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megalony · 2 months ago

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Safety And Sanctuary

This is a new Eric imagine from A Quiet Place, requested by the lovely @bib200 I hope you like how it turned out.

Any feedback is always lovely.

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Summary: On their way to leave the city and find somewhere safer to hide, (Y/n) and Eric run into problems when she goes into labour. And they have to try and find a way to keep their baby quiet in a world of silence.

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Was it pointless? Was this perilous journey they were taking too far fetched for their newfound reality? Was this worth it, or should they just give up now?

So many questions bombarded (Y/n)'s mind as the couple trudged down the seemingly empty street.

Walking had never been so dangerous. (Y/n) never would have thought that something as simple as walking, a task every parent praised their child for acomplishing, would become so frightening in the space of one day. But then again, who ever would have thought that uttering a single sound could cause the end of their life?

The spitting of rain was getting more pronounced and prominent and something about the rain was soothing, as if the world was crying along with them and mourning what was lost.

(Y/n)'s arms bound tighter around her chest and a defiant look crossed her face as she tilted her head back until her neck ached and she was staring up at the weeping sky. Droplets of rain cascaded down onto her face, mixing in with the long since dried tears and the heat consuming her skin from so much panic and confusion.

The bustling streets had never been (Y/n)'s cup of tea. So many people crowding together, pushing, shoving and making crude remarks as each tried to go their own way and move in a hurry. But something about seeing the streets of New York looking so desolate and empty was horrifying.

They didn't know where they were going, not really.

They would probably walk until the sun started to set and they needed to find somewhere to rest their heads and cower in fear for the night and see if they lasted until morning.

Twisting her head to the left, (Y/n) snook a glance over at Eric. It was almost funny how one day could change things so much.

Only yesterday (Y/n) had dragged her fingers through Eric's hair and pulled him down by his tie to give him a kiss of luck as he headed to the office where he worked. He was going to be a lawyer. Not anymore. Now the world had descended into madness and despair, there was no need for lawyers, survival didn't include that role in this new world.

Eric looked like he had been through the wars. His curly hair was disshevelled and array with curls in ever direction, some crimped up, some stood on end and others flattened down near his forehead. His hands were lathered in dust and dirt that was clogged beneath his nails. His face was painted with smoke and grime and those chocolate brown eyes were practically drowning in sorrow.

He hadn't taken off his tie, (Y/n) wasn't quite sure why considering she knew her husband hated to have to wear one. Maybe he thought it would come in handy in an emergency for something. Maybe he wanted to cling to that essence of himself that he was before the world broke out into chaos.

His white and brown striped shirt was now permanently dark beige with dust and patches of dirt smudged into the material. The only part of him that didn't look raggedy was his trousers.

And when (Y/n) glanced down, she found herself smiling despite their situation. Eric wasn't wearing his shoes. He had taken them off before they left the apartment because the heels made a noise and clicked against the pavement when he walked. The city had once been so full of noise that it hadn't dawned on Eric that he made such little, insignificant noises such as the clicking of his shoes or heavy breathing or little sighs now and then. All of which he couldn't do anymore, lest he wanted his life to be cut dramatically short.

So Eric was simply wearing his socks, padding along the pavement like he had lost each and every one of his senses.

When Eric's head angled down in her direction and he caught her staring, a small blush crept up the side of his neck despite the grime layering his skin and he smiled.

(Y/n) was the only consolation Eric had.

If his wife hadn't made it through this ordeal, then Eric wouldn't be standing here right now. He would have thrown himself in the river or stood on the side street and screamed until a creature came and took him. He wouldn't be able to survive in a world like this on his own. He couldn't get through this uncertainty and turmoil if (Y/n) wasn't stood by his side, guiding him and calming him down.

'Okay?'

It was hard to mouth the word and not use his voice or make the tiniest whisper, but it was something they were going to have to get used to now.

When she nodded, Eric wa as careful as he could be, adjusting the bag on his shoulder so it stayed where it was and didn't risk sliding down his arm. Allowing him to reach his right arm out and curve it around (Y/n)'s waist so he could reel her into his side.

His lips and nose meshed into the top of her head against her hair and he tried to take slow, calming breaths as the pair of them slowly weaved onto the road. They both had the same idea, walking on the other side of the desolate road to be under shelter of building scaffolding.

