him and stepped around him.

He felt as if she had slapped him in the face so he left, not wanting anyone to see the burning tears of disappointment that had gathered under his eyelids.

He didn't let them flow.

He was not weak.

He was not like her.

He was not like Aegon.

He was not like his father.

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sleepyjuice · 3 months

Text

temporary fix - rafe cameron

summary: after a fight with john b and sarah, rafe was a complete mess. so you did what you did best to help him feel better, even if it was just a temporary fix.

warnings: 18+!!! angst, smut, descriptions of a panic attack, brief mentions of blood and violence, oral; male receiving

wc: 2498

Dragging Rafe away from a fight was nothing new to you. He had a short fuse, you knew that, but it would still bother you every time it happened.

This time, it was another run in with the pogues, John b and Sarah, specifically. Each time Rafe saw his sister with him, it made his skin crawl and it still managed to get under his skin every time. It didn't help that it was his own sister against him, his own blood.

You had tried to defuse the situation as the arguments began, but it was no use when Sarah spoke up, spitting something along the lines of, ‘this is why dad doesn’t love you!’ Plus some other deep shit that really, really got Rafe fuming.

Eventually John b got involved, and the two of them went at it for quite a bit, finally stopping once you and Sarah had managed to pull them off of one another.

Without saying a word to the other couple, you dragged Rafe away from the situation, leading him back to his car.

He followed, his bloody hands running through his hair sporadically as his heart raced, his breathing staggered and sharp.

He had gotten into the driver’s seat immediately, and to that you shook your head, shooting him a glare from outside the car door.

“I’m driving.” You spoke firmly, unwilling to risk both your lives as well as the general public’s lives with Rafe driving while in a state like this.

He stared at you for a moment before silently getting out of the driver's seat, allowing you to take his spot as he quickly made his way around the car and into the passenger's seat.

You adjusted the seat so you could reach the pedals before turning the car on and buckling up, making sure Rafe was buckled as well.

You didn’t say anything the entire drive home, knowing your boyfriend well enough to know that he was so in his head right now, you wouldn’t be able to get through to him yet.

You pulled his car into your driveway, knowing that your house was the better option as Tannyhill was completely out of the question, especially since you knew Ward was home. Plus, your parents were both at work, so the two of you would have the whole house to yourselves.

Rafe was eerily silent by the time as you both made your way inside the house. You weren’t sure what to say, so you stayed silent as well, opening your bedroom door for him, shutting it behind the two of you before you sat down on the foot of your bed.

You weren’t overly mad this time, just frustrated with the whole situation. This time you could understand a bit more where Rafe was coming from, knowing all too well how much certain things involving Rafe’s relationship with his dad triggered him.

You watched as he sat on your floor, his knees pulled up and his head in his blood stained hands.

You sighed quietly, the silence overwhelming.

“Rafe, I-“ you began, but you were cut off by a loud sob escaping his lips, his body trembling as he cried into his hands, his fingers pulling at his hair.

Your mouth parted in shock, immediately scooting down off of your bed and down to the floor beside him, wrapping your arms around his middle and pulling him close to you, not caring that you were getting blood on your clothes and skin.

At the feel of your touch, he immediately fell into you, his head falling into your shoulder and his hands gripping tightly onto your waist, holding you firmly as if you could slip away at any moment.

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” You cooed against his hair, tears pricking your eyes as you let him cry into you, doing your best to keep your composure, to be strong for him.

“It’s- it’s just so fucked up, you know?” He cried, tears staining your light colored shirt, but that was the furthest thing on your mind.

You nodded understandably against him, one hand rubbing soft circles on his back as your other entangled in his hair, massaging his scalp with your fingertips.

“It is, baby, I know it is,” you cooed, fighting off your own sobs with every ounce of strength your body held. “Everything’s gonna be okay, yeah? I love you. You’re good, you’re safe, I’m not going anywhere.” You assured him, feeling his fingertips dig a bit harsher into your skin. You fought back a wince at the slight burn, allowing him to hold onto you for dear life if it could at least help ground him.

His breathing was shaky and he was barely taking full breaths, which concerned you, so you slowly brought both of your hands to hold his face, his bloodshot eyes meeting yours as you forced him to look at you.

“Hey, you need to breathe, okay?” You spoke firmly, your thumbs padding at the warm tears that continued to fall down his cheeks.

“Do what I’m doing. Like this,” you inhaled deeply, looking into Rafe’s eyes as he repeated your actions, his breathing still staggered, but he was at least trying. “Good, just like that, and out.” You instructed, exhaling slowly to release the breath you held.

You nodded in approval as you both continued to breathe together, his heart rate slowing down a little and his breathing going somewhat back to normal.

“I’m so sorry.” He muttered after a few moments, his sobs had stopped and he was just sniffling, his tears now drying on his face.

You shook your head at his words, your thumbs rubbing gently against his cheek as he melted into your touch.

“It’s okay, don’t be sorry. Let’s not think about that right now.” You assured him, watching as he nodded, his eyes dropped from yours, looking down.

“Hey, it’s okay, seriously,” you spoke firmly, using your index finger to tilt his chin back up so he was looking at you. “You wanna get in the shower? Get all cleaned up?” You offered, watching him nod slowly at your suggestion.

“Will you get in with me?” He asked you, his voice hoarse and rough, your heart breaking at his defeated tone.

“Yeah, of course I will, c’mon.” You responded, leaning back so you had room to stand up, taking his larger hands into your own as you both stood up, his hand holding yours tightly as you led him into your bathroom.

You dropped his hand to turn the shower on, adjusting the temperature to the perfect amount of heat, shutting the shower door as you began to pull your clothes off.

You could feel Rafe’s eyes on you as you stripped, watching as he mirrored your actions. His eyes raked over your body and you didn’t miss it, watching as his bruised torso came into view as he rid himself completely of his disheveled clothing.

You were both completely naked now, as you had been many times before this, but this time the room held far less sexual tension than it usually did.

“C’mon, get in.” You spoke quietly, holding your hand out for him as you pulled open the shower door, stepping inside, Rafe right behind you.

You let him get under the water first, watching as his body visibly relaxed some at the feeling of the hot water falling onto his skin. His back was faced towards you as he stood there, his eyes shut as he bowed his head, letting the water wet his hair.

You watched from behind him as red tinted water circled the drain, some of the blood washing off of him from the strong water pressure.

“Babe? You want me to wash you off?” You asked him after a few moments had passed, watching as he turned to face you at the sound of your voice, beads of water dripping off of his toned body.

“Please.” Was all he said, his eyes firmly on you now as you nodded in response, grabbing your bottle of body wash and pouring some into your hands.

“You’re gonna smell like flowers and vanilla, hope that’s cool.” You giggled, your heart rate slowing slightly when you saw the tiniest hint of a smile tug at Rafe’s lips.

“I don’t care. You smell good.” He responded, to which you gave him a small smile before you began lathering the soap onto his arms, washing gently yet thoroughly, cleaning his stained skin.

You could hear him sigh from above you, his eyes transfixed on your hands massaging his skin. He needed your touch, he needed more.

Once you cleaned his arms, you made your way to his torso, rubbing the soap into his toned chest and then down to his abs. At this, you felt his body tighten and heard his breath hitch, but you continued massaging the soap into his skin.

You looked up at him for a moment before looking back down to your hands on his lower stomach, noticing that his dick was over halfway hard, beginning to stand up straight against his stomach.

“Oh.” You murmured once you realized, looking back up at him, his gaze heavy on your own as he watched you, fully aware of the reaction his body was having to your touch.

He really couldn’t help it. His emotions were all over the place, his senses heightened after a long panic attack and you had just been so endearing all day, especially as you took care of him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, clearing his throat, followed by a sniffle. “You just- it feels nice, is all.” He told you quietly and you nodded, not saying anything as you poured a bit more body wash into your hands before kneeling down so you could wash his legs.

The sight of you on your knees below him was what had his cock fully aching and fully hard. Seeing you in this position was nothing new to him, but this time it was taking everything in his power to not thrust his cock into your mouth. He didn’t want to take advantage of you helping him, you had been so good to him.

You scrubbed at his legs, your movements less steady than they were previously due to the fact that Rafe’s large cock was now fully hard and pressed perfectly against his toned stomach just inches above you. This was quite the distraction. But maybe, Rafe needed a distraction, too.

Without saying anything, you let the soap rinse off of your hands and you saw how Rafe watched you with a furrowed brow, confused at your actions as you hadn’t washed his other leg yet.

You took him completely by surprise when you reached up and took his cock into your hand, wrapping your fingers around his shaft as you began slowly pumping him.

“Oh— fuck.” He groaned, his gaze heavy on yours as you looked up at him from below, giving him a nod of reassurance before you leaned forward, wrapping your lips around his tip.

Rafe’s head fell back the second your lips touched his cock, his hand quickly reaching down to hold your now wet hair, his fingertips massaging it as you sucked wetly against his tip, then slowly along the underside of his cock, flattening your tongue against the long vein that gave him so much pleasure.

He groaned loudly at that, his breathing increasing yet again as he watched you intensely, his own lips parted in pleasure.

You swirled your tongue along his shaft for a few moments before finally wrapping your lips around him again and slowly taking him down your throat.

He let out a long, shaky exhale as you took almost all of him at once, his free hand reaching out towards the shower wall to keep him steady as he felt his knees threaten to give out.

You hummed around his cock as you worked to open your throat, finally taking in all of him, loud moans and grunts heard from above you as you concentrated on keeping all of him inside of you.

You hollowed your cheeks as you pulled back, bobbing your head forward once again so he hit the back of your throat again, tears filling your eyes as you gagged around his thick cock, more and more spit lubricating him by the second as your mouth was practically leaking around him.

You eventually found a good rhythm, bringing one hand up to toy with his balls as you sucked him all in, your nose pressing against his pubes each time he hit the back of your throat.

“Fuck, yeah, baby, just like that.” He moaned hoarsely, voice deep and face twitching with pleasure as he watched you taking him perfectly below him. He didn’t know what he did to deserve you.

You hummed once again in response to his words, letting him know that you heard his praise, which made him hiss at the feeling, readjusting his hold on the wall as he adjusted his footing, knees growing weaker by the second.

His balls were warm and wet from the shower water raining down on the two of you, which made it feel all the much better as you continued to fondle them in your hand, cherishing each one for moments at a time before alternating.

“God, I’m close, gonna cum down your throat, baby.” Rafe suddenly groaned, gripping on tightly to your hair now, spit falling down your chin as your mouth bobbed back and forth on his wet cock, feeling him twitch each time he hit your throat.

At his words, you moaned, your way of egging him on, telling him to let go.

And that he did, a string of curses followed by breathy moans fell from his lips as he let go, hot strings of his cum shooting down your throat, your movements not faltering for a second.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, baby… so good, so so good.” He spoke breathlessly, his brows furrowed, face flushed and eyes glossy with pleasure.

You slowly pulled your mouth off of him with a pop, using your hand to pump him a few more times, licking his tip as you collected the last few drops of his cum that leaked from his swollen tip.

“Thank you,” he said the moment you pulled off of him, grabbing your hands to help pull you up, wrapping his arms around your middle as he pulled you into his chest. “Thank you for that, baby. Don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You hummed against his wet chest, feeling his chin now resting on top of your damp hair, sighing against his touch. He seemed more like himself now, and you were happy you could help, even if it was only a temporary fix.

Rafe had problems, you knew that and he knew that, but you would always be there to help him.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fic #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe smut #rafe cameron smut #i can fix him guys

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qlossytbh · 2 months

Text

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 - 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐛𝐚𝐮!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you were in an accident and both you and spencer are figuring out how to deal with it.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 angst, typical criminal minds content, reader gets beat up, physical violence, descriptions of physical injury’s, lots of freaking out, mild panic attack, angst + comfort, established relationship

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2.5k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 this fic is inspired entirely on billie’s eilish’s the 30th. haven’t been posting but i’ve got a lot of almost finished drafts and requests im getting through atm

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Sometimes, Spencer hated his limitless memory.

Because of course, it worked wonders when he had to remember important dates, or endless facts that came remarkably handy in cases. Things no one else even considers remembering. Amazing for remembering favorite things of his favorite people, or remembering things they’d previously mentioned liking.

It was amazing until it found ways to haunt him.

He remembered when Morgan pulled to a stop, glancing up at the red light in front of him. He remembered when Penelope typed away aimlessly in the back of the car, reading out a few connections she found between this particular Unsub and the third and hopefully last victim. Everything was fine.

They almost had the case figured out. Hotch had called in, (exactly twenty-three minutes ago) informing them that that you and Emily had a lead on the whereabouts of the Unsub.

He remembered the tone in Morgan’s voice when he picked up the phone. “What?”

Both him and Penelope had glanced his way absentmindedly, not really thinking much of it.

“Do they know who yet?” He had asked, taking a sudden sharp turn towards the left. The pair watched as Morgan’s face fell, and his grip on the steering wheel had tightened. He remembered the look on Penelope’s face as she quickly glanced over at him, who probably looked equally as worried, if not more. Something hadn’t been sitting right, at all— he remembered from the second the day had started something inside him was telling him that.

“What’s going on?” Penelope's voice was shaky when she set her computer down to the side. Spencer just kept his eyes on Derek, narrowing them slightly at the subtle gulp in his throat and the way he nervously looked over at him. Not Penelope, him.

“Derek—“

He remembered when he told him that you had been hurt and how he was unable to think of anything else.

He looked forward towards the road, avoiding the way his co-worker and friend sat up in his seat, straining against his seatbelt as his chest turned to face him. “I don’t know exactly what happened, Hotch just told me she was ambushed and they’re now waiting on the ambulance.”

“Ambulance?” He could’ve sworn his heart dropped into the very pits of his stomach.

Penelope covered her mouth, tears already boring into them with a soft gasp that came from her mouth. “Is she okay?”

Derek’s mouth twisted into a straight line as he opened his mouth to speak and Spencer swore he had never felt as much panic course through him.

He didn’t usually freak out, but he swore his head just stopped working right there and then. All he was able to think about was getting to you. “They don’t know—“

“Drive.” Spencer told Derek. With a firm nod and no room for complaint, he stepped on the gas pedal, signaling on the sirens as he swerved through the streets.

Six minutes and thirty five point two seconds.

That's how long it took for them to get to the scene, where two ambulances and cop cars seemed displayed around the small suburban home. He felt time move as if it were in slow motion.

The car hadn’t even come to a stop and Spencer was already stumbling throughout the door, pushing his shaky legs towards the already chaotic scene.

Unbearable noises surrounded him— people clattering and shouting about, orders being thrown around aimlessly, sirens and bypassers stopping to gasp and gaunt at the scene.

Two officers were down on the floor, covered by a simple thin white cloth and he felt the nausea settle in. Just the thought of one of them being you made his knees grow weak and the bile quickly hike its way up his throat.

Before he could rush around in attempts to find you, his eyes landed on Hotch, hunched over a moving stretcher surrounded by about three, maybe even more, medics.

It all seemed visceral. An automatic response. Soon enough his legs were pushing him towards the stretcher that made its way towards the ambulance. “Hotch—“

He turned around, and allowed just enough space to reveal your absolutely destroyed form. Your eyes kept fluttering open and close, seemingly bothered by all the noise and light. Your breathing sounded strangled, covered by the oxygen mask you had on but the sound alone was something Spencer was sure would haunt him until the day he died.

He still remembered.

Spencer felt like he had been punched in the stomach. All he could do was push one of the medics aside and hunch over you as you fought against the universe itself to regain consciousness.

“Hey,” He cooed, voice tightening and nearly breaking in a cry. He cleared his throat and blinked through his tears, smiling down at you.

You couldn’t say a single word, but you mustered enough strength to lift your pinky, grazing it against his knuckles. Your face showed a much different reaction though, furrowing your brows in what seemed to be excruciating pain.

“She’s mostly unresponsive,” The medics informed. Spencer followed them alongside Hotch, until they got to the ambulance, clicking the stretcher upwards.

“Hey, listen to me,” He whispered, ducking down so he was closer to you. “I love you, okay?”

Your small fist grabbed the fabric of his shirt, not wanting him to leave your side, but it was hurting you too much to hold on. Your fist feebly fell and the medics somehow pushed him off and you were taken into the ambulance and he really didn’t know if that was the last time he’d see you.

He watched the doors slam shut, frozen completely in his place. He remembered watching the ambulance drive away and having to stop his legs from running after it. He remembered Hotch trying to grab his attention from the disappearing ambulance.

He remembered thinking non-stop but for the first time ever, wanting to stop it and not being able to.

Something so alarming started to awaken within him and he wasn’t really sure what to do with himself.

He spent thirteen hours and sixteen minutes in the hospital that night and next morning. Hotch and the others came by in turns to keep him company in the cold empty waiting room, but he didn’t budge.

The second to stay the most was Emily, given how she was also attacked at the scene but much less severely. She ended up with a few bruises and scratches— she silently wished it had been more.

Maybe then the damage on you would’ve been less.

He remembered sitting with Morgan and the others when the doctors came in, informing him that you had gone into hypovolemic shock and they needed to perform an emergency surgery to stop the internal bleeding that was causing your vitals to plummet.

Spencer even remembered, word by word and syllable by syllable that there was a high chance that you may not even wake up from the surgery due to how much trauma your body had received.

Three broken ribs, dozens, maybe hundreds, lacerations scattered across your arms and stomach, a ruptured spleen and a concussion. That wasn’t even including all the bits of physiological trauma you now had to attack once— and if— you woke up.

Spencer seriously felt his resolve to remain calm crumple the second the medics mentioned that the Unsub used a metal pole to beat you nearly to death.

He had asked for every detail and he remembered each one and how utterly hopeless they all made him feel. He cried, because he simply didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know how to fix it, or how to help— he wasn’t even sure he could.

Because what if he had been there instead of Emily? What if he was able to stop it? What if more backup was sent in, what if when you had told him you felt off this morning when going into work he’d tell you to stay put and rest it off? What would’ve happened then?

What if he would’ve gone with Emily instead of you, what if you were actually lifeless when they had found you? What if you didn’t wake up? What if this meant he’d never get to hold you for a last time, and had to stick with the memory of seeing you bloody and bruised. What if you never actually—

“Reid,” Spencer looked up from his palms, which holstered themselves on his knees by his elbows. Emily smiled at him meekly. “She’s awake,”

Spencer looked around, blinking heavily and realizing he was in the same cold hospital waiting room he’s been in for the past day and a half.

He opened his mouth to speak, but realized it was incredibly dry. Too dry. He cleared out his throat with a firm cough and nodded, standing up feebly.

They walked down the quiet hallway, something so heavy hanging in the air. Just the patterning of his shoes and Emily’s heels bouncing off the walls along with the shuffling of their clothes. Spencer swore he wouldn’t be okay until he saw you but even then he didn’t think he’d be okay. How was any of this going to be okay?

Emily led him to a door and when they pushed it open, you were staring at the wall, seemingly in some kind of deep whirlwind of thoughts. A small knock offered by Emily caught your attention. You turned your head to the side, probably expecting another endless round of nurses. But to your surprise, there stood the one person you’d been wanting to see after this whole ordeal.

A broad yet tired smile made its way onto your face while laying back into the pillows. Spencer took you in, letting out a shaky breath. Your hair was disheveled, and your eyes looked tired. Soft and welcoming but hiding something so much deeper underneath that he’d have to be an idiot to not notice it.