Eric couldn't stop from darting his eyes down to (Y/n) again once they were under shelter and the rain was no longer clinging to his lashes and clogging his eyes. His gaze drifted down to her hands, a sense of nostalgia and paranoia washing over him all at once when (Y/n) started absentmindedly gliding her hand over her stomach while her other arm was wrapped tightly around Eric's waist.

When (Y/n) saw where Eric was staring, she felt shivers coursing down her spine and she came to a slow stop. She leaned to peek towards the road, listening to how loud the rain was battering down against the scaffolding and the pavement. They might just have a tiny bit of leeway here to whisper under the protection of rain, without alerting any creatures that might be lurking nearby.

"Do you think we can do this?" (Y/n) kept her voice as quiet as possible and motioned to the rain when Eric's bewildered eyes widened like he assumed she was trying to get them killed. The rain would cover their voices; it would give them protection.

She watched the way he dragged his hand through his damp hair and he nodded instinctively. Maybe he wasn't sure if he believed they could do this, but he wanted to hope that they could. Eric would delude himself if necessary, but he wouldn't go around thinking the worst and assuming that they couldn't do this.

Or what was the point?

"We have to try." Eric kept his hand on (Y/n)'s waist, trying hard not to dig his fingers too tightly into her flesh and leave indents or bruises but if he wasn't holding her tight he felt like he was going to lose her.

All they could do was try. If they went ahead in this world thinking that nothing was possible and their death was imminent then it most likely would be. But if they tried, if they pushed and did whatever they could to keep their little family alive and find some kind of sanctuary and their own sense of normality back in this world, then that was enough. They had to try and survive.

And Eric couldn't bear the thought of thinking about what would go wrong. He had to delude himself or he would descend into panic.

Why couldn't this strange type of apocalypse have happened years from now or even just a few months from now? Why did it have to happen right in this moment, when (Y/n) was pregnant? Why did the world have to come to a halt when (Y/n) was so close to giving birth? Fate seemed to be against them.

(Y/n) let her cheek rest on Eric's arm as she switched from having her arm around his torso to curl her hand around his arm instead.

"Babies cry, Eric. We can't tell them to cry only when it rains." (Y/n) didn't want to be thinking like this, she didn't want to be the cynical one who looked only on the dark side, but she couldn't help it.

Her due date was next week. If they made it past this week it would only get harder when (Y/n) eventually went into labour and had their baby.

They had been so happy when they found out, they had been so eager to start a family and have a baby together, and now, just as that dream had become visible on the horizon, it was taken away from them.

Bringing up a baby in a world of forced silence and contemplation like this wasn't natural, it wasn't ideal or even likely to happen.

(Y/n) couldn't fathom how they were going to stop their baby from crying once they were born- provided that the birth went well and there was nothing wrong with their baby. She couldn't constantly feed the baby to try and keep them quiet, she couldn't force them to sleep all the time or drug them into a comatose state to keep them alive. Babies cried, it was a natural fact and if they had a fussy baby or their baby developed coelic or some other disorder or illness, they were going to cry and wriggle and make a fuss.

If they had their baby a year or two ago, this would be different. They could teach and learn their child to be quiet, they could make up their own form of sign language and implement it into their child to be silent. They could teach them the dangers and try to bring them up in this silent world. But a baby, that was near impossible in this situation.

"How do we keep a baby quiet without smothering them?"

(Y/n) could feel tears welling up in her eyes when she looked up at Eric and saw how her words had cut through him like a knife. His expression had fallen and his features were changing between blushing rouge and turning a pasty shade of grey.

"Don't say that." Despite the low whisper, there was a snappy tone to his voice that he couldn't hide.

He was in tears just thinking about it. Did (Y/n) think Eric hadn't considered those kind of situations? Did she think he hadn't contemplated the fact that in a dire situation, if a creature was imminent, they could quite possibly smother their baby to death trying to keep them quiet and unheard.

But Eric didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to lose himself to those kind of thoughts because they were harrowing and frightening and he couldn't think about their baby like that.

This was their child, this was the baby they had waited so long to have and meet and hold. And Eric was going to do whatever he had to to keep them and (Y/n) safe. He knew (Y/n) felt the same, he knew she was willing to do whatever they had to in order to protect their baby and try to keep one another alive. But it wasn't going to be easy, thousands of things could happen or go wrong.

"If we get on a boat or near the water, we might not be able to make any noise."

(Y/n) had heard the announcements, the tanoids telling people to get to the water, that boats were sailing and taking people out into the water where these creatures wouldn't venture. But something might happen. These things might evolve or manage to get out onto the water and that was a terrifying thought. They might not be safe even in water.

If they got on a boat or found somewhere to stay near the sea, they might still have to be silent and that posed the same question. How were they going to keep their baby quiet?

"We will, something will happen, somehow we'll do this. We live on a boat in the middle of nowhere, or- or we live under a waterfall, I don't know. But we do this. There have to be other people on those boats and out there with newborns and toddlers, it's not just us."

Eric hoped he was right. He hoped they weren't the only ones who survived this ordeal with children imminent. He was sure that there would be a number of people out there trying to protect their kids, people with babies, mothers leaving the hospital with newborns, trying to keep them safe and alive.

There would be parents and young children on those boats sailing out into the sea. There had to be. And Eric and (Y/n) would soon be one of those couples, going out to sea or hiding somewhere near gushing water, protecting their baby.

"Okay." (Y/n) didn't want to argue and they had already tried to take provisions and talk about what they would do.

If they could get on a boat, then that's what they would do. If they couldn't, they would aim for any desolate place that seemed safe enough to hide in which was near water. They would wait to find other people to evacuate with and escape to somewhere more enclosed and safe. There had to be areas and aspects of the country- the world, even, that would be safe enough for them to live and bring up their child and just survive.

She nuzzled her cheek into Eric's sleeve while he kissed the top of her head and they slowly started to trudge ahead again.

It wasn't like them to walk this slow, even with (Y/n) being nine months pregnant and feeling like her back was aching and her stomach was weighing her forward. They didn't usually walk like they were both crippled, but they had to be quiet.

Eric was trying not to shake the bag on his shoulder or make any kind of sound.

The backpack on (Y/n)'s shoulders was packed with clothes and essentials they would need, anything that might rattle had been wrapped up in their shirts and bottoms to smother any noise. The bag Eric carried wasn't harbouring clothes; it held essentials.

When they decided to take the risk and try to find one of those boats, to get down to the river, they had to pack. They needed clothes, bandages, the first aid box from their apartment, the little things they would have to take with them. And Eric's bag contained just a few of the things they had bought ready for their baby.

He packed nappies, onesies, pacifiers, bottles- they would have to raid any shops they could find for powdered milk if (Y/n) didn't want to breastfeed. And when they left the apartment, they had gone into a desolated chemist a block from what was once their home.

Eric had been as quiet and stealth as possible, raiding the shelves for a pair of sterilised, packaged scissors and a pack of needles and thread for when the baby was born and they would have to cut the cord. He found antiseptic wipes, lots of gauze, bandages, sterilising fluid, and of course he raided the back of the chemist for a variety of strong pain meds. Both for (Y/n) during and after the birth and as a stash in case either of them got injured and needed some pain relief.

They found what they would most likely need, and now they were on their way. Hoping to find any safe space to rest for the night before they continued in the morning to get to the boats or somewhere they could stay which would be safe.

(Y/n) began to glide her thumb up and down the back of Eric's arm while she leaned into his side. It was a relief that silence was something of a comfort to them both. Neither of them were the kind of people who had to fill the silence or felt awkward when no one was speaking; they wouldn't have lasted this long in this new world if that was the case.

The rain cascaded down on them like it was pouring its own sense of sorrow onto them as they headed down the deserted street.

Part of (Y/n) felt like they were being selfish. She knew they weren't, after all, this whole change in the world happened after (Y/n) got pregnant. It wasn't as if they had chosen to have a baby and bring a child into this terror. But it wasn't the world they thought they were bringing their child into.

This wasn't safe anymore. The world had never been perfect, but at least the threats hadn't been creatures from another place. Threats in their old world had been strange people or busy traffic or dark corners. Not predators that could hunt dozens of people at once and kill anything in its path.

But there was nothing they could do about this now except for survive. All they could do was try to survive, try to have this baby and give them a chance.

(Y/n) came out of her dwelling thoughts when she felt Eric's hand shift from her waist to suddenly latch around her upper arm. His grip was fierce and (Y/n) could feel his fingertips digging into her skin harsh enough to leave imprints in his wake.

Her eyes darted up to look at him, wondering why he had stopped walking and grabbed her like that. But Eric's free hand ever so slowly let go of the bag resting on his shoulder and his finger pressed against his lips. The movement would have been heartstopping if it hadn't been for the panic dwelling in Eric's eyes and the movement (Y/n) saw out the corner of her eye.