There was a stitch on your forehead and the lash line of one of your eyes protruded a growing dark purple bruise. There were machines and cables and needles stuck beside and into you. And the more Spencer noticed, the more he wished he hadn’t.

“Hey,” Your voice was raspier than usual, small and steady, Spencer noticed this.

But then you smiled just like you used to before the accident and he couldn’t have found you any more beautiful.

“Hey,” He finally answered, walking up to the side of your bed. “How— How are you feeling?”

“I’ll give you guys some privacy.” Emily said, slipping past the door and leaving the two of you to your own accord.

“I’m okay,” You whispered, sounding so small and frail it nearly broke any ounce of self control he was mustering to avoid breaking into tears. “The pain meds are helping a bit,”

He gave you a silent understanding nod. His hand held onto the railing of your bed, not entirely knowing what to say or how to act. You watched him intently, noticing how he couldn’t really bring himself to look at you.

“Do you remember anything?” You turned to stare at the wall, trying to recall anything about the attack, but you unfortunately— some would argue fortunately— didn’t.

You shifted in your bed, scrunching your face in pain in the process, which Spencer noticed. Again. Of course he did.

Spencer looked down at you, dangerously entering territory where the back of his eyes burned, and his own mind bit at him, and he just didn’t know what to do with all the huge feelings that swarmed around inside him.

“Not really,” You muttered, scrunching your nose with a small huff. Spencer reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and letting his hand cup the side of your cheek.

“You really scared me,” You leaned into the touch of his palm.

“I’m sorry,” He shook his head before he even spoke, blinking rapidly to prevent any tears from falling.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I almost died,”

Okay, they were starting there. Great.

You had said it in barely above a whisper, staring at your lap and preventing Spencer from getting a look in your eyes. Your lips tugged into a frown. And Spencer said your name, trying to catch your attention.

Suddenly it all hit you. The gravity of it all. It came in stronger than a tidal wave, than a slap you didn’t even see coming. You felt the burning in your ribs, the rips and tears in your skin, the slight swell of your eye, the rattling of your own skull.

Spencer pulled out a chair and sat on it to level himself to your height. He reached out a hand and laced his fingers with yours.

It felt hard to breathe.

More silence.

“You okay?” You sucked in a sharp breath that came out as a little squeak, and suddenly you wanted to cry. Because you were tired of feeling so broken and feeling how every inch of your body hurt.

You shook your head and as soon as you did, a broken sob left your mouth. Your hands flew up quickly, attempting to hide the broken fragments of your gaze. Spencer heard every shard of the glass his heart had been made of around you shatter. He sat up, attempting to hold you from the side in any way he could, letting you cry out all the trauma you received in the past two days.

And you did cry it out, and your ribs burned, your head was pounding and you felt every ache and bruise in your body worsen. Seeing you like this hurt him more than any pain that had ever been inflicted on him.

Spencer pulled away from you once you had calmed down enough and brought one hand to the side of your face, leisurely dragging his thumb against your cheek bone and anywhere any stray tears fell.

“Dang it,” You sniffled, bringing the back of your palm up and rubbing your nose. “This is not how I wanted you to see me after my mini coma,”

Spencer knew you couldn’t keep serious for more than fifteen minutes at a time even if your life depended on it. He’d let you stall the situation this time however. He knows the two of you needed it.

“You look so pretty,” You smiled at his words, looking at him with so much gratitude and leaning into his palm, trying to find refuge in it.

“I bet I do,” You narrowed your eyes at him and he leaned forward pressing a kiss to your lips. You grabbed the wrist of the hand that held your face while he kissed you and gave it a small squeeze, hopefully letting him know how much you cared and appreciated him.

He pulled away, sitting back into the chair but intertwining his fingers with yours, reminding himself to always drag his fingers comfortingly across your knuckles and allow you to know he wasn’t ever leaving your side again.

“They had to change my IV needle,” You decided to stall for a bit. “The vein on my right arm wasn’t doing the job.”

“Really?” He knew that wasn’t entirely possible and that the doctors probably did an ass job at inserting it there in the first place, but he let you wonder on. “How’d that feel?”

“Im afraid of needles, but!-“ You shuffled a little bit around on your pillow for more comfort, huffing proudly. “I squeezed my eyes and tried thinking back on that book that talks about marxist criticism you read to me last week,”

He smiled warmly, bringing your hand over to him and kissing your wrist. “My brave girl,”

You let out a laugh, and he knew then he’d sleep a little better that night. He always did when you were by him.

“Hey Spence,”

“Yeah?”

“Can you stay?” You asked earnestly.

Spencer squeezed your hand. “Your pain meds are hitting you stronger than you thought if you think for a second that i’m leaving your side,”

You smiled. “I’m not going anywhere angel, I promise.”

The two of you basked in each other's silence. You closed your eyes and tried to alleviate the burning in your lungs as your breath shaked from the crying. Spencer just watched you, appreciating a while longer the small freckles and marks across your face.

“Spence,” He hummed, “I’m scared.”

He sighed heavily. Suddenly realizing that this wasn’t something easy to come. And he was too, because he almost lost the love of his life and he didn’t know what that information would do to him, much less to you.

For the first time, Spencer was out of smart answers and reasons why this would all be okay. It was hard for him to think he’d never feel this scared of loosing you again, and that idea haunted him.

“So am I,”

607 notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 9 months

Text

Part 5 — y’all have had it too good for too long. Time to suffer again.

Content warning for angst, nightmares, and non-descriptive panic attack

You’re bleeding.

Can’t tell who shot you, only that it’s hard to breathe. Your chest is a bloody, mangled mess, your entire front painted crimson. A puddle expanding around your boots.

Your head feels leaden as you drag it up, searching for help, searching for —

There they are. The 141. SpecGru. All of them, standing just out of reach. They could help, they could save you. But they’re not, they’re just standing, watching. Could be statues if not for the sneer that twists Soap and Nova’s face when you make desperate eye contact.

Your captain takes a single step forward, crouching as you fall to your knees.

“You’re just not a good fit, anymore,” he explains, shrugging. “Nothing personal, kid.”

“Baby. Baby!”

Keegan’s face is above you, jaw dusted with dark stubble. He’s wide awake, eyes huge and worried, showing you both his hands. His mask is gone, hair tussled.

Bed. You’re in bed. You fell asleep with him tonight.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he whispers.

“K-Keegan…” The shivers start almost instantly, like you really were bled out. Before he can ask, you reach for him. Let him bundle you against his chest, arms tight around you, and legs bent up on either side of you. A cage of safety around you, keeping you safe and close.

“I’m here, sweets. Right here,” he murmurs into your hair. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

You sniffle, press your face against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat. Too fast; because he’s worried about you.

“Which one?” he asks.

You shudder. “A new one.”

“Fuck,” he whispers. Drops a kiss on your head. “Just me, or do you need someone else?”

You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears start flowing, guilt gnawing at your tight stomach.

“C-can I see the captain?” You ask. “I-I’m sorry, Kee. I just…”

He shushes you. “That’s why I asked, baby. It’s okay. Nothing to feel bad for.”

He doesn’t even give you the option of walking. Just tucks you into one of his sweatshirts — sandalwood and vetiver — and scoops you up. You tuck your face against his neck against the hall lights as he walks with you.

“Dreams again,” he says to someone — Nikto, probably.

Three sharp knocks. A single beat. Then a door opens. You peek out, relieved to see your captain standing there.

“Hi babygirl,” he rumbles, “bad night?”

Keegan hands you over with practiced ease, your captain letting you loops your arms and legs around him. His skin feels almost burning, warm enough to drive out the lingering chill. He smells good too. Like sleep and home.

“Y-you still… you still want me right?” You whisper, eyes stinging.

“Always,” he answers instantly. “My girl, my soldier, mine. Just like Keegan and Nikto and Nova.”

You cling tighter, but he just hums and smooths his hands over your back.

“Keegan, get Nova and an extra mattress,” he orders.

“On it.”

The captain carries you in, a shadow from the corner of your eye telling you Nikto is still there. You’re set on the bed in a spot still warm; it dips as another body settles with you. Nikto again. Mask on as always, but dressed down for sleep. He’s even got his gloves off and lets you play gently with his fingers while your captain turns on a light and fetches you a glass of water.

“Still with you,” Nikto murmurs.

You sniffle and wipe hurriedly at your eyes, trying to preserve what little dignity you’ve got left.

“None of that now, baby,” your captain soothes, tilting a glass to your mouth. “Cry if you need. Get it out.”

The tears some slow and quiet, only little sobs escaping as Nikto’s arms curl around you. Keegan appears at the door soon after, Nova helping him drag a mattress into the captain’s quarters. She comes to your other side while Keegan and the captain start arranging the other bed.

Soon, they switch you over, drag the first mattress onto the floor as well. After that, arrangements are familiar and automatic. The captain takes one side, fits your back against his chest. Keegan takes your other side, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. Nikto nestles up behind him - needs the access of the end of the bed. And Nova distributes herself on top of you and Keegan, a gentle warm weight soothing you.

“Sleep if you can, babygirl,” your captain murmurs in your ear. His thumb sweeps gentle arcs over your hipbone. “We’ll be right here when you wake up.”

—

The nightmares were the worst when you first joined SpecGru. The first six months. You’d wake up in a cold sweat, apologies to an empty room on your tongue.

Nikto would find you out on the obstacle course at all hours of the night, in all kinds of weather. Running and jumping and climbing without so much as penlight. Pushing and pushing until you were panting on bloody hands and knees, driven by the single-minded need to be better, to be worth it.

When he found out, your captain put a ban on you from running the course unless he himself was present the entire time. You were pissed at first — even went so far as to bitch him out one day, exhausted and strung out on stress.

And he’d let you. Just sat behind his desk listening. Unimpressed, but not pissed, either. When you’d finally run out of steam, he’d stood.

“Still mad?”

When you nodded, he nodded towards the door.

“C’mon, we’ll go for a spar,” he explained when you gave him a distrustful look. “And then you’re going down for a nap.”

You frowned, shifted. “What about…?”

He snorts. “All that a minute ago?”

When you nodded, he shrugged. “Nothing, unless you feel like you need a bit of discipline to keep it together.”

You’d wrinkled your nose. “Definitely feel like socking you now.”

He’d smirked. “Good.”

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Masterlist

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #sad fic #angst #former 141 reader #specgru reader #cod nikto #keegan p russ #nova cod #task force 141

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cordeliawhohung · 4 months

Text

In Limbo [Chapter 5]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist

mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

at least he's not doing this for you

cw: panic/anxiety attacks, minor wound description, minor angst, minor fluff, hurt/comfort if you squint

wc: 4.3k

Your ears are ringing again.

It’s torturous. Never-ending. Forever plaguing you the moment things should be quiet. A painful reminder that you survived, and continue to do so despite the fact you’ve never once deserved it.

A cotton-like dryness torments your mouth by the time you finally come to. Everything slowly fades in, bringing you back to the present time, and it hits you all at once. Before you can even open your eyes, you have to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth just so you can let out a confused, gargled groan. Nothing comes easy after that. Your surroundings feel too bright even in the dim lighting that illuminates an unfamiliar red and black room, and lead heavy arms struggle to push your torso off of the soft, leather cushions underneath you.

The room you’re in is unrecognizable, but if you had to take a guess, you’re probably still at John’s club. Yet, there is no faint hum of music, or overwhelming chatter and sour alcohol to fill the air. It’s a confusing predicament, one that has your mind spinning, yet you try your best to shake it off as you turn your attention to your own condition.

Despite the mental fog that ravages your mind, you feel surprisingly fine physically. There’s no pounding headache, or churning sensation of nausea; the only thing that bothers you is a throbbing sensation in both of your hands. Once you’re able to get your eyes to focus, you realize they’ve been tenderly wrapped in white gauze. Tiny, faint patches of blood have bled through it, just to dry down a rusty brown.

It’s then that you are finally able to make sense of the ache that weighs in your chest. You recall Andrei, how you were unfortunate enough to run into him after making a wrong turn, his warning — always warning you — and how Simon found you. You tenderly rub at your raw eyes, taking care to avoid messing with the gauze too much, and you try your best to keep the frustrated sorrow stewing in your stomach at bay.

All you want to do is pay off a debt, yet you keep accruing new ones.

“Mornin’ sweetheart.”

Flinching at the voice behind you, you cover your mouth with a squeak as you twist your body on the sofa. Simon towers uncannily tall behind you with a poorly made club sandwich in one hand, and a glass of ice water in the other. It’s only then that you realize you’re in a conversation pit — a sunken couch nestled in the center of the floor. He steps into the pit with ease where he settles a comfortable distance away from you on the couch before holding the glass for you to take.

“Didn’t mean to spook you,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” you quickly dismiss.

You reach your hand out to take the glass, only to realize you can hardly grip it with the gauze. Its pristine, smooth surface just slips right along the cotton, so you grab it with both hands like it’s a warm mug. Once it’s free from his hands, Simon dives right in for a bite of his sandwich before leaning back against the couch.

“How’re you feelin?” he asks, mouth half full.

“Fine,” you reply with the glass pressed against your lips. It’s cold liquid washes over your dry tongue, reviving it like a desert turned to mud. Your eyes flicker around the room, taking in the sight. It’s the fanciest place you’ve ever been in, with mood lighting and rich, marble floors. “Where are we?”

Before Simon can answer you, he dives in for another quick bite of his sandwich. He’s hardly sat down to eat the damn thing and it’s already nearly half devoured. You think back to the food you brought him from work — that delicious capellini pomodoro — and how it’s nothing but a pile of goo in the alleyway outside of the building. Poor man is probably starving, and you feel a pang in your chest at that thought.

“One of the rooms Price saves for private occasions,” Simon explains as he wipes his mouth on the back side of his hand. “You were a little out of it after everything went down. Hardly responsive. Took you here to help you calm down. Pretty much passed out the moment you sat on the sofa.”

Heat rises in your face, and you’re unsure if it’s in embarrassment or shame. You’ve never really been a fan of being vulnerable around others, and the idea of Simon having to lead you around the club like a zombie puts you on edge. Though, you’ve learned that oftentimes, vulnerability isn’t a choice. Not one that you get to make, anyway.

“Tried to clean up your hands as best I could,” Simon continues. You look down at your palms and flex your fingers, testing the range of motion. The sting is dull, but still there buried deep underneath your skin. “I’m no doctor, but it should keep you together for now.”

“Thank you,” you whisper before pausing. “How… how did you find me?”

“Boys up front messaged, sayin’ you were on your way,” he explains nonchalantly. “Took you longer than it should’ve to find me. Got worried, so went out lookin’ for ya. When I heard people talking in the alley, I figured you’d gotten yourself lost. I was right.”

When you look away from your hands, you find Simon is staring at you. His dark eyes are endless voids in the dim light of the room, and you watch the way his jaw flexes and relaxes as he chews and swallows his meal.

“That cunt in the alley. You know ‘im?” Simon then asks.

Wounded hands reach for your chest as if you’re able to console the rabid pounding of your heart with touch alone. You recall Andrei’s eyes, and the bored expression of his tone. He speaks so softly, with warning soaking his words, but you know he has one of the worst bites. A bite you don’t want Simon to feel because of you.

“No,” you lie.

Simon stares at you for a little longer, eyes scouring your face for any hint that you might be hiding something. He reads through your features like he’s done it a million times before; not just to you, but to everyone. Constantly searching; forever vigilant. You don’t feel like you can breathe until he hums and looks back at his food. There’s some comfort to be found in the fact that you know he has nothing to compare your truths and lies to — you’re burdened with always having to hide something that you don’t think you’ve ever been able to tell the truth before.

“Shady stuff happens ‘round here more often than I’d like,” Simon says, continuing the conversation. “Probably another low-lifer. See ‘em here sometimes. Alcohol, drugs, and crowds breeds deviants. Probably gets a good kick outta intimidating women.”

“Good thing they’ve got good security here,” you quip. It’s smarter than what you’d usually say — you blame it on the anxiety.

Dark eyes land on you once more with a smirk. “Cheers.”

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich before sinking back into the leather couch with a sigh. Despite how put together he comes across, there’s obvious bits of fatigue eating away at him. Heavy weights pull at his eyes making them more hooded than normal. Usually, you try not to stare too long, but there’s something wrong with him that your hazy eyes and anxiety riddled brain wasn’t able to notice before.

Even with his scuffle with Andrei, his hands are in remarkably good shape. No split knuckles or irritated skin. If there’s any wounds from the knife that was drawn on him, you’re not able to see anything. Either he sustained none, or he patched them up before you woke up. But there’s something off about his face. Asymmetrical. A gentle swelling of his left eye hidden beneath an old, long healed scar. It’s difficult to tell in the dim lighting of the room, but you think there might be a small bruise seeping into the paleness of his face.

“Simon, your eye,” you point out.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures you. “Already iced it. I’ve been hit harder than that before.”

Guilt rips through you like a bullet as you realize the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just some simple run in with a bum on the street — this was Andrei. This is a deep mess that you’ve already been stuck in for years, and most certainly just got Simon roped into as well. You’re already brainstorming excuses and ways to beg Marco and Andrei to understand that this wasn’t Simon’s fault, but yours. But it’s too late. You can already smell is cologne and feel his hand on your jaw; back pressed against the wall; breath on your face; blood on the ground-

“Hey, stay with me.”

A warm hand braves the clamminess of your fingers as your cup is removed from your gasp, and you blink away the panic, trying to focus on Simon. It’s an embarrassing habit of yours — this terror. Some days, when you’re not smart enough to keep yourself distracted, it grips you so terribly you can do nothing but freeze. Let the world weigh you down. Sleep away the feeling until you wake up with little to no memory of what happened during your struggle.

But Simon is grounding. You focus on the scent of him; that faint but lingering nicotine mixed with a gentle cleanliness. Despite his bad habits, he’s still considerate about it. There’s a texture to his skin, something there besides the bruise. A gentle five o’clock shadow. Faint, silvery scars that dance along the bridge of his nose. The flicker of his eyes as he tries to read your face.

“Sorry,” you sputter. “I just… uhm…”

“I get it,” Simon interrupts. “Long night. We should getcha home, it’s gettin’ late.”

Your lips press tightly together as you take a deep breath, willing your heart to stay steady. He’s too close for comfort, you realize, but the look in his eyes is the softest you have seen for quite some time.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Thanks.”

It isn’t until you make it outside in the faint glow of the sunrise that you realize just how long you were out. A cold breeze teases at the cotton candy colored clouds lining the horizon, and it reflects off of the screen of your phone as you free it from your pocket. It’s nearly seven in the morning. Normal people are getting up to start their days about now; enjoying a fresh cup of tea, and maybe a nice warm shower. Simon doesn’t say anything about the time, and neither do you. You don’t think you can take any more guilt than what’s already eating away at you.

As Simon leads you to the car park, you find your eyes flickering to every poorly illuminated corner and alley. A part of you still fears that Andrei might still be lurking, ready to pounce, ready to get revenge. You certainly wouldn’t put it past him. He’s done worse, and will continue to do so. Yet, there is no such boogeyman waiting for you, and your travels go unhindered.

Your pace slows as you near Simon’s vehicle of choice, and it’s then that you’re painfully reminded that you’d only ever seen him ride a motorcycle. This is the first time you’re seeing it up close; a sleek black body, a comfortable seat perfect for cruising, something that’s obviously well taken care of. Though you’re not too keen on driving what you consider to be a one way ticket to the hospital, you’d rather face your chances on that with Simon than alone walking home.

“Here,” Simon says, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to face him, you find his shoulders flexing as he slides his leather jacket off of his torso. He holds it out to you, already prepared for your arms to slip through the sleeves, and you bite your lip. “You’ll need this if you don’t want to freeze to death.”

“Won’t you get cold?” you counter.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart,” he replies.

You do your best to muster a look of disapproval, but Simon is unmoved by your expression, and instead shakes his coat, prompting you. Sighing, you give in and turn around to allow him to smother you in his coat. You try to remember the last time someone helped you get dressed, but you can’t. Something vague pokes in the back of your mind, attempting to convince you that you can, but the memory feels false. How long have you been like this? Taking care of yourself for so long that the help of someone else feels foreign?

“Simon?” you ask. Your breath swirls in a white cloud in front of you before it quickly sputters and dies. The warmth of his jacket bleeds through your clothes and into your skin, staving off the bitter cold that attempts to ravage your senses. “Can I… request something?”

He hums in response as he gently turns you back around to face him. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a short moment before he secures you, and then sneaks his gloves out of the pockets of the jacket before turning his full attention back to you.

“Can you promise me you won’t tell Row about this?” you ask.

Thick fingers curl and uncurl as Simon shoves his hands into his leather gloves. He’s already got a big palm and long digits, but the slight added padding of the gloves accentuates those features, and you find your mouth drying out.

“Don’t want her to stress?” he concludes.

You nod, and he nods back.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

There’s only a few more quick steps Simon walks you through before you’re ready to hit the road. Once your new jacket is fitted around your body, he makes you wear his helmet as an extra measure of protection. He’s got a rather large head, and it smells vaguely like sweat mixed with fresh shampoo, but he’s able to get it secured well enough. He fixes his long sleeved shirt around the end of his gloves before swiping a black balaclava out of the jacket; something to protect his skin from the bitter wind you’re about to endure, no doubt. As he dons it, you try not to pay attention to the way it makes his eyes darken, as if they weren’t already intense enough.

Simon hops onto the bike and motions for you to follow after him. It takes a bit of wiggling for you to get comfortable, as he has impossibly wide hips to accommodate, but you settle in with your hands respectfully on your knees. The engine roars to life with a jolt, rough vibrations rattling your bones in the process, and you hope Simon doesn’t hear you squeak. Before he takes off, he reaches behind him and grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him and moving your arm around his waist.

“Hold on,” he barks over the rumbling.

So you do. You try to keep your hands covered with the sleeves of the jacket to keep them warm while still keeping yourself secure just as he begins to pull out of the car park. There’s not as much traffic as there usually is considering it’s an early Sunday morning, and you have a feeling Simon is driving under the speed limit for your sake. Despite the lower speed, the howling wind is loud enough to drown out the ringing of your ears.

You don’t realize until you’re about halfway home that you can feel Simon’s heartbeat. It teases your fingertips; strong and steady, as if the cruise is comforting to him. Bright sunlight bleeds through your eyelids as you close your eyes and try to get lost in the feeling. It’s so distinct you tell yourself that you can hear its reverberations travel throughout your body and meet your achy eardrums. You lean against him, chest pressed against his back, helmet resting against his shoulder, and allow yourself to get lost. The sensation is almost enough to drown out the ringing that plagues you, yet you’re ripped from it as you approach your dingy apartment.

Silence falls as Simon kills the engine, and the two of you slide off of the bike where he assists in freeing you from the helmet before following you into the building. Neither of you say anything as you traverse up the stairs, fatigue too violent to fight off. This has been one of the hardest days you’ve had to endure in quite some time, and you can’t wait to fall asleep in the safety of your own bed and forget about it all until you wake up.

The moment you step foot into the flat, you’re tearing Simon’s jacket off, ready to be rid of the sweat stained clothes you’ve been wearing for the better part of the last twenty four hours. You hardly manage to get your arm free from the right sleeve before a stinging pain rips through your hand. You choke out a wince as you bring your hand up, and you notice your gauze got caught. It would have torn free from your skin if it wasn’t for the dried blood welding it to your cuts. You make a foolish attempt to pull the rest of it free from your fresh wounds, which only earns you another jolt of pain.

“Careful,” Simon chastises. He grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, preventing you from messing with it further, and you look up at him with heavy, dead eyes. “Let me help.”

Words bubble up in the back of your throat; sour ones that you have to force yourself to bite back as you allow Simon to help you for the umpteenth time since you’ve met him. He slips his balaclava off and doesn’t bother to fix his hair as he leads you towards the kitchen sink where his gloves quickly join his mask in his pockets. Your newly fixed sink turns on with a slight squeak as Simon wets his fingers and begins to rub at the space between your gauze and skin.

Despite the cooling sensation, it still stings as the water mixes with your fresh wounds, but it softens your skin enough so that Simon’s able to pull the fabric free with little resistance. For the first time, you’re able to clearly see the damage done to your palms. Several deep, angry, swollen cuts line the meaty part of your hand, blending in with the lines that are there naturally. It’s hard not to grimace at the sight of it. You don’t think you want to ask what exactly he had to pull out of your skin.

Simon’s thumb swipes over the sensitive skin just around the cuts and your eyes dart to his face. His cheeks are rosy with the November chill, but his eyes are glued onto your hand. It’s caring. So caring that it makes you feel sick.

“I can come by in a few days to check up on it,” he says, eyes flickering to yours for only a moment. “You’d fallen into some gnarly stuff. Worried ‘bout infection.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Those words that you had to bite back earlier bubble up on their own volition, and they taste just as harsh as they sound. Even so, Simon doesn’t look at all offended. In fact, nothing about his stature changes at all. Maybe he’s used to the sting. Or maybe he likes it.

“Doin’ what?” he challenges.

“Why are… why are you doting after me?” you clarify. “I mean, you don’t even know me. Why waste your time?”

“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to waste. Everythin’ I do is intentional,” he corrects.

“But why?”

Simon doesn’t speak, but the answer is written all over his face. A heavy realization hits you, and you feel your stomach drop.

“Row put you up to this, didn’t she?” you ask, voice soft.

His lips press tightly together, but he doesn’t stay silent for long before he’s lowering your hand. “She’s worried ‘bout you.”

Just as soon as that discomfort hits, it fades into your stomach and disperses until there’s nothing left. Maybe it should hurt a bit more knowing that Simon has only been doing this on orders of your best friend. You knew kindness never came cheap, if it ever came at all. Yet, you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. He has been nothing but compassionate toward you ever since the first time he met you, and yet he is not doing it because of you.

You don’t owe him a damn thing.

“Yeah… she always is,” you humor. “I’m just… glad you’re not doing it just for me.”

The sun is fully over the horizon by the time you’re tucked safely into bed and Simon leaves your apartment. There’s a deep, ancient ache that stems from his cheek bone, to the back of his neck, all the way down his spine. He knows he should be used to it by now. His job has been full of nothing but perfectly timed violence, but it always takes a toll on his body. He ignores it as he rides through the morning smog and bitter cold. Instead, his mind wanders elsewhere — specifically the cause of all that ache.

There’s something terribly familiar about that man who accosted you in the alley. A malicious glint in his eyes that’s too dangerous for any run of the mill thug to wear. Simon probably wouldn’t have ever noticed it if you hadn’t reacted the way you did. Paralyzed with fear, unable to do anything but freeze and throw up due to unbridled anxiety. When he asked you if you knew this man — this freak with his stony face and sharp knife — you said no.

He didn’t believe you for a second.

Which is why he’s back at the club, hidden far back in the surveillance room, scouring through countless rolls of film. This stranger — now a freak with a broken nose — arrived at the club fifteen minutes before you did. Nothing about it seems fishy. It’s not some stakeout, nor is he waiting in the shadows to pounce on you like a predator. No, this is simple coincidence, and he vanishes out of the camera’s sight within seconds.

Then you arrive some time later, bashful and awkward as you talk to the bouncers at the main entrance. There’s no audio, but he can tell you’re asking for directions, yet when you set off on your own you make a wrong turn. Everything else after that, he remembers himself. Seeing it again doesn’t do anything to jog his memory, not even as the camera catches the man’s bloody face and freshly shattered nose. He’s as much of an enigma now as he was before.

It’s just past nine in the morning by the time Simon decides he needs help. A deep burn irritates his eyes as he scrolls through the contacts on his phone where names begin to blur together in fatigue. Still, he finds the name he needs with little difficulty, and he’s impatiently awaiting an answer as he listens to the dull ring blare through the speaker.

“Hello?” a voice greets through heavy panting.

“Out of shape, Johnny?” Simon quips.

“Cardio day,” the man responds simply.

Simon hums as he leans back in the squeaky desk chair. Faux leather strains underneath the pressure of his weight, but he ignores it as his eyes focus back on the monitors in front of him.

“I’ve got an assignment for you,” he says.

“Pushing all the hard work onto me again?” Johnny teases.

“You’re more tech savvy than I am,” Simon deadpans. “Listen, when you come in tonight, I need you to find the name of someone for me. Get on cam five and look at the time stamp around one fifteen this morning. There’s a cunt leaving the alley next to the VIP section, and I need to know who he is.”

A quiet slurp followed by a loud gulp cuts through the static of the call before Johnny hums. “Right. Any physical description?”

“Bastards got a broken, bloody nose,” Simon answers.

“New dance partner?” Johnny chuckles.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be in this afternoon working on a project for Price. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Good man,” Simon concludes.

The line goes cold seconds later, and there’s nothing but the strong whirring of computer fans to fill the silence. Achy fingers rub at his jaw as Simon rests his eyes for a moment. If that chair wasn’t so uncomfortably small, he’d probably fall asleep right then and there, but the storm of thoughts swirling in his head keeps him going.

You’re in trouble. As for what kind, he’s not sure yet. All he knows is that he hasn’t seen someone that afraid since Tommy watched him slaughter a man saving his life back in the butcher shop he used to work at. He didn’t like seeing that in Tommy’s eyes, and he certainly didn’t like it in yours; that primal fear. He didn’t like how your brain and body seemed to shut down because of it, or how he had to carry you to safety so you wouldn’t have to pass out on the grimy ground.

Simon has no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, or why it seems to haunt you so maliciously, but he does know that he’s killed before and he’ll do it again if it gets you to sleep any easier at night.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #f!reader

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rainylana · 5 months

Text

“Takin’ care of my best girl.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: reader has a panic attack during the night.

warnings: panic attack, anxiety, tears and descriptions of anxiety symptoms, hurt/comfort, fear of allergic reaction/throat swelling.

You’re sitting on the porch. The air is cool and breezy against your face, the moon shines a calming light on the grass in from of you, making it shimmer. There’s cats roaming in trash cans. Maybe they’re raccoons, actually. It was a beautiful night, but you weren’t really able to enjoy it.

Your heart was pounding, head aching and body trembling with fear, a fear you didn’t know what it exactly was. Your stomach was so twisted with knots and nerves you thought you’d surely pass out. It hurt to breath. You couldn’t breath. Your hands were cradling your head, holding your body tight and hoping it would pass.

It always passed. It always went away and you were always okay. They didn’t normally get this bad. You were getting so much better at handling them. For some reason tonight wasn’t the case. You debated waking Eddie up, but you hated keeping him up with you when you got this way. It wasn’t fair to him.

You had tried all the things to help you. You squeezed an ice cub in your palm, took a cold shower, tried watching to tv to distract yourself. You couldn’t stop swallowing, testing to see if your throat was closing up, which was now raw and irritated from your constant swallowing. You tried taking deep breaths, hands shaking as you placed a hand over your chest, grasping at your shirt.

Once you thought you were getting better, it would start up again. The sudden racing of your heart that made you breathless. After a few minutes, you began to pace, gripping at your chest and willing it to go away. What if there was something wrong with you? Were your lungs actually closing? Were you having an allergic reaction?

That’s what got you every time. You always thought you were dying, and you never were.

You needed to go to the hospital. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You’d been to the er many times for panic attacks, but what if it was serious this time? With trembling legs you walked back inside to your bedroom, rounding the bed and shaking Eddie urgently.

“Eddie?” Your still holding your chest. “Eddie?”

His eyes flutter open, squinting in the dark. “Hmm?”

“I’m scared.” You say, bringing up a nail to bite. “I think something might be wrong.”

Those key words had him sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He leans over and switches on the light, looking up to take you in. He knows what’s wrong immediately, lifting the blanket so he can get out of bed. “What’s going on?” His voice is tired and gruff. “You anxious about something?”

You shake your head yes, grasping at your throat. “I- I uh, I think my throat might be swelling up. Maybe I ate something.”

He nods slowly, bringing his hands up to ghost at your arms. “What brought this on? Did it just start?”

“No, I’ve been up awhile.” You say, trying to swallow again. You do, but harshly, pushing out a choked breath that has you pacing around the room. “Eddie, I’m scared.”

“You’re alright, baby.” He’s following you, grabbing your hand. “Come on, let’s go out to the living room.” He guides you out there, sitting you on the kitchen chair by the stove. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Your eyes start to well up and you shake your head. “No, I- I think we should go to the hospital, Eddie.” Your voice came out desperate.

He’d done this with you so many times, yet the urgency and fear in your voice always made him nervous, even though he knew you were completely fine. He puts the tea in the microwave, setting it for two minutes before he’s crouching in front of you. “Hey,” He’s grasping your face. “You’re alright. You know that. We just have to work through it okay? Like we always do.”

You let out a sob that makes his heart ache, a tear dropping town to his wrist. “But I’m scared.”

“I know you are.” He coos, petting your hair. “If you really want to go I’ll take you, but you’re strong enough to fight this, baby. I’m right here with you, right? We can get through this.” He leans up and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, going back to the microwave to let you think.

Your knee is bouncing quickly, your knuckles tapping at the table like you’re trying to communicate through morse code. Your breathing gets heavier and heavier, your head getting harder to keep up. You gasp, groaning loudly as you lean over.

He’s bringing the cup of tea over to you quickly, sitting it on the table to hold your back. “Just breath, sweetheart.” He’s rubbing your back, crouching beside you. “You’re alright.”

You start to sob, head between your knees as you fight to be sick. You hiccup, shoulders shaking with your cries. You reach to grip his arm. “My stomach hurts so bad.”

It wasn’t rare for you to throw up when you got worked up. He quickly brought the kitchen trashcan over to you, sitting it in front of you so you could have it at the ready.

“Keep breathing.” He instructs you, bringing the tea over to you. “Here, try and drink some of this.” He wasn’t ever sure if the tea helped, but it made him feel useful when you got to feeling poorly.

When your tea is gone, after practically gulping down the hot liquid, he’s rubbing your shaking shoulders, trying to get the knots out of muscles. He switches on the tv to gilligans island, the episode where the professor is trying to make a phone out of a coconut and a banana peel.

You keep crying through half of the episode, coiling over here and there. When you did, he rubbed the back of your neck and kissed your shoulder, telling you to breath and that you were going to get through it.

When you’re three episodes in, your tears have stopped and you’re left with nothing but embarrassment and humiliation, your face beat red as you begin to mutter an apology. “I’m sorry.” Your voice is shaky and hoarse. He’s sitting beside you now, his arm tossed around your shoulders.

“Don’t be.” He smiles, tapping your nose. “Just doing my job.”

“Your job?” You sniffle.

“Takin’ care of my best girl.” He kissed you, a quick peck on the lips as he leans over and turns off the living room light, snuggling back into the couch and pulling you into his chest.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #stranger things season four #joseph quinn #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x female reader

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soaps-mohawk · 6 days

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 37: The Silence

Summary: Tensions are at an all time high in the pack as an eerie silence settles over the cottage

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,069 words

Warnings: Angst, heavy emotions, arguing, medical stuff, injuries, descriptions of pain, brief discussion about strangulation, so much crying, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, panic attack, PTSD, language

A/N: Uh yeah, this one did emotional damage. Prepare yourselves.

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They stand there watching like four knights in a tower guarding their kingdom. Their eyes are glued ahead, staring through the glass out into the backyard. They’re alert and watchful, eyes assessing and scanning for any threats. There are none except for your trembling legs.

They stand there watching like four knights guarding their princess. None of them are brave enough to move, none of them dare break the moment. They can’t help but wonder what’s going on in your head, what drove you to push past the pain and exhaustion to shuffle your way outside.

Panic bubbled in Kyle’s chest when he saw you shuffling your way across the living area. He’d nearly intervened when you stumbled, but John’s hand on his chest stopped him. You were in your own world, oblivious to everyone and everything as you shuffled determinedly toward the back door. They’d silently followed you, Johnny and Simon joining them when they descended the stairs.

All you’ve done is stand out there. It feels like it’s been an hour, but it’s been less than five minutes. You’re frozen there, all except for the tremble of your legs and the subtle shake of your shoulders.

You’re crying.

It hurts his soul. It tears through his very chest as he watches you. He wants nothing more than to run out there and take you in his arms and soothe your tears.

He can’t.

He lost those privileges when they left you, when they betrayed you, when they abandoned you. It may have been John’s choice, but they were all complacent in it. None of them fought that decision, none of them questioned it. Would John have changed his mind if they did? Could they have avoided all of this if they had just questioned their alpha, their captain?

Not all of it would have been unavoidable.

You would have still been hurt. You would have still been traumatized. There was no guarantee Graves would have held off, even if they came for you in the first place. Things might have been worse. Graves might have gotten impulsive as soon as he realized the outcome of his own situation.

Shepherd fucked him over too in the end.

Things happened the way they did and they can’t change that. That’s what Christine keeps telling them. The past is the past and you can only work to build the future.

It’s going to take a lot of work.

“How long has she been out there?” Christine asks, stepping up next to them.

“About four minutes.” Simon answers.

“She shouldn’t be out there like that.” Christine goes to move to the door, but John stops her.

“Let her have a moment.” He says, still staring out the window. “She needs it.”

Christine lets out a quiet huff but she doesn’t move, turning her gaze out the sliding glass door as well.

You continue to stand there, frozen like a statue. Time passes slowly, all of them captivated by the silent moment they’re witnessing. It’s almost hypnotic. The fading light, your figure standing there surrounded by grey skies and green earth like some sort of painting.

Pain and bliss.

That’s what he’d title it. He knows that’s what you must be feeling. Pain, visible and invisible from wounds that go far deeper than the flesh. Pain in its purest form as you stand there under heavy grey skies that echo the heaviness in your mind. The bliss echoes from John’s words, his reveal of your desire to see the ocean again, to stand on its shores and let its essence consume you.

It all makes sense now. No wonder you would cling to him the most, press your face into his neck and just breathe. His own briney scent was a gateway to what you desired in your landlocked position. How long had you been holding that desire in? Were you disappointed when you rolled up on their doorstep to find yourself still far away from the sea? You hid that desire from the knowledge that, as an omega, your wants and needs would always come last, in the knowledge that their jobs would come first and you would be at the mercy of that job.

His eyes burn with tears as he stares at you.

You begin to tremble more and more the longer you stand there, shifting on your feet. It breaks the haze they’ve all been frozen in, the five of them snapping back into reality. Christine is out the door before any of them can move, hurrying to your side. She wraps an arm around your back, careful not to touch your left arm as she steadies you. Kyle jumps into action automatically after her, hurrying to your new designated room to grab the wheelchair. With how much effort it took to walk out there, you won’t be walking back in.