A creature.

There were creatures- more than one- hovering on the buildings across the road. They were scouring the streets, patrolling for victims, for anything that moved with sound which they could devour.

A subtle trembling set in (Y/n)'s system as she slithered her hand up to remove Eric's hand from her arm so she could tangle their fingers together. Their clammy palms pressed together like suction and when Eric started to move, (Y/n) carefully followed alongside him.

It was clear with each tentative step that Eric took that he wanted to run, he wanted to be fast and stealth, but he couldn't. He couldn't risk making a single sound and risking his family.

Neither of them had any idea where they were heading. They didn't know which direction to go, where would be safe and if there were any other creatures lurking around any corners.

(Y/n) wasn't sure what made her look, but as the pair of them did their strange little speed walk down the street, (Y/n) noticed something.

A church.

It looked like a beacon of hope to (Y/n)'s watering eyes. It was large, the building itself wasn't crumbling or broken or had a caved in roof or busted windows. It was structurally safe, unlike the other buildings in this area; most of the buildings in all of New York will have been destroyed by now. Maybe in the entire country, possibly even the whole world.

A church would be safe. It was a large space with multiple rooms and crevaces for them to stay. It was getting dark out, the daylight was starting to fade and they had to find somewhere safe to stay.

Shifting her free hand, (Y/n) pressed her palm against Eric's shoulder and nudged until he was aiming towards the left rather than straight ahead.

Confusion blared out in his eyes until he realised where she was trying to aim him and a flicker of relief swelled across his face.

A church; that would do as a safe space for now.

***

(Y/n) could feel a headache forming behind her eyes as she slowly trudged up and down in a small line that was beginning to wear a pattern into the stone floor.

She didn't know what to do with herself.

Before this, before all the chaos, whenever (Y/n) felt uncomfortable she would go and lie in the bath. Sometimes she would lie in bed with an old movie or tv show on in the background and a stack of pillows on the bed with her. She couldn't do that anymore. God, was she ever likely to have a bath again? The water would make too much of a noise, and it was near impossible to be silent getting in or out the tub. Bathing in whatever river or stream was nearby was going to be their future now.

Her fingers carded through her hair, brushing the strands out of her eyes as her other hand pressed against her lower back.

She took a moment to look around the church that had long since turned dark and was lit with whatever candles they could find in the basement and in the vacant storage room at the back. There were quite a few people seeking refuge here.

A few elderly people off in one corner. A young family huddled in the corner, fast asleep together despite the terror that awaited them outside. There were a few people dotted about in the pews, catching some sleep, praying, sitting and deliberating what to do. Overall there was less than twenty of them in here altogether but (Y/n) barely noticed their presence with how quiet everyone was becoming.

When her eyes danced across to her husband, a softness dwelled in her eyes and (Y/n) managed a smile.

Eric was laid on one of the pews, arms crossed over his chest and his jacket rolled up beneath his head to serve as a pillow. One leg was hanging off the bench with his foot pressing into the floor to stabilise himself and his other leg was laid out across the pew. He still looked tense, even in his sleep. Frown lines were woven into his temple and his lips were curved into a splintered grimace.

But at least he was getting some rest.

Once this baby was born, neither of them were going to be getting anymore sleep. They would have to take it in turns, one of them constantly watching over the baby to stop any cries before they happened. They were going to be exhausted and panicked and frightened and worn down, and (Y/n) had no idea how they were going to do any of this. If only this mayhem had happened a few months or years down the line instead of right now.

Turning her head, (Y/n) continued to walk up and down the small space she had acquired of about six feet that she kept pacing to give her something to do when sitting down didn't feel comfortable or possible anymore.

The one good thing about this silent situation was that no one was bothering to go near one another. If someone was ill or looked in need of help, then sure, people would filter round and try to do what they could. But without talking, people were simply staying in their acquired bubbles of space.

No one was trying to strike up a conversation with (Y/n), they weren't trying to talk using sign or writing on paper or charades. No one was bothering with her or Eric and that was a relief.

The headache raging behind (Y/n)'s eyes amplified ten fold and she fought back the urge to groan as her fingers pressed deeper into her temple in a vain attempt to fight off the uneasy feeling. But she could feel shockwaves coursing through her body when her stomach tightened.

Her head angled down as if in slow motion and her jaw hung loose when she felt a dampness between her thighs and trickling down her leggings.

Oh no.

This is what (Y/n) had been constantly panicking about since this whole event shook the world. She had been hoping that she would go into labour sometime next week on or after her due date. By then they might have found somewhere to stay, somewhere safe or even find themselves on a boat where they would at least be a bit more protected and shielded from these creatures.

Having a baby here, still in the centre of New York city, huddled in a church, wasn't (Y/n)'s ideal plan. But it looked like she didn't have much of a choice.

Her lips rolled together and her arms coiled around her waist, resting on her bump as she shuffled over towards the pew where Eric was laid asleep, unaware of the turmoil (Y/n) was about to unleash on him.

It took some effort for (Y/n) to manage to go down on her knees and she held her breath to try and regulate her system and control the rising panic that was coursing through her in waves. Once she was knelt on the stone floor that felt as cold as sitting on a frozen lake, (Y/n) moved one arm to rest on the bench and gently glided her other hand up and down Eric's chest.

She nudged the buttons on his shirt and moved his tie that was becoming looser and looser as the hours passed. She didn't want to frighten him awake and cause him to make any noise.

His body jolted and his head shot up, but he stayed as silent as the dead and his wide brown eyes darted to the right to look over at her.

One hand clamped down on the back of the pew and Eric moved his other hand to rummage up and down his face to try and brighten himself up and bring him back to his senses. He forced a gentle smile as he looked at his wife, but it didn't last long when he saw that she was biting down on her lower lip so harshly that she was drawing blood beneath her teeth.

His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to (Y/n) until their noses were almost touching. His lips pursed and he shook his head to try and get her to mime something or move and point out what was wrong. He couldn't see anyone else in the church panicking so he figured no creatures were lurking to try and devour them. Yet.

Confusion stayed plastered across Eric's face, mingling with the worry lines still present but he stayed compliant when (Y/n) reached out for his hand. She moved his hand near her stomach before she seemed to realise that it wasn't going to give Eric much insight. So she pressed his palm down against her damp thigh instead.

Horror was the only thing (Y/n) could see swirling in her husband's eyes which expanded twice their usual size and his jaw dropped, parting those plump pink lips. Eric tried to shake his head but the look in (Y/n)'s eyes told him this wasn't a false alarm or a joke.

Her water had broken. She was going into labour.

She watched with panicked eyes as Eric carefully sat up and swung his legs over so he was sitting upright. But (Y/n) was taken by surprise when Eric leaned forward. One hand cupped the back of her head while the other held her arm, but it was the feeling of his lips merging with her temple which made (Y/n)'s heart race.

She could feel each shaky breath Eric took and how he tried his very best not to make a single sound, despite the very overwhelming need to cry or scream or do both at once.

They stayed like that for a while, with Eric hunched forward to curl around her and (Y/n)'s hands clutching his hips, holding him just as tightly as he was holding her. (Y/n) could feel Eric shifting his weight from his heels to his toes, clearly trying to concentrate on something so he didn't fall into a state of panicked despair.

And she stayed clinging to him when he changed stance so his left hand was cupping the back of her neck but his right hand was reaching out for something beside him on the bench. His cheek meshed against the top of her head, nuzzling into her hair while he found the notebook and pencil they had brought and began to scrawl a note.

'It's okay, we're safe here. I'll look after you.'

His words were comforting when he turned the page round so (Y/n) could see, and she nodded against him and clung to him that little bit tighter.

(Y/n) had never been worried about the pain. It didn't do well to worry about the excruciating pain she was going to be feeling in a matter of hours. She would do anything she had to in order to stay quiet, the pain wasn't the main issue. It was what would happen afterwards, how they would silence their baby without hurting or smothering them. It was how they would move forward with a newborn who needed to be silent which was worrying (Y/n) the most.

She turned to rest her cheek against Eric's thigh, nuzzling into him as she curved her arms tighter around his torso until her hands were splayed out on his back. Clinging to him and being close like this was comforting. It would help for now.

They had a long night ahead of them.

***

This was not how Eric imagined this wonderous, magical moment in his life playing out.

Not for one moment since (Y/n) became pregnant did Eric imagine it would be happening in this way. In a damp church that no one dared sigh in because churches were known to echo with high ceilings and little to no curtains. He didn't imagine to be his wife's birth partner, coach and midwife rolled into one.