He wheels it out, holding it still as Christine maneuvers you into it. As much as he doesn’t want to, he turns, slipping back in the door as Christine wheels you towards the house. The four of them watch as she passes, time pausing as they stare at you. You don’t look up at them, don't acknowledge them at all. Your gaze is turned down in your lap, head lowered as you hunch, shoulders rounded.

Pain and exhaustion are weighing on you from your exertion as Christine takes you back to your room. How heavy the world must seem from the combined weight of your physical and mental injuries. The state of your mind would be one thing, but being stuck in a temporary handicapped state due to your physical injuries must be driving you nearly insane. There’s no getting away, no isolation. You can’t even walk fully unaided yet.

There’s no freedom.

All of them share a look in the heavy silence, understanding without even needing to say a word.

The mug is burning his fingers but he can’t bring himself to care. His gaze is locked, mind focused elsewhere. He hasn’t moved in so long his joints are aching, but he can’t find it in himself to even shift his position.

“Drinking it black?” His fingers twitch as Kyle takes the seat next to him, his own mug of tea in his hands. It clunks as he sets it on the table before he lowers himself into the chair with a sigh. “That’s low even for you.”

Simon lets out a grunt, eyes still focused out the sliding glass door.

“She’s fine.” Kyle says, pulling out his phone. “The Doc won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Don’t like that she’s out there alone.” Simon says, finally releasing the mug, squeezing his burning fingers into his palm.

“Technically she’s not alone,” Kyle says, giving him a sideways glance. “We’ve been over this. We’re perfectly safe here.”

“For now.” Simon lifts his mug to his lips, ignoring the burn of the tea on his tongue. He’s long become numb to that sort of pain.

“No one knows we’re here except Kate and my sister. Neither of them would say anything, no matter what.” Kyle turns his gaze back to the sliding glass door, to your figure huddled in the chair outside. “She’s where she needs to be right now.”

Footsteps thud down the stairs, John letting out a groan as he reaches the bottom. He takes a moment to stretch before heading for the kettle in the kitchen.

“Rough night, sir?” Kyle asks, taking a sip of his tea.

“I’ve slept worse.” John grunts, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.

Both of them had tossed and turned last night. Simon had listened to the occasional creak of the bed frame as they turned. He knows that’s what it was. They’re not ready yet. None of them are. Things are too fragile, too frayed.

“Anyone thought about breakfast?” John asks.

“Still some eggs left, and some bread. We need to make a store run soon.” Kyle says.

“Today.” John says, pouring water into the mug. “A lot of things we need to pick up.” He turns to face Simon and Kyle, leaning against the cupboard. “Simon and I will go.”

Simon shifts in his seat, his hand tightening around his mug again. “That’s not a good idea.”

“What, you’re doubting our ability to watch the house?” Kyle says, turning to Simon.

Simon glances at him, his eyes hard. “No, There should just be an alpha here at all times.”

“Really? Because that sounds a lot like you don’t trust Johnny and I.” Kyle says, getting angry.

“Enough.” John says, setting his mug down on the table. “We keep fighting amongst ourselves, nothing is going to get better. Tensions are high, but none of this is about us. We have to keep our heads on straight for the sake of our pack, and our omega. Simon and I will go to town today. That’s final.”

Kyle and Simon both lower their eyes to their mugs of tea as John takes a seat at the table. He is right. Fighting amongst themselves will only make things worse for you. You’re already struggling, and the bonds fraying further will only cause more damage, more stress for you. Their bonds with you are delicate enough. They can’t risk the bonds between themselves getting any thinner. They have to be strong for you. They have to be strong for each other. They have to be strong for the pack. The whole pack.

It falls silent between the three of them as they sit there, sipping their tea. Johnny is the only one still in bed. He cried most of the night last night. He’s cried most of the night the last three nights. He’s probably shed more tears than you have.

Simon feels stuck in the middle, like he’s being torn in two separate directions. He got up in the night to free himself from the sounds of Johnny crying just to hear your own quiet sobs through your closed door. Each broken sob had his heart splitting in half, the ache in his chest getting worse and worse. He was sure he was having a heart attack that first night, his chest compressing and squeezing, his hands going numb from how tense his body was.

He wants to reach out and make it better, but he can’t bring himself to. Johnny will just shrug him off, and you won’t even look at him. Even John and Kyle are distant, gravitating further and further away. The gravitational field in the center of their pack continues to get bigger and bigger, forcing them further and further away from each other, and none of them know how to stop it. They’ve lost their point of equilibrium. They’re all spiraling further and further away. Eventually that gravitational field will dissipate and they’ll be left free-floating through space and time.

They all turn to look as the sliding glass door opens and you crutch your way in. Dr. Keller is right behind you, closing the back door before guiding you back to your room, the blanket you had been draped in folded neatly over her arm. You’re moving better, even just in two days since their arrival. Steadier on your feet, walking better with the crutch. You even look a little better, more alive than you were when you arrived here.

They all watch you walk to your room, but you don’t spare a glance their way. You haven’t looked at any of them in two days. You haven’t spoken a word to them, to anyone, in two days.

Kyle gets up to make breakfast as soon as you’ve passed, broken from the spell as Dr. Keller gets you settled in your room. You’re almost hypnotic now, all of their gazes drawn to you as soon as you enter the room. They’re all thinking the same thing every time you pass. Maybe this will be the time you finally look at them, when you finally glance their way. What he wouldn’t give to have you smile at him, give him that cheeky little grin after sassing him.

Little shit.

His hand tightens around his mug again as guilt floods him. You’ve sunken into an empty shell because of them. They sucked the life right out of you. They dragged you into this and failed to do what they were supposed to do. Anger bubbles in him as he thinks back to that moment. He should have fought back. He should have used his position to change John’s mind, or forced him to change it. He should have stepped up for you.

He’s not your alpha.

He almost wishes he was.

He stares down at the scabbed imprint of your teeth on his skin. He should pick up a bottle of ink in town, tattoo that mark on his skin forever as a reminder of both you and what he did to you.

“How is she?” John asks when Dr. Keller enters the kitchen. Simon’s shoulders square as she passes him, having been so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t even noticed her enter.

Bloody hell, he’s as bad as you.

“As good as she can be.” She sighs, grabbing a can of soup out of the cupboard. You won’t get the eggs and toast Kyle is making. Your diet consists of soup and only soup.

“Hasn’t said anything still?” John asks, turning to look at her.

“Not a word.” Dr. Keller shakes her head. “I’d be worried, if it wasn’t expected.” She pulls out a pot, opening the can before dumping the contents in. Chicken noodle. The staple soup in your diet. “Strangulation can be a hard thing to recover from.”

“I know.” Simon winces, taking a sip of his tea.

The doctor gives him a sympathetic look. He doesn’t want it. “She had some mild damage done from it, which will take time to heal. And, everyone deals with trauma differently. Silence isn’t that unusual of a response.” She puts the pan on the hob, turning the heat on. “If I was worried, you would know.”

“Thank you for looking after her.” John says, nodding at the doctor. “You didn't have to stay.”

“I made a promise.” She says, stirring the soup. “She's still my patient, even if the initiative was bogus. I still have a duty to perform as her doctor. Kate wouldn't have chosen me from the start if I was the type to just up and leave as soon as I found out my job wasn't actually real. I care about her a lot, and I want to help her get through this.”

“We all owe a lot to you.” John says. “We wouldn't have made it this far without you.”

“No,” The corner of her mouth twitches. “You probably wouldn't have.”

Christine lets out a quiet sigh as she steps into your room. You're in the chair by the window, your usual spot when it's too damp and cold to sit outside.

It's dark in the room aside from the light coming through the window. It’s always dark in the room, except at night when you sleep with the bedside lamp on. She flips that lamp on, not wanting to blind you suddenly with the overhead light. You’ve been blinded by enough bright lights over the last week. Nearly a week and a half. It feels like so much time has passed, yet it still feels like yesterday when she was coming to in her office after being attacked and drugged. The terror she’d felt upon finding you missing still fills her stomach, and she finds herself getting up in the middle of the night to check and make sure you’re really there.

She’s not the only one that does it.

The paper bags in her arms crinkle as she carries them over to you, setting them on the other chair. Your gaze is far away, staring off at the grey, stormy sea in the distance. How fitting the weather is, both for you and the members of the pack. The tension between them is still palpable, all of them moving stiffly around each other. They’ve lost the natural fluidity of a pack comfortable in their bonds. They’re stuck, and they can’t, they won’t, heal until you do. They won’t allow themselves to until they know you’re willing to at least try.

“John and Simon went to town and did some shopping. They picked up some things for you.” She says softly, breaking the heavy silence in the room.

You don’t even turn to look at her.

“More warm clothes.” She continues, looking in one bag. “As well as some boots.” She pulls a box out of another bag. “A nightlight, so you don’t have to keep using the lamp.” She looks in the third bag, the heaviest one of the three. “Another stuffed animal.” She says, pulling out a stuffed bear. It’s a nice thought, but she’s not sure you’ll even want to touch it. “And some books.” She says, pulling the stack out of the bottom of the bag.

There’s three of them, ones not in the collection on the shelves in the living area. Some of your favorites. They’re trying, putting in efforts to try and make you as comfortable as possible in the only ways they can right now. She sets the books on the side table next to you, taking a long look at you as you sit there.

You haven’t picked up a book in the two days they’ve been at the cottage, though she’s not surprised. You’ve been in and out of it, sleeping off the pain medicine, or sitting in a haze, mind far away from the cabin. She wonders where you are, where your mind is going. Out on the water? Out on the beach? Or maybe somewhere back in your memories where it’s safe. Receding back somewhere when life was easier and safer.

Are you thinking of your mother? Are you imagining her here with you?

Her heart hurts for you, being torn away from her at such a pivotal moment in your life. If she had the ability to find her she would. If she could track down your mother and bring her here for you she would.

You begin to sniffle, almost as if you can somehow read her thoughts. The tears are falling, streaming down your cheeks again. She doesn't say anything, she doesn’t have to as she stands there beside you, gently stroking your hair. She’s seen many things in her time as an omega specialist. She’s had patients that have gone through things that would make even the most seasoned doctor’s stomach churn. She’s helped omegas that have been pushed to the brink of insanity, omegas pushed to the brink of death. Yet none of them have affected her the way you have. Maybe it’s because she’s never been quite so invested in an omega’s life before, never been quite so inserted into an omega’s reality.

If she was a better doctor, she might have refused to stay here, keeping distance between herself and your pack. She’s gotten too close, pushed past the barrier of professionalism. If she was a better doctor, she’d distance herself, stick to the decorum and expectation of doctor/patient relationships. She knows omega specialists can get too close. She’d been warned over and over about how easy it is to invest too much into the lives and well beings of omegas. There’s a boundary that must be kept, both for the professional and for the sake of the omega. She won’t be around you forever.

Eventually she’ll have to distance herself. She’ll have to go back to America, return to her practice. Now that the initiative is over, now that her job doesn’t even exist, she’s running on borrowed time. She’ll have to leave you at some point, close your case and move on.

When is the question there. When will it be the right time? When will she decide you’ve healed enough to be graduated from her care? When will she be confident enough to break the bond that has formed between the two of you.

Will she be able to? That’s the deeper question.

Those are thoughts for a different day, she decides, pushing them aside. Instead she pulls you into her side, resting your head against her hip as she continues to stroke your hair.

You look just about as happy to be at the table as they do. It's quiet in the room aside from the clanking of dishes in the kitchen and the occasional sizzle of food in a pan. Your gaze is in your lap, assuming your normal position of a drooping head and rounded shoulders.

Your back and neck have to hurt from being in that position for so long.

The only time you're not in those positions are when you're outside. Then your gaze is out at the sea in the distance. You sit there and stare, almost like a statue. You’d make for a good painting, seated still enough for long enough a skilled artist could make a masterpiece of it.

He's surprised Johnny hasn't even sketched you like that yet. Perhaps if you can ever come to be more comfortable around them, you'll allow him to paint you. You’ll be taking up residence out there in that chair as often as you can.

He’s not even sure rain or storm would deter you, if it wasn’t for Christine’s intervention.

Kyle sets a plate of chicken on the table as Christine brings over your soup, setting it down in front of you. Always a bowl of steaming hot soup. How you’re existing off of mostly liquids is beyond him. Maybe that’s why you look so fragile and frail.

“There you go,” Christine says as she sets a spoon down beside the bowl. Chicken and rice, a changeup from your normal chicken noodle. “I know you don’t want to, but you need to. You’re not going to feel better without food in your system.”

You let out a quiet noise, just barely audible over the shuffling of bodies as they sit at the table. Simon is to your left, Kyle next to him, Christine and Johnny on the other side. He’s on the opposite end of the table, staring right at you. No wonder you don’t want to move from your hunched position.

They keep their eyes off of you as they begin serving themselves. The food they’ve managed to make is decent with the help of their combined cooking skills. They’d had a long discussion about the intricacies of British food versus American food the first morning after their arrival. Christine advocated for more American-based dishes, with Johnny taking her side purely out of spite for the three Englishmen.

John has caught Christine sneaking seasoning into the food every so often. He hasn’t said a word.

“Come on, eat up.” Christine says, gently nudging your hand where it rests over the spoon.

Your face screws up in a grimace as you stare down at the steaming soup. It’s a breath before your fingers wrap around the spoon, lifting it to the bowl. Every movement feels practiced and calculated as he watches you sink the spoon into the bowl, just barely sinking below the surface to get just broth. He watches as you lift the spoon, holding it halfway to your mouth. There’s a subtle shake to your hand, not much but noticeable to him. You stare down at the spoon for a long moment before lifting it the rest of the way, quickly putting it in your mouth before your hand starts shaking too much.

You grimace as you swallow, a quiet grunt leaving your lips. He can’t bring himself to look away as you sit there, taking in a couple deep breaths. He can’t bring himself to eat as you stare back down at the bowl, your fingers trembling around the spoon.

Fuck.

You sniffle as you sink the spoon into the bowl once more, the spoon shaking more now as you bring the second spoonful to your mouth. It’s like watching some kind of sick, twisted children’s windup toy as you feed yourself, following the pattern of spoon in soup, soup to mouth, pained grimace, quiet sob. It gets worse and worse with every bite, John barely able to stomach his own food as he watches you with every bite.

You stare down at a chunk of chicken on your spoon, a fearful look on your face. Your hand is shaking enough that soup is dripping off the bottom back into the bowl. Christine had cut the chunks up smaller, yet you stare down at it like it might jump off the spoon and bite you.

Tears start rolling down your cheeks as you bring the spoon up to your lips, forcing it into your mouth. You chew and chew and chew, delaying the inevitable. The face you make as you swallow nearly breaks him. He lowers his gaze to his own plate, barely touched despite the fact he feels like they’ve been eating for a lifetime.

“Take a break.” Christine says quietly, lowering your hand with the spoon back onto the table.

None of them can bear to look at you. Johnny and Kyle are busy staring at their plates as they eat while Simon glares holes into his water glass. He’s watching you just as closely, he’s just not brave enough to stare at you so openly.

The tears continue to fall as you start feeding yourself again, Christine watching you as your hand begins to shake more and more, the pain starting to get to you. John wants to reach out, to take the spoon and feed you himself, but he can’t. It’s destroying him inside, seeing you struggle so openly. Christine won’t intervene, she won’t do anything as she sits there. Rationally he knows why. You need to get used to feeding yourself again, you need to work past the pain and exhaustion to keep yourself going.

His alpha is screaming.

Your hand is nearly vibrating as you hold another spoonful up, this one full of rice and chicken. You let out a quiet sob as you stare at it. That’s going to hurt. He can nearly sense your pain, the agony you’re feeling. Your scent is like a cloud fogging up the air, sour with fear and pain. It’s sinking right into his brain, his alpha clawing at him to do something. You’re in such open distress in front of him but he can’t move. He’s frozen, staring at you in shock, unable to look away.

It’s Simon’s quick reflexes that save you, his hand darting out to flip the spoon onto the table before you drop it on yourself. It lands with a clang, startling all of them out of their ruminations as it hits the bowl of peas, splattering rice and chicken and broth across the tablecloth. Christine is on her feet almost immediately, checking you over for burns from any of it that might have landed on you.

“You're okay.” Christine says, wiping your face with a napkin as you sob loudly, openly crying now. “It was a good try. Come on.”

She helps you to your feet, grabbing your crutch before leading you back to your room.

All four of them sit there in silence, still as statues as they process what they had just witnessed.

“Fuck,” Kyle breaths, his eyes glued to the half-eaten chicken on his plate.

Johnny starts to sniffle himself, his gaze locked on his own plate. Simon's eyes are on the spoon he'd flipped where it lays on the table.

He had no idea just how bad things really were. He knew they were bad.

He just didn't think they were this bad.

You’re sitting outside in that chair again. It’s a lovely morning, cold but the sun is rising up over the hills, casting a pink and orange glow across the sky. You look almost ethereal out there, even if he can only see the back of your head. Your eyes are cast out at the sea in the distance, where your gaze always seems to lie.

His fingers itch in a desire to draw you, the art supplies Simon had picked up for him sitting unopened upstairs. It’s the first time he’s felt the desire to draw in weeks. Not since your heat when he’d sat there by your side, drawing to keep the thoughts away. The pictures are probably still up on his wall, the pieces he’d done to keep his own distress away. Had you laid there and stared at them after they left you? He can picture you laying there numbly, eyes glazed as you stare at them, picturing yourself far away.

You don’t need his drawings now to imagine yourself far away.

You’re still as a statue as you sit there, the thick blanket he’d picked up in Texas tucked around you. It warms his heart, even if he knows it was Christine who wrapped you up in it. The mug of tea beside you is still steaming in the cool air, untouched as it will remain until Christine eventually brings you back inside where you’ll recede to your room to sit in front of the large bay window to stare out at the sea.

He wants to take you.

He wants to load you up in the car and take you the short drive down the road to the beach. He wants to let you stand there in the sand, see the waves as they crash onto the shore. Hell, he’d let you walk into the water, let it soak your shoes and pants. Whatever you need to do, he’d let you do it.

John would have his hide if he left with you like that.

Simon would eat him alive.

He won’t do that, though, mostly because he knows you wouldn’t be strong enough to make it down to the beach, nor stand there for a long period of time. Carrying you would be out of the question. You’d never let him that close.

Instead he takes a gamble, getting as close as he dares as he slides open the door, stepping out into the cool morning. You don’t move, don’t even look up as he takes a seat in the chair next to you, the one Christine occupies when she’s out with you. He’d volunteered to watch you through the door to allow her some time to herself, something she hasn’t been getting much of. She’s been caring for you nearly 24/7, only getting breaks here and there while you sleep or nap, or on the rare occasion she trusts one of them to watch you. She never complains, but he knows she’s tired. Anyone would be after everything they’ve been through, after everything she’s had to see and experience over the last week and a half.

It’s the least they can do, even if you won’t allow them to do more. They all wish they could. They wish they could ease some of your suffering, take some of the strain off of Christine’s shoulders. Kyle even went so far as to invite his sister to visit over for the weekend in hopes she might be able to lighten the load, and to see if you’ll allow her closer than you’re allowing them to get.

He moves cautiously like he’s approaching a wild animal, not wanting to startle you and cause you more pain than you have been in. He can be a bull in a china shop, or he can be silent and deadly. He chooses something in the middle, making his footsteps just loud enough to be heard across the wooden planks of the porch, but he moves slowly enough he won’t startle you as he appears in your peripheral.

Your gaze never leaves the horizon, focused and far away even as he takes a seat next to you. His mug of coffee is warm in his hands, fighting off the chill outside. It’s a natural response to the sudden temperature change after being inside in the warm house. He almost wishes he had his own blanket, but then again, he’s not sure he’ll be outside very long.

He’s prepared for yelling, screaming, getting hit with your crutch as you tell him off, chasing him back inside. He’d almost prefer it over the eerie silence. He has to glance at you just to make sure you’re breathing, make sure the blanket is rising and falling over your chest. He follows your gaze out to the sea, sitting there silently as he gazes out at the dark blue water. Silence is hard for him. He can feel it throbbing in his ears, the ringing that fills his head when it’s quiet. He likes noise. He needs noise.

He just wants to hear you speak again.

He needs to hear you speak again.

He wants to talk to you, he wants to say something, he wants to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. He wants to feel your touch again, even if it’s just a brush of fingers across his hand. He wants to get something out of you, some kind of reaction. You’re an empty shell, a ghost of what you were.

Tears fill his eyes as he stares out at the blue water. The silence is deafening as he sits there with you, still and quiet.

He might as well be sitting alone.

It’s the dead of night. The stars are out, or they would be if the clouds weren’t blocking them. It makes the world seem so much darker without their light. The fire is out, the curtains drawn closed. The only light is from the porch and the lights on the patio out back. The house is quiet, not even the hum of appliances filling the silence.

Kyle’s breaths are quiet and even, finally asleep after laying awake for far too long. Their backs are turned towards each other, yet the double bed forces them close enough they can feel the warmth radiating from the other. It’s the only position they can sleep in, even if they’ve woken up cuddling a few times in the night. It’s almost as if their brains are subconsciously trying to force the bonds back, to force the healing. It’s as if their instincts are laughing at them for trying to deny what they want deep down.

John lays there in the silence, his mind racing. He can’t sleep again for the fifth night in a row. He hasn’t been able to sleep since they left weeks ago on their mission to track down the missiles. No, it’s been longer than that. Not since you revealed the cameras to them. How long ago that seems now. How inconsequential it feels. If he knew back then what was going to happen, he would have changed a lot of things.

You can’t undo what was done. You can only change what happens going forward.

Things happened the way they happened. Now he has to make up for it. Now he has to prove himself not just as a capable alpha, but as a trustworthy human being. Your omega is screaming. He knows it. He had sensed it at dinner with your quiet sobs, the pain flooding your scent. He can still smell it, the sourness permeating his nostrils and sinking right into his brain. His alpha is still clawing at him angrily for just sitting there, for just letting it happen.

Simon intervened. Simon saved you once again.

He had barely comprehended the quick movement of Simon’s hand as he knocked the spoon out of your grip. He’d gotten soup on his hand, the droplets visible, yet he hadn’t moved as he sat there, letting it burn his skin. Better his than yours. He could almost hear Simon’s thoughts at that moment.

What a good alpha Simon is.

What a failure of an alpha John is.

Your omega must be screaming in your mind, clawing at her cage. It’s almost like he can hear it rattling in his ears, reminding him of the pain he’s caused you. The pain brought on by his failures.

Something is rattling in his ears, piercing through the silence.

It is a scream.

It’s your scream.

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #tf 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

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phntmeii · 11 months

Note

Hil

Im not sure if your taking requests for writing, but if you are I was wondering if you could do a slashers × S/O who is very strong but doesn't look it?

If that makes sense...

Like the S/O is very sweet, short and small, like she looks petite and fragile but it turns out she can easily lift extremely heavy things, or can punch really hard.

Like even harder or stronger than the slasher.

If you could specifically add Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, (NBC) Hannibal and Will, and maybe Thomas Hetwit?

Sorry I don't know if that's too much to ask for, I just love your writing so much!

Being Stronger than Slashers .

[ SFW + Fem Terms]

Pairings: Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Thomas Hewitt x petite!strong!Reader General Warnings: Descriptions of Gore/Blood, Violence, Slightly OOC, Descriptions of panic attack/episode, Manipulative behavior mention

A/N: ty anon for request <33 Back to slashers :) Sad I haven’t posted more of them literally in Halloween month but I’m working on it (last second lol) </33

Bo Sinclair

Absolutely turned on to the fucking max when he sees your strength.

Small, sweet partners was always his type. He just loves fulfilling the typical male stereotype of being a protector over his partner.

When he turned the corner, looking to finish off the last victim of the lot within his abandoned town, only to see something better.

He watched as you effortlessly were carrying the body of the victim over your shoulder like it was nothing. Head completely caved in, more of a mass of flesh and blood than an identifiable person. Your other hand held a bloodied hammer.

Bo was completely still, but not of fear. He was standing there like a man who had completely re-fallen in love again.

His eyes were shining as his grin grew wide. Approaching, he was nothing but prideful.

His voice was light with a chuckle, thumb brushing away the blood on your cheek. “Shit, sweetheart… Never knew a pretty girl like you was so… strong. I love it.”

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent was overprotective a lot of the time. He was insistent you were never near his work nor would you be involved when victims were in town.

He loved you too much to have you a part of him and his brothers’ work.

Vincent was slightly startled, hearing the door of his studio open. He knew both his brothers were out.

Seeing it was you, he approached, silently looking down at you. You could tell there was an air of disappointment at you being in his studio when he didn’t want you to be.

A ragged, strained voice spoke from behind his mask, “Why?”

With a shrug of your shoulders and a smile, you walked past him, further into the studio. “Bo said he needed a box in here.”

Watching you walk past, his eyes were hidden but widened as he watched you easily lift up a heavy table to look under it, scrolling past the items underneath it.

He approached confused but didn’t stop you. “Oh! Here it is!” Your arms held up a filled box of tools and parts.

Vincent followed you around curiously for the rest of the day like a shadow. He was completely fascinated by your strength, wanting to see it again.

Once you returned from helping Bo, Vincent couldn't let go of you. He kept his arms around you, head on your shoulder. His quiet, strained voice simply said, "Show me again... Please?"

Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal always held an air of curiosity about you. Your sweet nature was like an untainted part of his life. A woman so far from himself.

Hannibal’s curiosity was never-ending. He took advantage of his intelligence to learn as much as he could. Stalking, Manipulative behaviors in “therapy”, etc.

You were almost always at his place. He liked it better that way although it provided some maintenance when it came to his extracurricular activities.

Hannibal had been making another of his fancy dinners for the two of you. The presentation had to be precise and perfect. Presentation was half the work for him.

He absentmindedly spoke while you were cutting vegetables beside him, “I have not set the chairs. I will do so in a moment, my love.”

Immediately, you wanted to assist. You always liked helping out. “I’ve got it!”

Watching you walk away, he expected to finish his current task before going off to assist you. Instead, he looked up to the doorway to see you easily walking past with a heavy wooden chair in each hand, easily carrying the two like they were just a stack of papers.

A small smirk curled at his lips as his hands slowed in their work. He whispered to himself, knowing his eager curiosity was not wasted, “You are… a delight, my love. You will make for something truly wonderful.”

Will Graham

Will was someone who was vigilant and aware. His mind always raced a million miles an hour with tiny observations and connections.

There was something about you but he just couldn’t place it.

But, what was there to prove? You were sweet and kind, seeming so far from what he knew. That was part of why he held love for you—You weren’t him.

Will was in his head again, silently panicked by his own mind. It was torturous to live in a prison of his own violent thoughts.

You were someone who always noticed. Always could pick up when these episodes started.

Holding his hands and speaking sweetly to him to draw him back to reality, unfortunately, wasn’t working this time.

His eyes kept darting back and forth while his breath quickened. With him standing still, quivering, you had to make the choice.

With simple ease, you picked Will up bridal style, walking away with him.

It took him a moment to realize what happened, breaking out of being inside his head. His eyes just stared at you when he was placed onto his bed, sweat drenching his forehead.

He broke out into a small smile, absentmindedly licking his lips, as was his habit. "I... didn't know you could do that."

"Is it a bad thing?"

"No. It's... really attractive, actually."

Thomas Hewitt

Tommy was always a protector. Toward his family, it was evident. A given. Toward you, it was an inherent need.

The last thing he'd ever want is for you to be hurt, especially when victims come around.

He would lead you and Luda Mae into a room, having you two barricade it while him and Hoyt took care of the unfortunate victims who made their way to the wrong home.

You waited, albeit anxiously. And it only grew once you heard a loud thud followed by Hoyt's yelling.

"Goddammit, Tommy! The fuck are you doin'?"

Immediately you knew something went wrong. Despite Luda Mae trying to keep you in the room, you ripped away the makeshift barricade on the door and rushed out.

Tommy was on all fours, holding the side of his head. A man, you assumed one of the few victims, held a hammer in his hand. He quivered holding it, as if horrified by his own self-defense.

Without thinking, you grabbed the nearest chair, pulling back and cracking it hard against the man. Aimed for his head, he dropped to the floor unconscious by the impact.

You rushed over to Tommy's side, panicked. "Tommy! Tommy! God- Are you okay?"

His arm just instinctively shot out and held you to his body, protecting you in his mind. He opened his eyes and looked past you to see the victim with broken wooden pieces of the chair on top of him.

With his mask on, his expression was hidden. But inside, his heart warmed at how you were strong enough to protect him too. His own protector.

#slasher fucker #slashers x reader #slasher headcanons #slasher x reader #slashers #slashers headcanons #thomas hewitt x y/n #thomas hewitt headcanons #thomas hewitt x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #vincent sinclair headcanons #vincent sinclair x reader

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ohcaptains · 2 years

Text

don’t you dare fall in love. | 2

pairing. dealer college student! ellie williams x f! reader

PART ONE. MASTERLIST. synopsis. ellie tries her hardest not to mix business with pleasure. or, ellie gets a new customer and unfortunately falls in love with her.

warnings. 18+. drug dealing, panic attack, death references (light), creepy men (light), -- sexually explicit descriptions, dry humping, sleepy sex.

an. well. this happened quickly. thanks for all the love on part one. please comment & reblog<3 if this is being laggy, go to settings and smash the cache.

Ellie Williams is not a kiss-ass.

She would not kiss anyone’s ass for a better grade, but she would, theoretically, buy the textbook her professor has written to win good favour. She has tried chocolates.

Tried reading around the subject: so, what do you think about Western’s ideas on thermal physics…still, Professor Sampson hates her guts. Hates everyone’s guts, really, so Ellie isn’t all that special. But she needs at least an 80 on this test, and she’s been getting 79 for the past month.

Ellie Williams is not a kiss-ass.

“You’re such a kiss ass,” Dina spouts, her voice directly in Ellie’s ear from her headphones. “Dina, we spoke about this. I would kiss no man’s ass.”

Ellie is in the science textbook section, trying to figure out how the staff have laid this place out. She can hear Dina smile, “No, we all know whose ass you want to kiss. She here?” Ellie looks around again, beady eyes like a frightened animal. “No, Dina, trust me. I’ve looked,” she whispers, reminiscent of a spy speaking through an earpiece.

“Trust you to pick the one day she’s not working to visit the campus bookshop.”

Ellie carries on looking through the shelves, head bent at an angle as she reads the authors. She talks through her Bluetooth, “I think the universe is trying to keep us apart.” “Or just the guy who does the rotas. What’s this book called again?” “A General Relativity course book.”

Dina snores, “Jesus, how bad do you need this grade?” “If I get this grade, then I don’t have to attend his Saturday sessions.” “Saturday? This man is—“ “Ellie!”

The distant voice cuts Dina off, and Ellie spins to her name, confusion on her face until she recognises you standing there, smiling in your uniform. You wave, far too happy to be working on a Monday morning. Ellie’s face splits open, excitement in her gut, a sudden living, breathing thing. “Hey, I looked around, but I didn’t see you.” “I was out back,” you state, motioning behind you. You play with your fingers for a beat, body inching closer, getting into her space, then stopping, suddenly -- she imagines you leaning to hug her, but your movements are reserved as if you’re telling yourself you’ve missed the opportunity.

Ellie aches with the memory of your hug, the touch happening in an alternate reality.

Note to self, Ellie thinks; hug her when I see her next.“What’re you doing here?”

“Ellie? Helllooooo…” comes Dina’s distant voice. Ellie ignores her. Focuses on you. Focuses on the way you’ve done your hair today. The cherry necklace that sits on your clavicle, glinting red against your soft skin. She dazedly stares at it, and when you cock your head to the side, waiting for her answer, she flinches back to reality. “Err,” she starts, blushing red, “I’m, err, trying to find a physics textbook, but I can’t find it.” “Oh, I can look on the system for you, if you want?” Who are you talking to? Is it her? – it’s her isn’t it? Ellie double-taps against her headphones, ending the call. She shoves them around her neck, breathing in the silence. “Yeah – please.” You throw her an easy smile, turning in the direction of the desk, “Follow me.” Ellie’s phone buzzes and she follows you, reading the new text from Dina: Okay asshole She quickly types, I’m sorry, you were ruining my ability to flirt Godspeed, and don’t talk about aliens again.

There’s a queue at the desk already, being served by one of your colleagues, but you walk behind them, signalling Ellie to cut the line and come to the computer at the end. She ducks behind the people, a smug smile on her face from the special treatment.

Your fingers clack at the keys, logging into something, concentrated look on your face. Ellie focuses on the small curve between your brows, wanting to make a home in it – so focused, that she doesn’t immediately answer when you ask, “What’s the book?” She manages to snap out of it, “It’s called ‘A General Relativity course book.’” You look up from the computer, pausing. “Okay,” you sound, pursing your lips, “not my type of literature, but I get It.” Your fingers drag on the keys, the clack echoing in Ellie’s ears. “It’s not mine, either,” she starts, hoping she sounds casual, “I’m aiming for it to win me good favour with my professor -- he wrote it.” “What’s your type, then?” you ask suddenly, eyes still on the screen. “Huh?” Ellie chokes, flinching. You look up from the computer, grinning slyly, “Of literature.” “Oh,” she bleats. The redness is back again – heat filling her cheeks. She feels it around her neck, too. Rubbing it, she tries to think. Luckily, you find the answer for her.

“I saw some westerns in your living room, the other day. Real old ones, too.” “Yeah—“Ellie speaks, cutting you off quickly. “Those…are, err, my dad’s—but I read mostly sci-fi. Space operas. Things like that.” “Mmm,” you hum, smiling at the screen. “So you are a nerd.” A surge of adrenaline hits Ellie, “I can’t tell if you’re flirting or just being mean.”

The air changes, responding to Ellie’s sudden confidence. Your tongue comes out, licking the corner of your mouth, all pink and red and wet. Yet you don’t answer, moving on with the drag of your mouse. “Ummmmm,” you sing, typing and clicking buttons, “We do have it.” “Sweet, how much?” “It’s…170 bucks.” Ellie’s stomach bottoms out, “That’s fucked up.” “I can give you my discount if you want?” you quickly offer, “But it’s only ten per cent.”

Ellie’s heart blooms at that. “Thank you – I appreciate it,” she says sincerely, “Lemme look online some more, okay? Maybe there’s a used version.”

Though, Ellie does fleetingly think about spending the money, just in case you work on commission. She supposes that bookshops might not do that…still… “Why do you need it anyway?” “I need an 80 on my test this Friday, or I have to go to his Saturday sessions for the rest of the term.” “That’s fucked up, you’re a smart girl, though. Can’t you just study super hard?” Ellie shakes her head, ignoring the words smart girl. Ignoring the way it makes her want to vault over the desk and beg you to say it again. “This man has never given me an 80 before. I’ve been getting 79’s for as long as I’ve known him. I was hoping the textbook would win him over.” “All this for one point? Who is this professor; want me to talk to him? I can be very persuasive.”

Your lips twist, a cheeky smile curling into your cheek. You put your fists up, readying yourself for a fight, and Ellie shakes her head, stifling a laugh – a real girly, schoolgirl giggle.

“This man hates the world. I’m pretty sure even your sunny disposition isn’t bright enough to lighten his mood.” You grin, quirking a brow. “My sunny disposition?” “Yeah.” “You think I have a sunny disposition?” your eyes go to slits, brows raised. Ellie suddenly thinks she’s said something wrong, but she sticks to her guns, “…yes.” “No one has ever said I have a sunny disposition before.” You lean on the desk, propping your chin in your hands. Ellie watches as you wiggle your brows, and suddenly gets it, “Does my presence brighten a room?” “Okay, you’re making fun of me now, I’m gonna—“Ellie jabs a thumb behind her, pretending to leave, “Nooooooo, wait, Ellie,” you giggle, and grab her hand.

Ellie’s brain turns off.

Like a mechanical power cut, her cerebral cortex goes completely black, humming with the echo of life.

You must not realise that Ellie has turned off because you continue to hold her warm hand, asking, “You got any more classes today?” and Ellie’s cogs whir, attempting to send a message to her brain: wake the fuck up loser.

“E-Err,” Ellie stutters, trying to splutter back to life.

Her cheeks go red and her nose blooms bright -- the blush is so strong her chest burns. She does not move her hand. She does not move her hand, a cliché buzz crackling under her skin.

The current shoots up her arm, through her chest, and there’s a fleeting moment where she thinks she’s going to have a heart attack.

“You okay? You look kinda pale.” “What? I’m—“she pulls her hand away, holding it to her chest, feeling the rush of her heartbeat “—fine. I’m---yeah. No classes today.” “So, you’re not up for a coffee?” you wonder, and yeah, Ellie is definitely having a heart attack. “I get off at 2,” you explain, looking at her, a nervous glint in your eyes.

“We could get a coffee…if you want? At the coffee shop on campus?”

Ellie goes silent. She knows that realistically she’s meant to say something, but in the fictional run down of this scenario, she was asking you. She wasn’t short-circuiting from you holding her hand. She was suave, cool, and flirty.

She was Ellie, the ladies man.

She’s clearly silent for too long, as you rush to speak. “It’s fine if you don’t wanna— “ Ellie cuts you off, “No!” she just about shouts. The word reverberates around the shop, and a few curious shoppers peer over, wondering if she’s berating a customer assistant. Ellie flushes, frowning at the counter, “um, yes. Yes, I would – would love to.”

You laugh, holding your hand where you held hers, and Ellie’s fingers hum with the memory of you.

“Sweet. I’ll see you at half two then?”

Ellie’s early.

She didn’t even go home. She just wandered, too fuelled with adrenaline to do anything but overthink. Gave herself multiple pep talks – you got this, cool, suave Ellie. No more loser Ellie!

At 2:45, when she thinks you’ve ditched her – that negative voice always alive and biting at her ear -- she hears someone holler her name. She spins, immediately finding you. You call her name again, waving, and breaking into a jog.

“Hey!” you beam, desperately holding the strap of your tote as you bounce. She lets herself ogle you for a few seconds – pretty in your flowy skirt and a tight t-shirt – but glancing behind you, she realises she’s not the only one.

Ellie sees a few curious jocks hanging near the vending machine turn their heads, and she’s filled with a sudden, terrifying need to take you in her arms.

It’s not the first time it’s happened, but this feels different. Feels almost violent. Protective. She inhales, body vibrating. The all-consuming feeling pushes at her temples, forcing pressure behind her ears.

“Sorry I’m late,” you huff, nearing. Ellie barely hears you. She glances behind you at the boys, her green eyes flicking over the scene. Their eyes are inquisitive, scanning the pair of you, trying to figure out the dynamic.