He didn't think they would be doing this alone with no help and no way of even calling a midwife for assistance. Eric didn't even have his phone, he couldn't Google articles that might coach him through how to do this. They were completely and utterly alone with nowhere else to go.

Eric dreamt of this moment. He dreamt of going to hospital, of holding (Y/n)'s hand and crying and how it would feel to sit beside her and finally be able to hold their child in his arms. He dreamed of calling his parents in London and telling them the good news and whether he had a son or a daughter.

He didn't dare think about his parents; Eric had no way of knowing if the rest of his family back home were dead or alive, whether they were fighting to survive or if they had already been killed. And he wasn't likely to ever find out or go back home again. Home was going to have an entirely new meaning now.

Tilting his head down, Eric smothered his lips against the top of (Y/n)'s head, inhaling the very faint scent of her raspberry shampoo which Eric guessed neither of them would be using very often anymore.

His elbows were pinned into (Y/n)'s waist, their hands were interlocked together in front of them and Eric had his chest moulded over (Y/n)'s back like he was a coat or a second layer of skin, trying to protect and shield her form the rest of the world.

Every now and then he brushed his thumbs across the back of her hands but he was trying hard to concentrate on being quiet and not humming. Whenever they would hug or dance in their apartment, Eric was usually the one to start humming and giving them their very own background music. Humming was something that he used to do all the time, it calmed him down and gave him a sense of focus. He couldn't do that anymore.

They had been pacing for a while now, Eric wasn't sure how long, he would roughly guess at about an hour because both of them had gone stiff sitting down for so long. And there wasn't much they could do to idle away the time.

Everyone else was trying to sleep or be on watch at the windows in case any creatures roamed the streets at night. Everyone inside the church had calmed down and fooled themselves into a false sense of security in here.

But Eric was on red alert. There was a countdown happening in the back of his mind to the moment when this whole situation would turn South and they would have to get to water, to safety, fast to ensure they and their baby survived.

When (Y/n)'s hands tightened around his and she stopped walking, Eric paused behind her, curving himself around her as he figured she was experiencing another contraction.

He watched as she moved their entwined hands to grab the tie that Eric had taken off earlier and draped around her own neck like some kind of slim scarf or strange piece of jewellery. He watched (Y/n) pull on the tie until it was between her teeth and she chomped down so hard he was sure she would fray and split the fabric.

That was why he had given it to her. He knew that being silent in such an ordeal with such pain was going to be incredibly hard for his wife, and Eric hated that there was very little he could do about that. So he gave her his tie to bite down on and clench between her teeth in the vain hope that it might give her some small sense of relief.

And whenever (Y/n) told him the pain was too much, Eric would give her some of the medication he had tucked away in his bag from raiding the chemist earlier in the day. He had found some powerful drugs in that chemist for this exact situation.

As carefully as he could, Eric moved their entwined hands so his left arm was bound around (Y/n)'s waist and his right hand moved to cup her chin. He tilted her head towards the right so he could lean around and pepper a few tender kisses to her cheek.

When the contraction wore off, Eric moved to hover his lips over (Y/n)'s ear which caused shivers to jolt through her system and vibrate into him.

"Are you doing okay?" Eric spoke at the lowest possible decimal he could until his words were nothing but a breath of air that could hardly be heard by (Y/n), let alone anyone else in the church or out in the world.

He watched the way (Y/n) released the tie so it hung limp around her neck again and rolled her lips together. Her eyes closed and her head tilted back against his shoulder after she managed to nod. She was doing as well as she could in this situation.

Their conjoined hands moved so (Y/n) could point to the pews and Eric nodded into her shoulder and neck.

She wanted to sit down now, lest Eric wanted to stand and hold her weight up for her. They had been standing for long enough and (Y/n) wasn't sure she held the energy to stay upright any longer.

She felt much better when Eric helped ease her back down on the bench and when he sat beside her, he curved his right arm around her waist and kept their left hands tangled together on her lap. Eric was relieved to sit down too. He was drained and he needed to stock up on his energy and hope adrenaline would see him through for when the baby was born.

For a few moments, Eric tilted his head down and attached his lips to (Y/n)'s shoulder. They stayed like that until Eric lifted his head when (Y/n) bowed hers. Her chin tucked down into her neck and Eric took to kissing the back of her head to try and help keep her calm.

Eric glanced his eyes around the open space while his right hand began to feather up and down (Y/n)'s waist. He tried to take in the sight of the other people seeking refuge here, wondering what their lives had been like before this mess ensnared them all in here together. Wondering if they were missing family members, if they were looking for people or if they were simply on an aimless mission like them.

He stopped pondering those kind of thoughts when he noticed an older gentleman sat on the opposite bench from them on the other side of the aisle was staring at them.

He looked to be in his fifties if Eric had to guess. Salt and pepper hair, a beard that was all fading to grey, but it was his piercing eyes that set Eric on edge.

The man was glaring at them with a look that Eric couldn't decipher, those beady eyes set upon the couple while the man's lips and nose were scrunched up into a confused sort of frown.

Eric stared over at him, keeping his gaze as he waited for the man to make some kind of action or mouth something to signal why he was staring at them so intently. Did he want something? Was something wrong? Did he think he recognised them from somewhere?

Suddenly, the man broke their gaze and hunched forward to reach for a scrap of paper and a bit of chalk.

'In labour?'

Unease set in Eric's features which hardened to stone, but he nodded all the same. There was no point denying it. There was a couple at the back of the church near the hymn board who kept looking at them and the woman had such a sympathetic smile that made Eric want to cry. She could see that (Y/n) was in labour and Eric guessed that if they could speak without fear of being detected, she would have tried to strike up a conversation with them or even sat with them to help.

He watched the gentleman start scribbling again, but when he held the page up for Eric to see, his chest hardened and anger seethed through every vessel in his body.

'Get out!'

(Y/n) glanced from Eric to the man sitting across from them, suddenly wondering what had caused her husband to start to breathe like he was stopping himself from turning into the Hulk. His chest was tense and practically heaving and his nostrils were flaring, but there was a maddening look in his eyes that (Y/n) had never seen before. And his eyes were locked on the man across from them.

The words on the page made (Y/n)'s heart seize up and caused her chest to convulse.

Her head turned to look behind her towards Eric, eyes wide and body shaking as a bewildered expression flooded her face. Now she was frightened- no, she was petrified.

If that man was telling them to leave, then what would stop everyone else in here from doing the same?

What if they started a silent uproar? What if all of the couples and families and desolate strangers in here tried to get them to leave? They could combine into one big gang, they could crowd and push and shove until Eric and (Y/n) were ushered out onto the street. And what would the couple do then?

(Y/n) couldn't have this baby in the street, they had to be somewhere safe, somewhere enclosed and indoors and with a bit of protection.

But no one else had seemed disgruntled. They had all seen that (Y/n) was pregnant, there was no missing that little piece of information and although the couple gained sympathetic looks, no one seemed to object. They couldn't help that they were having a baby while this apocalypse had occurred. It was fate. They needed help, not to be shunned out.

Moving his arm from resting on the back of the bench, Eric brushed his fingers against (Y/n)'s cheek and tilted her head so she was looking at him rather than that silly old fool. He attached his lips to her cheek and inched closer to her, huddling her close into his chest.

They didn't have to look and see that fool try to argue with them. They had every right to be in here and Eric wouldn't let that man upset (Y/n) when she was clearly distressed enough as it was.

For a few minutes, (Y/n) closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against Eric's chest. She let go of his hand in favour of holding his thigh and she felt each breath he took fanning against her hair. They both did their best to stay tangled together and resist the urge to look across at the man that Eric felt a great deal of distain for even though he had barely interacted with him and knew nothing about him.

But if he was willing to try and sacrifice a pregnant woman out on the street for his own survival, then Eric didn't want to know him. No one would be able to survive in this world on their own, people needed a community, help, they would need others to help get them through this. He wasn't going to last very long out there on his own.

Eric tried, he really tried not to look, but when the man began to wave his arms and flap his hands out to get his attention, he gave in. Eric gave in and turned to see what he wanted now. He was holding up another page.

'You're putting us all in danger. Babies make noise, that thing will kill us all.'

Outrage roared to life in Eric's chest that began to heave and blunder again. He had a sickening feeling that the man across from them was referring to the baby, not one of the creatures outside and that thought was riling up every one of Eric's otherwise passive nerves in his body.

If that man didn't like his odds being around a baby then he could go and find somewhere else to stay. There were kids in here, older people, young people. Any one of them could cough or belch or fall or sneeze and make a noise, no one was exempt. Yes, a baby was more of a risk than everyone else but that didn't mean that it was fair to cast them out.