Ellie smiles softly, “No, you’re good.” “I just had to look for something quickly,” you explain, struggling with your bag. It looks heavy, and Ellie goes to offer to take it from you, but you glance at where she was looking, frowning.

You notice the eyes.

“Um—” you start, flinching at her, small, flustered, “and I had to change.” You look back again. Two of the boys are whispering to each other, clearly talking about you. They huddle like a pack, discussing who’s going to go first, until one of them eventually waves, a sleazy, panty-dropper smile on his mouth.

You immediately tense, snapping back to Ellie, and Ellie takes your hand.

She doesn’t think.

Or didn’t think, as she took your hand in hers and pulled your body into hers, slinging a confident arm around your back and the other around your waist.

She tells herself she’s being protective. Friendly. Your body doesn’t relax. Instead, it tenses with the sudden change, and there’s a lightning flash moment where Ellie thinks she’s ruined everything.

Then, you hum.

She feels your body goes like jelly against her, and then your arms wrap around her middle, welcoming her touch as you lean into her. You nuzzle into her neck and Ellie’s whole-body flushes.

Looking over your shoulder, she stares at the boys, her green eyes livid and alive. They pause, off-kilter for a second.

“You’re warm,” you suddenly whisper, the nerves in your voice gone. Ellie doesn’t hear you, too busy feeling the fury course through her body. She licks her lips, eyes slipping into slits. One of the boys frowns. She watches and watches, and when they don’t look away, she brushes her mouth over your ear.

Ellie hears your breathing stutter.

“This okay?” she whispers, and you nod. You manage a clipped and quiet, “yeah,” into the shell of her neck, and air flutters against her skin, setting her senses on fire.

The boys eventually give up, turning their noses back to the machine, and Ellie carries on holding you. After a beat, you whisper, “They still there?” “Mm, not looking though.” “Thank you,” you rush, sighing, and Ellie squeezes your body tight, thinking, girlfriend, thinking, mine. The pair of you rest together for a beat, comfortable until a nagging feeling bites at Ellie.

Her fingers swell with gunk, her belly oozes green, shame a wave washing over her. You’re exactly like those boys Ellie, hounding her like a wolf. She snaps away, trying to shrug off the dirt that’s coating her skin, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

Ellie buys your coffee, hoping it makes up for her crossing the line earlier.

She’s reserved as she sits, struggling to overcome the reddy green guilt that’s biting at her.

There’s no hostility from you, though, as you rip open a sugar packet and pour it over the latte art, sprinkling it evenly over the brown and white foam.

Ellie keeps her hands on her hot coffee mug, hoping the heat of the liquid will burn away the sudden sick in her veins.

You take a sip, then snap to, “Oh! I have a gift for you.”

You hoist your bag onto your lap, rifling through your stuff.

“When you left, I looked in the back.”

You pull out a thick book, heaving it onto the table. The slam of it makes the floor shake.

Ellie curiously looks at the cover. When she reads the title -- A General Relativity coursebook -- her eyes widen. What the fuck? Did you buy it for her? steal it for her?

“The publishers send us sample copies,” you explain, putting your bag down. “I really didn’t think we’d have it, cause it’s so obscure.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ellie curses. She grabs the book and flicks through. It’s exactly the same, apart from Sample copy – not for resale, printed on the front.

She looks at you, eyes big. “Oh my god. Thank you. Thank you so much. What do you want for it? I mean I can pay you, or buy you like, twelve croissants or – shit,” she leans back in her chair, “your next pickup is on me.” “I don’t want your weed,” you quickly explain, shaking your head. You pause, rephrasing with a laugh, “I mean—I do, but not as payment. I don’t want anything, we were gonna throw it away, anyway…and…” you shrug, a small smile blooming. “--you’re cool.”

Ellie thumbs the textbook, considering you. She licks the corner of her lips and cocks her head to the side. “I’m cool?”

“Yeah,” you flush. With a small nod of your head, you bring your coffee up to your lips, and smile around the rim, “the coolest.”

Ellie rests the top of the textbook under her chin, watching you drink, then chew at your coffee-stained bottom lip, considering her. “Thank you for earlier,” you whisper. “With those guys.”

You reach over and take her hand, running your nail over her palm.

Ellie blinks at the huddle of your limbs on the coffee table, a warm, fuzzy buzz swirling in her chest, narrowly avoiding her heart, and she breathes the moment in, holding your hand as her subconscious whirls,

What are you doing, kid? A Texan accent whispers.

When Ellie gets back to her apartment, she strips.

Nearly tears her shirt off, body sticky, skin boiling. Her blood rushes under the surface like lava, threatening to erupt.

She can still feel your tight body against hers. Hear the stutter of your breathing as she brushed her lips over your ear. Your scent is stuck to her skin, and she itches, rubs, and squeezes, groaning in frustration as she tries to claw her flesh off.

She kicks her backpack, and her new textbook retaliates, jutting into her foot.

“Fuck!” she shouts, kicking it again.

She’s unbuttoning her jeans as she makes her way into her bedroom, and she slams her door closed, wood rattling on the hinges.

Confusion rips through her, a living and breathing thing. Though, as Ellie pushes her head into her mattress, she doesn’t feel all that confused. No, her belly is swirling, her skin warm and sensitive to the touch. She knows what this is.

“Fuck,” she sobs, clenching her fists.

You’re warm, you’d whispered, and Ellie had been too busy focusing on her rage to notice her want. You’d slot into her frame like a puzzle piece. Melted against her, mouth brushing over her neck, breath stuttering.

Ellie imagines the event differently.

She imagines storming over to the boys and grabbing the sleazy, hand-waving one by the back of his head and slamming it into the vending machine.

Anger floods her, comforting and familiar. So so fucking familiar.

She imagines the glass smashing, imagines the shards scattering as she smacks the boy's head to the cement, reaching around and snapping his arm back, bone splintering, never able to wave again.

You’re warm, she hears again, followed by your pleased hum. Feels your soft, unbelievably soft body, and the brush of your hands as you’d rubbed her back.

They still there?

Ellie never forgets a face.

She could probably find them. Maybe she still deals to one of their buddies – she’s got connections. Knows people.

She could find them. Find what frat they most likely lived at, and storm in, forcing them to line up for her with the knife she kept in her backpack clenched in her grip as she ordered, now show me your best smile.

She remembers the way you’d tensed up, that fun, bubbly aura you usually oozed disappearing. If Ellie wasn’t so busy holding you, she would have gone over there.

Would have knocked their heads together like bowling pins, listening to them scatter to the floor.

It’s been a while since this rage has blossomed, and Ellie groans into the duvet, feeling a different kind of warmth, too.

Gingerly, she pushes her knuckle between her thighs and sighs.

“F-fuck,” she stutters, eyes fluttering closed. Her lower belly swirls, hips jutting. With her fist between her legs, she pushes her thighs together and moans.

Did she get this wet when she hugged you? or did this happen just now? when she was imagining making the boys bleed?

It didn’t matter, because regardless, Ellie knew that it was dangerous.

Ellie gets your text for a pick-up ten minutes before you knock on her door.

At first, she thinks it’s Dina, so she’s pleasantly surprised when she opens the door and finds you standing there, a reserved smile on your lips.

“Oh shit,” Ellie spits, eyes widening, “it’s you. Did you fly here, or something?” she jokes, moving to the side. You don’t laugh, just hum in agreement.

“Usual?” Ellie asks, closing the door behind her. The air is thick and cosy, fueled by the dim lighting of her living room and the lack of real clothes. Sweatpants and a baggy washed-out hoodie.

Her hair too clean from the shower she just had, that it falls in front of her face, begging to be noticed.

You twist to her, voice sudden and quick, “You got any weed that could put me on another plane of existence? or knock me the fuck out?” you ask, dumping your bag on the floor near your usual seat on her couch.

“Had a really shitty week that I wanna forget.”

It’s then that Ellie notices the bend in your brows. The flustered edge to your features. Bags under your eyes. You look like stress incarnate, and Ellie wants nothing more than to wrap you in a soft blanket and cook you dinner.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the coffee ‘date’, or incident, as Ellie calls it. You’d met up a few times since then, but never here, in the apartment Ellie lusted after you in.

“Oh fuck, yeah — yeah lemme –” She gets smiley, hoping it’ll change your mood, and moves her shit from the sofa, clearing a space for you. “--Sit down, make yourself comfy, lemme get some samples.”

When she gets back from the bedroom, you’re curled up on the sofa, shoes off, and fiddling with the blanket she had wrapped around herself moments earlier, looking slightly less stressed than before. You give her a small smile, nodding to her TV. “Sorry for interrupting you while playing Uncharted, that’s simply unforgivable.”

Ellie shrugs, clambering onto the sofa beside you. She opens a small bag, pulling out a joint. “I’ve played it before. I know that Nathan Drake gets the bad guy.”

“Spoilers,” you smile, curling your legs beneath you. Your knees bump her thigh, and that silly, electric current shoots through her again, but it’s familiar, now. There’s less fear there. She keeps her thighs pressed against your knees, the denim of your jeans rubbing against her sweatpants.

“You gonna tell me what’s the matter?” Ellie asks, trying to mask her interest. She flicks her lazy gaze to you, and you fiddle with your fingers, quirking a small smile. “Just schoolwork.” “Mm,” Ellie hums, considering you.

Ellie has the innate ability to read people, so she knows you’re lying when you rub your neck and try and avoid her eyes. Tell me, she thinks, let me help.

Instead, she holds the joint out to you, figuring you’re not comfortable enough to tell her yet. “I got this new shit last week.”

You take it from her, sniffing it. “It’s meant to completely numb you out.” “You tried it?” Ellie nods, getting cosy on the sofa. “It’s stronger than the stuff you smoke. Didn’t know who I was for an hour.”

“I could do with that…” you trail off. She watches you fiddle with it, nerves pushing at your brows. “You gonna tell me what happened?—” You cut her off, “did you smoke the whole thing?” and Ellie pauses. Her green-brown eyes consider you before she reaches out and takes your hand.

“You can smoke here if you want. If you don’t wanna be alone while smoking something new.”

You shake your head, “No — I couldn’t.”

Ellie slides her thumb over your palm, and beams when the knot in your brow loosens an inch. “It’s fine — I can play, you can sit and zone out. Be thoughtless for a while.”

When you don’t immediately respond, Ellie takes the joint from you, leaning for a lighter. “We can smoke it together, okay?” she asks, tone final. After a few seconds, you nod, picking at the blanket. You flash her a smile, “okay.”

Ellie lights the joint for you, and your eyes follow her the whole time, intently watching as she ashes it against an ashtray. When she turns to you, her cheeks are flushed from your gaze. She passes you the joint, ignoring the heat at her neck, and grins, “ladies first.” “You’re annoying,” you joke, shaking your head and taking it from her. Ellie gets up to open the window. When she turns back, you’re taking a hit, and she’s forced to pause, eyes flickering over the pink of your lips.

She realises in all the time she’s known you – a couple of months now – she’s never seen you smoke before.

“Oh fuck,” you squeak, pulling away and coughing smoke out of your mouth. “That’s strong.” Ellie laughs, clambering back onto the sofa. You make space for her, then fill it, shoulder resting against hers as if you’ve done this before.

As if snuggling on the couch was something you did every Friday night. She smiles down at you, ignoring the swell of butterflies in her belly. “No weak-ass ditch weed for my best customer.” “Best?” you ask, offering the joint to her. She takes it and puts it in her mouth, tasting smoke, then something sweet and sticky. When she takes a hit and pulls back, her head rushing, she glances down at it.

You’ve got lip gloss on the joint. In her sudden fuzzy, slow mind, she stares down at the pink line of your mouth, blinking back to reality as the sudden rush fades.

You’re watching her.

She feels your hot gaze on the side of her neck, and she turns, seeing you gazing up at her from under your lashes, eyes wet with something. She forgets you’ve asked a question. Looks at the gloss on your lips, the stuff she’d just tasted, and wants to bathe in it.

Ellie hands it back, breathing a quick laugh, hoping it’s casual, “You’ve got lip gloss on the joint.” “Oh,” you bleat, blinking at her hand. “Sorry.” She shakes her head, “S’okay,” and hands it back to you, speaking – not really thinking as she blurts, “figured we’d share lip-gloss at some point.”

“Easier if we just kiss,” you shrug, and Ellie’s body flinches. She blinks at you, ears ringing with your words while you smoke the joint.

You said that, right? Ellie thinks. You pull it away, smoke pouring out of your mouth. “Yeah, it would be,” Ellie whispers. You glance at her, smirking, “I think you’d look pretty in pink.” Ellie’s body buzzes with something – a mixture of desire and affection. Her brows raise, voice a husk of itself as she asks, “You calling me pretty?” “You don’t think you’re pretty?” you wonder, matching her tone, whispering to each other like you’re two girls at the back of the class, sharing something secret.

“I bet those freckles get all the girls. And the eyebrow slit?”

You lean back against the sofa, breathing a sigh. “Panty dropper material right there.”

Ellie takes the joint from you, ignoring the image of you dropping your panties for her.

“It’s a scar, I didn’t cut it on purpose.” “Yeah? Lemme see,” and you lean forward, stopping inches away to peer at her eyebrow.

You’re there – right there, mouth so close to Ellie’s eye that if she blinks, you’ll kiss her eyelashes. Ellie imagined this moment differently. Still, she revels in it. Takes a mental picture. “Huh,” you hum, pulling away a centimetre, blinking at her. Ellie inhales and gets a whiff of the remnants of citrus. Her eyes feel heavy, intoxicated by your proximity. You must see it happen, because your mouth opens an inch, your nervous smile fleeting.

“How’d you get it?” you whisper. Ellie licks her lips, nearly touching your mouth. “Fell on my bike when I was little, smashed my face against a rock. Had to get thirteen stitches.” “Ouch. You musta been a tough little girl, Ellie Williams.” Something black flashes at Ellie’s eyes, before the light comes back, buzzing alive. She grins, cheeks red, “still am.”

The pair of you smoke for a bit, chatting and catching up. Ellie starts playing her game again, and you hold the joint for her when she gets to an action sequence, eyes on her the entire time.

Ellie keeps on dying.

Keeps on thinking about your earlier admission. The causal way you’d said, easier if we just kiss. The easy way you’d leaned closer – the way it hadn’t affected you.

Ellie dies again, and her pride takes a hit as a result.

Your gaze is distracting.

She feels it prickle over her freckled cheeks and the slit in her brow, then fleeting around the skin of her neck, dipping under her hoodie. Eventually, you peel away, turning to the TV, and Ellie manages to continue the game without switching to easy.

About half an hour later, you start to fidget. Ellie turns to you, and you catch her gaze, zoned out. Your eyes are red, pupils blown -- high as a kite.

“Oh, fuck,” Ellie laughs, “You look so high right now.”

“Yeah?” you ask, then you laugh, the sound bursting out of your mouth as if it’s suddenly really funny. “You okay?” Ellie laughs, pausing the game.

You rub your neck, face changing, “This is — I feel really funny.” “S’okay, it’s meant to feel like this.”

A small furrow builds between your brows. She watches you pause, staring at something off into the distance as if you’re falling inwards.

You fidget again. A hand comes up to rub at your chest, and Ellie slowly starts to become concerned. She leans over and touches your arm, “hey, you okay?”

You think about it, bottom lip between your teeth. After a second, you shake your head, clenching your fists, and Ellie’s eyes widen.

“Ellie,” you whisper, voice small. You suck in a quick breath, and her heart snaps. She leans closer, kneeling in front of you, bending to meet your gaze.

“What’s the matter?” Ellie watches as you shove your palm against your chest, rubbing where your heart is. Your breathing shakes, and Ellie knows this.

Knows what’s happening.

Her hands come out, holding your shoulders. “Hey, whoa. You’re okay,” but you quickly shake your head, the panic sudden and overwhelming. You rebut her words, “Mm, no. Nope,” and clench your hands together.

Ellie helplessly watches as your breathing picks up, panic threatening to consume you. She moves to meet your gaze again, but you’re avoiding it, looking away – trying to hide.

Your breathing suddenly spirals, chest sucking in and out, and Ellie finally takes your chin, green eyes meeting yours.

“No, look at me. Eyes on me — babe. Hi, hi angel,” she whispers, so sweet it’s sickly. The endearments spill out of her lips, natural on her lips. Your scared eyes snap to hers, begging. “You’re okay,” she states clearly. “Just breathe. In and out, let it happen. You’re perfectly fine. You’re with me, okay? I got you.”

She nods, taking deep breaths for you. Slowly, you begin to mimic her, breathing in deeply through your nose and out of your mouth. Your hands are clenching her thigh, holding the fabric in your fists.

“In and out. In and out,” Ellie nods, coaching you through it. You match her breathing, following her instructions for a few heart-clenching minutes.

When your eyes slowly lose their frantic edge, she cracks a smile, “Good girl. Like that -- you’re gonna be okay, just let this wash over you. No thoughts, remember?”

The grip you’ve got on her trousers loosens and after a few minutes of fading panic -- mostly on Ellie’s behalf -- you speak.

“My heart is still beating really fast,” you whisper, a nervous giggle falling out of your lips. Ellie takes it as a good sign that you’re laughing.

“Here, feel,” and you take her hand and push it to your chest. Your heart thumps against her palm, beating quickly and hard. She nods, “Keep on taking some calming breaths and it’ll slow.”

You keep her hand there, and Ellie thinks that the pressure must be comforting. After a few minutes, your body relaxes. “‘’sorry,” you whisper, eyes closed. “S’okay, don’t apologise.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Ellie shakes her head.

“Last summer, I went to Amsterdam with Dina and her boyfriend Jesse. I tried this new strand as an edible and thought, psh, I’m a heavyweight, I can take it. I ate the whole brownie before going out one night. Blacked out. Came-to near a canal, while having the worst panic attack of my life. Felt like I was going to die. I forced everyone to go home with me and had a panic attack for three hours.”

“Three?” you laugh, eyes opening, and she nods. “Worst trip ever.”

She feels your heart beat slow against her palm. Your breathing settles back to its regular rhythm, fingers loosening on the back of her hand.

“Feel better now?” she asks softly.

“Yeah, think so. “

You drop your hand, letting her move hers away. It’s warm from the heat of your body, and she goes tingly from remembering where you held it. Inwardly, she scorns herself.

“I shouldn’t have let you smoke that much.” You breathe a smile, rubbing your chest and resting your head on the cushions, looking up at her. “I’m a big girl, I should know my limits,” you shrug, “It’s probably because my body is stressed anyway.”

Ellie considers you, “You gonna tell me what happened?” Your face goes distant, finally admitting, “Mike cornered me in the library.” “Ex-dealer Mike?” Ellie asks, locking up. “Yeah,” you nod, “Asked me why I stopped buying from him.”

“The fuck?” she breathes. What a weird thing to do. Customers come and go. You don’t make it weird by cornering them in the library and asking why. You nod, brows furrowed at the memory. You continue to rub your chest, fingers pushing under the fabric of your top as if to calm your heart.

“I said I found someone new, and he musta not liked that, 'cause he called me a cheater.” Ellie’s brows shoot up, body tensing. The familiar pressure pushes at her temple, “A what?” You nod, licking your lips. “He asked who my new dealer was, but I didn’t tell him. Didn’t want you to get this shit, too.”

Ellie’s heart swells at the thought of being protected, but it doesn’t swell too much, hardened by the mere idea of Mike calling you stupid shit like that. “You could have told him. Mike’s creepy, but I don’t think he’d try anything.” Your frown deepens, eyes go distant. “I don’t know Ellie, he seemed…” you whisper, voice cracking, “he was really mad at me.”

Ellie doesn’t think. Just, opens her arms, and you immediately reach up into her, wrapping your arms around her neck and settling against her.

She breathes you in. Starts to rub your back, long fingers scooting up the fabric and sliding back down.

Ellie feels the lines of you. Let’s you burrow into her neck, and she hears you exhale, the tension leaking out of you as she rubs your back.

Ellie holds you like you’re hers.

In some ways – ways she won’t even admit to herself yet – you are. It’s why she doesn’t hesitate to admit that “you know I’ll beat the shit out of him if he tries anything, right?” When you don’t respond, Ellie pulls away and cups your cheeks. She bends to your gaze, eyes hard as she proclaims, “I mean it.” “Do I have to pay extra for your protection?” you laugh, trying to break the tension, but Ellie can’t bring herself to joke around – too fuelled by anger -- yet she does flash you a smile.

“Promise you’ll tell me if he speaks to you again?” You nod, finally meeting her gaze, “promise,” and Ellie nods, satisfied.

“Okay, let’s get you something to eat,” and she pulls away from the sofa, padding to the kitchen, your eyes on the back of her head the entire time. When she opens the cupboard door, she realises her hands are shaking.

Ellie feeds you.

The pair of you silently eat together, comfortable in the noise of her playing her game, the adventure-themed backing music filling the room.

The high you both share seems to make you sleepy, and eventually, you’re resting against her, head leaning on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her arm. Your breathing settles and slows, and a couple of hours later, Ellie wakes.

Her PS5 has gone into sleep mode. The tv has switched off, and the only light is the blue beam of her gaming console and the moon cracking through the window.

She blearily inhales the night, looking down at you, and the shuffle wakes you up. “Mm,” you hum, blinking awake. You lift your head and twist to her, Ellie dazedly watching the moon glinting on the side of your face.

“I’m sorry – fell asleep,” you whisper, rubbing your eyes, and Ellie lazily shakes her head, fueled by the cute sleepy look on your face. She wants nothing more than for you to rest, so she reaches out, caressing your hair, “No, s’okay, go back to sleep.” You hum, drowsily holding her hand, “Wanna get comfy.” Ellie, like always, doesn’t think. Too tired to remember the rules of your friendship, she pulls your groggy frame into her, and you immediately wrap your arms around her neck, letting her lay the pair of you down.

She crowds you against the back of the sofa, arms around you as you settle against her chest, your hands pressing into the cotton of her hoodie.

You nuzzle deeper, and whisper, “Cold,” and Ellie reaches up, grabbing for the blanket. She throws it over the pair of you, and you smile into her chest, humming a thank you. A minute later, when she thinks you’ve fallen asleep, she hears your small voice whisper, “’ m sorry for panicking,” and Ellie shakes her head. “Shh,” she breathes, “S’okay baby,” and she places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

When Ellie wakes, your hands are under her hoodie.

It’s the first thing she notices.

Not the beam of the early morning sun cracking through her fluttering curtains. Not the couple having an argument on the balcony beside her apartment, no – it’s your warm palms resting against her bare chest, fingers rubbing comforting circles into her rib cage.

Your face is snuggled into the crock of her neck, the tickly flutter of your subtle breathing vibrating against her hoodie. She’s still groggy with sleep, and it reacts instinctively to the touch.

Her whole-body flushes -- belly tightens, thick with something gooey.

She lets you hold her like that. Let’s you snuggle closer into her chest, nose pushing against her breasts, and she hums a lazy sigh, cradling your body tighter.

In Ellie’s absent mind, and sleepy state, she lets your fingers drag up, thumb sliding dangerously close to the bottom of her breast.

She’s braless – because of course she is – and your touch is so gentle, comforting – delicate, that Ellie leans to it, not thinking, not realising as she dozes off to it.

Too tired to care, it feels too good to second guess.

The small brush of your thumb continues, lulling Ellie into a catatonic state. At some point, you speak. Drowsily whisper a hum, then mumble something else.

“S’warm,” you mutter, shuffling, body dragging against hers as you drape an open thigh over hers. Your hand moves, too, thumb skidding over her nipple, lazily rubbing back and forth.

Ellie’s whole-body flushes.

She hushes a sound, cradling you closer, long fingers plunging between your thigh and knee as she hitches you higher. There’s no restraint there. No fear. In her hazy, numb mind, she’s thinking – closer. Thinking, more.

The warmth of the sun beams down on your intertwined bodies, cars bleat, and people yell – but the pair of you are none the wiser as you snooze, tangled with each other like vines.

Slow moments pass. Moments where Ellie’s rubbing your kneecap. Where your hands slip through her auburn hair, looping the strands between your fingers.

Ellie feels you shuffle again.

You dreamily mumble, “’ wanna be closer,” and she doesn’t fight you as you push into her, pressing her flat onto the sofa and dragging your hips over her body to rest completely on top of her.

Almost instinctively, Ellie’s hands reach to rest on your ass, and you hum into her neck, pressing back against her touch.

“’ S’nice,” you mumble, kissing under her jaw. The touch makes her legs ache -- the warmth of it pooling between her thighs, and then slowly, oh so slowly, your hips start to roll.

Crotch drags against hers, the denim of your jeans pushing against her pussy, and Ellie dazedly moans.

“Keep doing that,” she whispers, and you nod, mumbling an okay, as your hips sleepily drag against hers. Your hand clutches the side of her neck, and her name breathlessly spills out of your mouth.

Ellie, you whisper, semi-conscious, followed by a small whimper. The pair of you continue to move like that -- half asleep and desperate. The world spins. Morning fades, and when Ellie wakes, her whole body burns.

An intense pressure is pushing between her thighs, and her skin feels electric -- a live wire – with goose bumps washing over her body.

She blinks the world into focus. Something is tickling her neck, and it’s then that your predicament falls into place.

Your body is straddling hers.

Ellie’s gripping your ass, helping you drag your hips, and she’s suddenly incredibly confused, before her belly tightens, clit aching.

Oh fuck, she thinks, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

“Babe,” she bleats, needing you to wake you up. “Mmm?” you murmur against her neck, hips still gently grinding. Ellie doesn’t know what to say. Get off of me isn’t all that polite, but if you continue to grind against her like this, she’ll come.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to say anything else, as you wake with a sharp inhale, and there’s a quiet second before you freeze, your body locking up.

“Oh my god,” you mumble pointedly into her neck, and Ellie slowly lifts her hands from your ass. “Yeah, I don’t –” she whispers, staring at the ceiling. “--don’t know when this happened.”

Heat pools between her thighs, and in her groggy, fucked out mind, she fleetingly remembers you starting to drag your crotch against hers, whispering about wanting her closer.

Remembers you breathlessly moaning her name, then kissing her neck. Remembers her begging, keep doing that.

You fidget, hips innocently slotting over hers, and you choke an “Mmh,” sounding incredibly similar to a whimper.

The sound goes straight to Ellie’s clit, and she mouths a curse at the ceiling. Her fingers flex with the memory of your ass in her palms, coaching you as you ground into her.

The silence drags.

Ellie’s body doesn’t stop aching.

You fidget again, as if you don’t know what to do – fingers flex against her neck, wet lips drag over her jaw and Ellie snaps. “Babe, I’m sorry, but you gotta—” she chokes, “—gotta stop touching me or I’ll—” Ellie doesn’t have to finish – thankfully -- because you suddenly slide off of her, seemingly getting it as you drop to the floor in a collection of limbs, scrambling to lean against the sofa.

Ellie’s hands pause in the air. She keeps completely still, begging for the desire to pass.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “’s’okay,” Ellie bleats, hoping you don’t hear the desperation in her voice, “it was me too.” “I don’t—” you start, shaking your head, and the pulsing between Ellie’s thighs doesn’t go away. She suddenly feels awful.

After a few painful seconds, she notices you shakily get up, and you don’t say a word as you shuffle out of the hallway and into the bathroom.

When she hears the lock click, Ellie’s palm immediately pushes between her thighs, eyes rolling back at the ceiling.

Bad idea, she thinks, but fuck it.

She imagines you doing the same thing. Imagines you resting against her bathroom door, your hand pushing under your jeans, coming hot and sticky over your fingers.

You’d whimpered for fucks sake.

Moaned her God damn name, and as Ellie grinds against her knuckles, the memory of you huffing her a desperate fuck fills her mind, followed by the soft, quiet whisper of you breathing, wanna come, into the shell of her neck.

Ellie hoists herself off the sofa, ignoring the pressing heat of her cunt, and storms to the bathroom, knocking against the locked door. “Babe?” she asks. There are a few seconds before you mutter a “Yeah?” and Ellie closes her eyes. “You wanna talk about it?” She calls through the door. Your strained voice bleeds through the wood, “Not really.” The girl doesn’t know what to say. This has never happened before. So, she chooses humour.

She breathes a laugh, “At least lemme finish you off,” she jokes, and immediately regrets it, closing her eyes in shame.

She doesn’t expect you to pause, then whisper, “um. I’m good,” then, “it kinda already happened.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ellie groans, head falling against the door. “When?” “Think sometime after you asked me to keep doing that.” “You gotta come out, gotta let me see you.” “Can’t we just never talk about it again?” “Is that what you want?”

There’s another pause.

“Ellie,” you whisper, pained. “If I see you, I’m going to die of embarrassment.” “These things happen,” she tries to counter. “They do?” “No. I don’t think they do.”

You groan, and she hears the sound of something hitting the wall. Ellie imagines you throwing a roll of toilet roll. “You have to come out sometime,” she speaks. “Nope. I’ll die in the toilet. Like Elvis.” “Not a good way to go.” “If it means literally never talking about this again, I don’t mind.” “Okay,” Ellie huffs, breathing a smile. “We’ll never talk about this again.” “You promise?” “Yeah, I’ll never bring up the fact that you sleepily came against me on one random Saturday morning.”

“Ellie!” you yell, throwing something at the door. There goes another toilet roll.

“Can you stop trashing my bathroom and just come out?” “Promise me!” “Fine—” Ellie clips. “Promise. I would Pinky promise, but that requires you coming out of the bathroom.”

Finally, she hears the door unlock. You pull it open, and fuck – there you are. Eyes sleepy and features flustered. Your t-shirt is askew, and Ellie fleetingly remembers pushing her hands beneath it, dragging her nails against your back.

You hold your little finger out, “Pinky promise to never think about it or bring it up ever again?”

Ellie nods and wraps her Pinky around yours, heat still swelling in her belly. “Promise.”

Ellie always was good at lying.

PART THREE

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams x reader smut #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #the last of us #the last of us part 2 #tlou #tlou2 #smut #the last of us hbo

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 6 months

Text

Voicemail

A Seams oneshot, but can be read independently of the series

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: T

Summary: You find Joel's old Nokia at the back of a drawer.

Warnings: Angst, description of a panic attack, grief, comfort, no use of Y/N, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has no physical description, definitely incorrect description of how mobile phones work, very lightly edited.

As always, Seams oneshots are set on a relaxed timeline. Voicemail can be considered to take place at an unspecified time after Part IV.

Word count: 1.8k

Notes: I don't know if anyone has written anything similar, but I've always wanted to write something about Joel's Nokia (the idea for Butter actually came from the phone scene in episode 1 - can't you tell? lol). This idea took me by surprise one night and didn't let me go.

Important note: I know voicemails don't work this way, but let's pretend that they are saved onto the mobile phone itself and can be accessed decades later, and that a Nokia can indeed survive the apocalypse.

After the outbreak, after Sarah, after missing his shot - he doesn’t remember much of those early, blurry days. Tommy barely managed to drag his catatonic ass to an abandoned house somewhere on the outskirts of town, where he had to punch him in the face to snap him out of it.

It being a cocktail of shock, grief, pain and numbness that should’ve killed him, could’ve killed any man. And for the longest time he wished that it did.

It was in the aftershock of that punch, left cheek snapped to his shoulder and his eyes downcast, that Joel saw his Nokia was still clipped to his belt, by some miracle unscathed when everything else had fallen apart.

And he keeps it all these years.

He hadn’t meant to take it with him when he packed up his meagre life to leave Boston behind. But the grubby afternoon light glanced off the screen when he was grabbing maps and hammers from under the dusty floorboards, and with a fuck it, he shrugged and shoved it into the bottom of his backpack.

If he was being honest with himself, it didn’t feel right leaving it behind.

And so the phone made it to Jackson, and survived the detour to Salt Lake City, largely forgotten. Joel was almost surprised by the sight of it when he finally unpacked his bag in the house that was now his and Ellie’s.

With a wry smile, he tossed it into a nondescript drawer in the garage, never to see the light of day again.

Until one weekend, Joel asks you to help him find some obscure screwdriver in his garage, not able to get up from where he’s on his back, stemming the flow of the perpetually leaky sink in Ellie’s bathroom.

The space is cool, the shutters down and the air dank from the lack of sun. Under the flickering fluorescent light, you go through a frankly ridiculous number of toolboxes without sighting the elusive screwdriver. With a sigh, you try the middle drawer in the workbench, which is clogged with what looks like everything under the sun.

Your lips twitch - Joel Miller is a messy man.

Digging around the random clutter, you startle when your fingers brush the long-forgotten, yet instantly familiar plastic case of the Nokia.

Wrapping your hand around the rectangular frame, you smile, in disbelief that you’re holding a mobile phone. You had a similar one that got lost in the confusion of the first days of the outbreak, and you haven’t seen one in the years since. At least not one in such good condition.

Joel’s faraway voice jolts you out of your thoughts. ‘Found it, sweetheart?’

‘Just a second!’ you call back.

Tucking the phone back where it came from, you grab the nearest screwdriver and hope for the best.

It takes you a few days of asking around town, poking around dusty storerooms and untangling twenty year-old electric cords, but you eventually find what you’re looking for, and there’s a spring in your step as you cook dinner that evening.

Joel seems to pick up on your energy, and he grins, amused, when he brings in the empty dishes after you eat.

‘You’re buzzin’ out of your skin, sweetheart,’ he teases, grabbing you by the waist. ‘What’s up with you?’

You cock your head to the side. ‘Well, I have a surprise for you.’

‘Is that so?’ he hums, then lets his voice drop an octave in playful insinuation. ‘What kind of surprise, hmm?’

‘Not that kind of surprise,’ you huff with a smile. ‘It’s - it’s hard to explain.’

‘Try me.’

Twisting out of his grip, you open a cabinet and pull out something that fits neatly in your palm. Joel frowns, confused by what looks like - a charger.

When you speak, it’s slow, as if you don’t want to startle him. ‘There’s a whole warehouse of wires and things down by the canteen. A patrol stumbled across an electronics shop in a nearby town a few years ago.’

He gives you a crooked smile. ‘And what am I s’pposed to do with it, sweetheart?’

You take a moment, making sure that his eyes are on you before the words come out. ‘I found the Nokia in your garage the other day, when I was looking for the screwdriver.’

You watch as Joel processes your words, and he goes still, stiller than you’ve ever seen him.

Then he blinks and shuffles his feet, glancing down at the charger. ‘I - I didn’t expect this.’

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ‘I know. And you don’t have to do anything with it, really, but I just wanted you to have it.’

He nods, slowly. ‘Ok.’

Hesitating, you stutter, ‘So, um, do you - want to take it -?’

Joel holds his hand out, calloused palm quietly upturned. You half expect him to jump at the contact, but he doesn’t move a muscle when the black wire lands in his grasp, and his thick fingers curl around them.

‘I got the dishes, if you want to go first,’ you prompt softly.

Joel swallows, then nods. ‘Yeah, I think I’ll do that. If y’ don’t mind, sweetheart.’

‘Of course,’ you smile, pressing a kiss to his lips.

It’s cold outside, but he doesn’t feel it, not when the charger seems to be burning a hole in his hand. When he gets back to his house - empty, Ellie is at Lucy’s for dinner - he heads straight to the garage, and tugs open the drawer.

The Nokia stares back at him, screen blank.

Flinging the charger into the drawer without seeing where it lands, he shoves the drawer close with a snap.

Weeks pass. It hangs in the back of his mind like a spector, even though you don’t bring it up again, and he doesn’t either.

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all - hopeful of what he would find on it.

It’s been twenty years. Electronics don’t last that long. It’s gotta be wiped clean.

One Wednesday night, Ellie is upstairs, music blaring, doing ‘homework’ or whatever she does on a weeknight (he doesn’t believe in helicopter parenting), and Joel finds his thoughts drifting to that damn drawer.

Feeling reckless, he reaches for the top shelf in the kitchen, pours himself two fingers of whiskey, and charges into the garage.

Hopping onto a workstool, he takes a big gulp of liquid courage and sets the tumbler on the work surface. Before his resolve slips completely out of touch, he yanks on the handle, and he winces when the drawer yawns open with a screech.

The Nokia feels foreign to the touch, like he’s forgotten how to hold a phone. It was, of course, glued to his ear almost all hours of the day and night once upon a time. He turns the plastic case over and the other way around again, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the buttons.

There’s no putting it off forever.

In goes the plug into the electric socket, and he looks down, phone in the left hand, the end of the charger in the other.

He thinks he’s seeing double until he realises that his hands are fucking shaking.

In one determined motion, he slots the charger into the bottom of the phone and drops it like it’s acid.

Then he downs the rest of his whiskey.

He’s not sure how long he stares, the very air around him as unmoving as himself, and he feels the alcohol spread its warm fingers through his veins.

Just when he’s about to look away, it happens.

The battery sign appears on the screen.

Joel almost chokes on a chuckle. He can’t fucking believe it. You really can’t kill a Nokia if you tried.

It doesn’t take long for the familiar home screen to pop up, the time on the top right corner, the battery in the bottom right. The bright green glare casts a cool glow in the dim. Joel picks up the phone, only to be nearly knocked backwards off the chair when the words flash across the screen.

1 NEW VOICEMAIL.

He’s sure his heart has stopped, it definitely feels like it, a deadweight in his chest sinking into his stomach. But he hears it, the relentless beat of it, pounding violently in his ears. Too fast. Gripping the edge of the work surface, he tries to breathe, mouth open, but air isn’t getting in.

It could be nothing. Could be a voicemail he missed from a client that night, or a junk call.

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all -

He’s trembling so badly that he needs both hands to hold the phone steady, just so that his thumb presses the selection key.

He doesn’t hear the pre-recorded message, his brain skips it entirely. Then there’s five seconds of silence, and his life flashes before his eyes at the familiar beep -

Dad, are you on your way home? Please tell me you remembered the cake. Uncle Tommy bet me ten dollars that you won’t and I kinda need that lunch money tomorrow. See you soon, love you dad -

And everything goes white.

When Joel comes around, he’s on his knees, the empty tumbler in crystalline pieces around him. The phone is no longer attached to the charger, clutched so tightly in his hands that he feels the imprint of every button in his palm.

He won’t know that his face is wet with tears until you thumb the streaks off his cheeks on your doorstep minutes later, no memory of how he got there. You draw him into you, but your embrace barely contains his broad frame.

You can’t get him far in his state, whiskey on his breath and shivering all over. You drag him across the living room and onto the couch, where you curl up against him, warming him up with your body heat, cradling his head on your chest. The candlelight bounces off the phone screen, which glows green in his grasp.

It will take him weeks to get his head around what you have given him. And when he does, he will ask if you want to hear Sarah’s voice - shyly - as if you would ever say no.

Watching him watch you, Sarah’s warm, fun-loving voice in your ear, the seams of your lashes sting with tears as your heart clenches, swells, breaks for him - and then put together again by his hand finding you, fingers filling the gaps between yours.

But for now, he lies prostrate, his weight pinning you to the couch, as you comb soothing fingers through his hair, anchoring him to you.

‘I got you, Joel,’ you whisper in his ear, and his eyelids droop and his breathing evens out, as if he’s run a thousand miles. ‘I got you.’

As he drifts off to sleep - his baby girl's love you dad echoing between his ears - he knows that you do.

More notes: I don't lean too hard into angst in my fics as a rule, so this took me places I haven't been for a while, but it's ok cos Pin's got our man 🥺 Thank you for reading, as always! ❤️

#fuckyeahseams #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller oneshot #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction

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joostsblog · 4 months

Note

hey i love ur work !! could you do a joost x reader who’s scared of the dark and there’s a power cut or something pls 🩷

you're all i think about ~ joost klein friends to lovers one shot

My masterlist here ✨💌

Pairing: Joost Klein x female!reader

Description: A movie night at your friend Joost's place turns into disaster and maybe something not so bad after all when there's a power outage.

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Tysm for the request, I loved writing it! I hope you enjoy❣️You can always send in requests <3 (title borrowed from the song lights out by fizz!)

Warnings: a panic attack, fear of the dark, not proofread

Movie night tonight? Joost had texted into your friend group chat and somehow nobody was down. Except for you. You were always down if Joost would be there. You would cancel other plans if it meant that you would be able to see Joost. So this is how you ended up by your friend Joost's doorstep, snacks in hand, ready to spend the evening at his place.

You had known each other for a few years now, hanging around in the same circles but it had only been 7 months (7 months and 11 days to be precise, you kept count) since you had suddenly developed a crush on your friend. A crush so bad that sometimes you almost couldn't contain it and you were afraid that any second you would lose control over yourself and just blurt out your confession in front of all your friends when you hang out. Thankfully that hadn't happened so far. So you kept your secret.

You were afraid that if Joost would find out about your true feelings for him, it would ruin your friendship. That all the long hugs, the loving teasing, the ruffles through your hair, the sweet compliments and pep talks would end because he would feel weird about showing that affection to you.

"(Y/N)!" Joost exclaimed with a big smile as he opened the door for you and engulfed you in one of those heavenly hugs. "So glad you could make it!" he said as he rubbed your back softly. "I can always count on you," Joost said after pulling back.

"Of course!" you said.

A short while later you were both lounging on the sofa, while High School Musical was playing on the TV (Joost's choice), giggling and singing along. Your sides were almost touching, Joost's fingers occasionally grazing yours when you both reached for the popcorn bowl at the same time. In moments like these, the longing and wanting you had for Joost was almost unbearable. You just wished there was a universe in which you could just reach out for him and kiss him on the lips as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Instead, you were damned to stay at a distance and just drink up every small touch that occurred to keep you satiated.

Suddenly the TV and all the lights in the room turned off all at once and you were sat in darkness.

"What the-?" Joost laughed amused.

You were frozen on the spot and stayed silent as you were scared of the dark. You just hoped that the darkness wouldn't persist too long as you could feel yourself spiralling already.

"I'll check if it's the fuse," Joost sighed, obviously slightly annoyed at the inconvenience.

"Alright," you said quietly as Joost got up and used his phone's torchlight.

You took a peek outside the window and realised that the streetlights were also off which would imply that there was a bigger power outage.

"Fuck fuck fuck," you whispered.

This was bad. Not knowing when and if the power would come back on only worsened your state and being left alone in Joost's living room certainly also didn't help. You grabbed your phone and forced yourself to get up from the sofa. You walked to the door that connected to the corridor to look for Joost.

"Joost?" you asked timidly before you turned your head to look down the dark corridor.

"Booo!" Joost suddenly said with a laugh appearing out of nowhere in front of you.

Your heart skipped a beat and you dropped your phone. Your body started shaking uncontrollably as you tried catching your breath, having absolutely no control over your bodily reaction to what Joost probably thought was a harmless joke. Overwhelmed you could feel the tears slowly trickling down your cheeks.

"(Y/N), everything alright?" Joost asked concerned as he registered your quick breathing. You tried answering but couldn't produce an intelligible response. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Joost said as he realised his mistake. His arms quickly wrapped around your body as he engulfed you in a warm embrace. His chin was resting on your head as he was taller than you, his hands softly caressing you. "(Y/N), I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," you could tell that Joost felt bad for causing your panic.

"It- it's f-fine," you finally managed to push out.

"No no no, I'm sorry," he repeated, softly swaying your bodies back and forth.

"No, I'm such a chicken, I'm afraid of the dark," you explained, voice straining as your throat felt tight and your tears made it difficult for you to speak.

"I swear I didn't know," Joost said. "Come here," he said and led you back to the sofa. "Sit down and close your eyes, just pretend you're taking a nap, okay?" he said and you did as you were told. He softly put a blanket around your shoulders as he sat down beside you. Joost rested his hand on your cheek and wiped away some of your tears.

"I feel so stupid," you admitted, feeling terrible.

"No no, please don't, Lieverd," Joost softly insisted and you wondered whether the pet name was a slip of the tongue. "Don't say that," he said and suddenly you could feel his lips pressing to your forehead and your heart fluttered. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'll be right back, I swear," Joost said before getting up from the sofa.

You kept your eyes closed and tried to calm down your breathing slowly. Having felt Joost's lips against your skin just a moment before sure did distract you but it also certainly added to your nervous heart beating.

"Here I am again," Joost said in a soft tone to not scare you this time. You could hear him shuffle around the room before he said "I got us some lights," and you opened your eyes.

Joost had propped up both of your phones with the torchlight illuminating the ceiling as well as his laptop and iPad which just showed a white screen at maximum screen brightness.

"I don't have any candles," Joost said apologetically.

"It's fine," you softly laughed. "Thank you."

"Well, candles would have been more romantic," Joost said and your heart fluttered again. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked earnestly.

"This is much better, thank you," you said. "But a hug would be nice."

"Of course," Joost smiled and opened his arms as you crawled over to him into his arms. "I'm sure the power will come back on soon," Joost tried reassuring you, his hand softly stroking the back of your head as you were cuddled up against his chest. Joost started softly humming some melody and the vibrations from his chest started calming you down more.

"This is nice," you murmured and you could hear a smile in Joost's hum, his hand drawing circles on your back. "I'm sorry if I ruined this night."

"No, don't be silly," Joost pulled back lightly to look at you sternly. "Any moment spent with you is perfect."

You looked up at him, heart beating fast as you realised how close you two were to each other. In this moment you wished you were in pitch darkness again because maybe then you would have had the courage to close the few centimetres between you and kiss Joost.

"Don't tell the others, but you are definitely my favourite out of all of them," you said which was the closest thing to a love confession you were able to get past your lips. You saw how Joost's eyes lit up at your words, a grin spreading across his lips.

"You are also my favourite, Lieverd," he whispered. You looked at each other in silence, Joost's hand holding your head, his other arm still wrapped around your shoulders. Joost moved his hand to cup your cheek instead and looked at you fondly. His thumb was just resting by the corner of your mouth. You almost didn't dare to breathe just to not interrupt this delicate moment. Joost's thumb lightly brushed against your bottom lip and your heart skipped a beat before he moved closer to you and you instinctively followed suit. As your lips were only a centimetre apart the both of you briefly paused as if to ask the other for permission before you closed the gap and your lips finally met in a kiss. It was gentle and sweet but yet so passionate. Your hand was resting on Joost's chest you swore you could feel his heart beating faster. His arm was holding you close and his smell engulfed you. It was everything you had hoped for and so much more. After you broke the kiss you grinned at each other, Joost's hand caressing your cheek.

"I'm gonna make sure you'll never have to be in the dark again, I swear," he said before leaning in to kiss you again.

#joost #joost klein #joost x reader #joost klein x reader #joost x you #joost klein x you #joost fic #joost klein fic #joost klein one shot #joost one shot #joost fanfiction #joost klein fanfiction #joost klein fanfic #joost fanfic

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mistiell · 1 year

Text

When you're lost in the Darkness

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Summary: Astarion suspects that you're afraid of the dark. What he doesn't know, is that not only will he soon be proven right, but he severely underestimated just how severe your fear is.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Fluff, hurt/comfort, nyctophobia, brief description of panic attack, possibly ooc Astarion, literally one use of y/n

A/N: Hey hi hello, I am back from the void for now. I would like to make a disclamier: I have not yet played BG3!! So, if anyone is out of character, I apologize!

---

Astarion has a theory.

A small and rather unimportant one, but a theory nonetheless.

It started when he noticed the way you set up your bed roll when the group makes camp for the night. You’re always as close to the fire as you can be without lighting yourself aflame, and when it dims to a certain point, he’s watched you rouse out of a dead sleep to stoke the coals and add more fuel. At first, he thought perhaps you were just prone to chills – he knows some people run cold when they sleep – but after lingering after one of your shared nights together, he came to realise that you’re actually more like a mostly-human furnace.

Then he noticed the way you linger around any sort of light source like a moth to a flame after the sun has set, and the way you fidget and glance over you shoulder every few minutes on the off chance your back is to the darkness.

He finds it strange. Granted, he thinks you’re strange for a variety of other reasons, but this pattern of behaviour is particularly puzzling to him. Which has lead him to his theory;

“You’re afraid of the dark.” He jests after watching you glance into the woods for the umpteenth time, aiming for teasing and realising he’s missed when your face falls into something akin to shame and discomfort.

You try to cover it with a scoff, rolling your eyes in a way he knows is meant to feign indifference, “I have far worse things to fear than the dark.” You spit those last two words, as if they taste bitter on your tongue. Firelight dances in your eyes as you keep your gaze trained firmly on him, even despite how much you look like you want too search for whatever it is you’ve convinced yourself is out there, intent on disproving him.

“True,” He smirks with a practiced ease, suddenly – strangely – desperate to ease the tension he’s just created, “But should you ever find yourself too afraid to sleep alone,” He leans in just a smidgen closer, grinning coquettishly, “My arms are always open.”

You snort, the tension in your shoulders ebbing just so as you chuckle, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“By all means, keep me in your thoughts as long as you wish, darling.” He hums, smile just a little softer than he intends when you genuinely laugh at that, the sound sweet and airy as it bubbles up from your throat.

“And with that, I’m off to bed.” He nearly mistakes incredulousness for fondness, but catches himself as you stand. Turning back for just a moment, you give him a smile so soft, it makes is gut twist with a feeling he’s a little unsure of, “Goodnight, Astarion.”

If he’d fed more recently, he’s sure his cheeks would be flushed. He blinks, clears his throat, “Sleep well, my sweet.”

Only days later, his theory is proven correct when you stumble upon some sort of abandoned cottage – House? Astarion’s not entirely sure – and, upon Gale’s insistence that it could be useful, decide to search it for wares.

“You do know there’s likely nothing of use in here, don’t you?” Shadowheart sighs impassively as she thumbs through a tattered book, slotting it back into place where she found it once she’s deemed it useless.

Gale huffs and rolls his eyes, “Well, we won’t know until we look, will we?”

“We won’t be finding much of anything if you two don’t quit your squabbling.” You quip before turning your attention back to the chest you were searching. You just barely lean into Astarion’s space, grinning impishly. He leans in just a little closer – only to hear you better, of course – as you whisper, “They’re like children, I tell you.”

Something shatters. You both turn just as Shadowheart fixes Gale with a stern look, “Hells, Gale, pay attention to where you’re going!”

“Wh- It’s not my fault!” Astarion raises a brow at their bickering, tutting amusedly, “Children, indeed.”

Huffing a laugh, your attention slides to a door on the far side of the room and move to investigate. After trying the handle and finding it jammed, it takes a good shove to get it open. The only thing that illuminates the small pantry is the light filtering in from the door you’ve just opened.

You seem content to simply skim over the contents of the room from where you’re standing until you spot something of interest, eyes lighting up with a little gasp.

Astarion takes your place in the doorway as you rush into the room after propping the door open with a nearby pail, curious, “What have you found?”

Snatching a little tin box off a shelf, you open it and beam, “Oh, I haven’t had this in ages!”

“What?” He asks again, a little impatient.

You hold it out to him, and when he comes closer to look over the lip of the tin, he finds a fair amount of shredded, aubergine coloured leaves inside.

He looks back to you, confused, “Tea?” “Tea.” You grin, holding it up to your nose and closing your eyes to revel in the fruity scent, “I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s delicious.”

With how delighted you are over finding it, he doesn’t doubt it.

“Well, at least we can tell the others our searching wasn’t in vain.” He turns, “Settle that dispute between Gale and Shadowhear-.” The toe of his boot bumps the pail, sending it rolling as the door swings shut and swathes the room in darkness.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but eventually, the door comes back into view, only now the faded sage green paint is a dull grey.

Just as he moves for the door, he’s startled by the clattering of metal and a loud bump. He whips around to ask what in the hells just happened, but the words die in his throat when he finds you pressed flat against the shelves on the far wall – which really isn’t that far considering there’s only about six feet between the two of you. He can hear your heart racing from where he’s standing, your breaths quick and shallow.

That theory he had just got a lot more important.

He calls your name and you flinch, gaze flitting in his general direction but never settling on him. You look well and truly petrified. “Darling, are you alright?”

It’s a terrible question considering you are very visibly not alright, but he can’t seem to come up with anything else fast enough.

“I can’t–.” Your voice cracks and you swallow, looking dreadfully close to tears as you squeeze your eyes shut and cover your face with your hands, “I can’t see you. I can’t see anything.”

“Hang on,” After trying the handle, he finds the door is jammed no matter how hard he yanks. He considers calling for Karlach or Wyll, but thinks better of it, not wanting to frighten you further. They’ll notice the two of you are missing and come looking eventually.

“Astarion.” His name from your lips pulls him from his thoughts. He usually loves hearing you say his name, even when your cross with him. But when it comes out like a pitiful mix between whisper and whimper, he finds his heart twists uncomfortably in his chest.

He turns back to you and stalls. Unsure, helpless. He wants desperately to comfort you, but he has no idea how. He goes over the many different ways he could try, and the many different ways you could react, before finally, “Tell me what you need.”

After a moment of hesitation, you hold out a trembling hand and he steps forward to take it without a second thought. You tense when his skin first meets yours, palms wet with tears as your breath hitches. You tug him closer to wrap your arms around his middle and cling to him like a lifeline, shaking terribly as you bury your face into his neck. He secures you to him with an arm around your back and a hand cupped over the nape of your neck. He can feel your heartbeat stuttering under his fingertips when they settle over your pulse.

You’re still gasping.

“You need to breathe, lovely.” He says it gently, voice void of his usual coquettish flare. The nickname is softer than what he’s used with you so far, and it feels and sounds more earnest than it should. He tries not to dwell on it as he soothes his palm up and down the length of your spine, “Try to mimic me. I’ll guide you, alright?” You nod, and when starts coaching you through each inhale and exhale, you do your best to follow.

It takes several breaths, but eventually, they grow deeper and stop catching in your chest. Your heart slows. Not by a lot, but enough that Astarion can stop worrying that you’ll work yourself into a panic induced fainting spell.

He guides you through a few more before asking, “Better?”

You nod. With your throat dried out from crying, your voice is rather croak-y when you reply, “A little.”

“You sound like a frog.” It startles a laugh from you, the sound letting Astarion breathe a little easier.

“I do!” You sniffle, still laughing. It makes him laugh too.

“What the hells is so funny in there?” Lae’zel shouts from the other side with all her usual charm.

“Frogs!” Astarion shouts back, and you giggle a little more.

There’s a few loud bangs as one of your friends attempts to open the door. He can feel you flinch with each one until finally, it bursts open, blessed light washing over the two of you despite Karlach towering in the doorway. Your body sags with relief, and a little, involuntary sound escapes you as a new wave of tears threatens to spill, this time for an entirely different reason.

“What happened in here?” Gale asks, looking wildly confused as you slip out of Astarion’s arms and wipe at your cheeks hastily. “Oh, erm,” You clear your throat awkwardly, gaze bouncing between the items the fell when you backed into the shelf before settling on the tea leaves. You look genuinely disappointed as you gesture vaguely towards the small pile on the floor, “I found a tea I really like and got upset when I dropped it.”

“Ah. I see.” Gale nods, still obviously perplexed. If any of them find the explanation odd, they don’t say anything.

Shadowheart leans around Karlach, “We should get a move on. There are only so many hours before sundown.”

“Right. Yes, that’s a good idea.” You nod, clearly thankful for an excuse to get the hell out of there as you squeeze past them and lead them outside.

Much to Astarion’s chagrin, Karlach turns when she notices he’s hung back, “Oi, Astarion. What are you doing?”

He glances between her and the pantry before huffing, “Just... Tell them to wait a moment.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously but agrees, leaving him to tell you and the others. He makes his way back into the pantry for a moment before jogging outside to join you.

It’s a good few hours until you make camp, and another few before he finally plucks up the courage to approach you near your tent.

You notice him striding over and smile at the sight of him, “Astarion! To what to I owe the pleasure?”

“I come bearing gifts.” He announces dramatically, hoping his puckish grin will be enough to mask how incredibly fucking nervous he truly is.

“For me?” You ask, cocking your head slightly to one side.

He rolls his eyes playfully, “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, would I?”

“Well obviously, I just meant–,” You huff and shake your head, chuckling incredulously, “Never mind. What have you got for me?”

He holds out the tin and watches surprise and confusion flash over your face in quick succession before something unbearably soft settles over your features.

Taking it from him, you’re quick to pop the lid off. You gasp when you lay eyes on the contents, eyes wide when you look back at him with such wonder, it nearly knocks the wind out of him, “How did you–?”

“I salvaged what I could off the top of the pile. I– erm,” He clears his throat, “I thought it would be wasteful to leave perfectly good tea behind when at least one of us could enjoy what’s left of it. Irresponsible, even.”

You huff a laugh. There’s no mistaking the fondness this time.

“You’re absolutely right. That would be irresponsible of us.” Your smile shifts into something heart achingly earnest as you step closer and lean up to peck his cheek, “Thank you.”

“Of course, love.” He’s aiming for coquettish but it comes out too sincere to be convincing. That feeling twists at his chest again and it’s only now that he realises what it is.

He actually, genuinely cares for you.

Rattled, he feigns a yawn and smirks, “Well, as much as I adore your company, I really must be off to bed. Beauty sleep, and all that.”

“Right!” You seem to startle yourself with your own volume and clear your throat, chuckling awkwardly, “Right, of course. Goodnight, Astarion.”

He takes a mere second to mull it over before he throws caution to the wind and cradles the side of your neck in his palm, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw as he presses his lips to the apple of your opposite cheek. Before he takes time to actually think over his new found feelings and potentially freak himself out, he’s going to let himself indulge in you just a little while longer.

Pulling back, he brushes the back of his knuckles over the skin he just kissed, “Goodnight, Y/n.”

He can hear your heart thump, thump, thumping as he walks towards his own tent. The feelings he has for you are a new and rather inconvenient development. But if later he finds that he doesn’t particularly mind?

No one has to know just yet.

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x mc #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldurs gate 3

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