Shakes rattled through Eric and his hands clenched into fists as he pushed up from the bench. But before he took one step, he faltered when (Y/n) deadlocked both hands around his arm and yanked his arm towards her chest.

She could see that he wanted to scream and shout and rage but it wasn't going to do them any good. The rage inside Eric started to simmer down and mingle with heartache when he looked down at his wife. She was frightened enough as it was, starting a silent argument or a fight wasn't going to make the situation any better.

With a curt nod of his head, Eric sank back down on the bench and grabbed the notebook and pencil that they had brought along with them. He flipped to a clean page and hastily began to scrawl his response to the vile man who he now hated with vengeance.

'You were coughing earlier, that could kill us all.'

The menacing tone inside Eric's head might just have been projected into the man's mind, for he shrank back in his seat as if he had been slapped. And Eric triumphed inwardly while he began to write another message while he had the chance and the words rattling around in his head.

'Our baby deserves a chance. Church is sanctuary. You can't play God in here, don't like it, move to new haven.'

This church wasn't a forever solution for any of them. None of them were likely to stay here and live out their days in this church. They would all move on, they would find somewhere safer, somewhere better where they could live. Or they would each keep moving from place to place, hopelessly wandering for the rest of their (probably short) lives.

Everyone in this church would venture out into the streets, into the world, sooner or later. They would need to go for supplies, for food and water and clothing and bandages and medicines and to try and find somewhere to wash and get clean. No one was hybernating in here for the rest of their lives.

Eric and (Y/n) being here wasn't making much of a difference and if this man didn't like them being here then he could go and find a new place for himself. Why should they be the ones to leave when right now they hadn't done anything to put anyone in jeopardy?

'Baby is a big risk.'

The man had a deep frown engraved into his features, but his anger began to dwindle little by little when he looked from Eric to (Y/n). Agony was displayed on her face and she was mouthing 'please'. Whether she was asking him to relent in arguing or to let them stay, he couldn't be sure.

But he seemed to wince and visibly cringe, his expression turning hollow when he watched (Y/n) motion to her stomach before she tried to point towards the doors.

She couldn't give birth outside. It would be suicide.

Was he really going to try and evict them when he didn't have that right? Did he truly want them to find some deserted building with no source of heat or light or supplies and face giving birth in those conditions? Or did he want (Y/n) to sit out on the street to have her baby and become a beacon for these creatures to come and snatch them up?

The man wouldn't meet (Y/n)'s gaze, but he looked towards Eric when he waved another piece of paper towards him.

'Creature comes, I'll scream and distract to protect them.'

Eric would sacrifice himself if necessary. He would make a noise and divert the creatures to him if it would give (Y/n) and their baby a chance at getting away and being alive. Eric would make a noise and give everyone in this church the time to escape. He would do anything he had to for his family.

And those words seemed to silence the elder man because he nodded. For how could he argue with that?

Tears welled up in (Y/n)'s eyes when she watched Eric slide the notepad down next to him on the bench and she caught sight of what he had written. It wouldn't come to that. She wouldn't allow it. (Y/n) wouldn't be able to get through this world without Eric, she couldn't try and keep their baby alive without him.

Eric's arms went right back to cocooning around (Y/n) when another contraction hit and they moulded together like they were both trying to smother their cries. He began to sway them from side to side, wishing and praying that he could take the pain and endure it for her, but there was nothing he could do.

His arms went rigid around (Y/n)'s frame and his chest tensed and tightened when he watched a woman walk towards them. She had smiled kindly at them earlier and kept giving them sympathetic looks, but Eric didn't trust anyone in here. Not after the strange, infuriating conversation he'd just had with that man.

This woman could be coming over to gently try and coax them to leave, to tell them that staying wouldn't be in their best interests and for everyone's sake, they should go. But something about the softness in her eyes told Eric that she wasn't going to do that.

Her eyes softened as she gazed upon them and she crouched down beside them, gently patting (Y/n)'s knee in the process.

The couple watched her with uncertainty and intrigue and Eric nodded when she motioned to the pencil and notepad, politely asking if she could write them a message.

'Basement/ catacombs, go down. Thick walls underground, safer for baby.'

Once she laid the notepad on (Y/n)'s lap, she twisted to point behind her towards the small doorway in the left hand corner at the back of the church.

There was a basement beneath them down the stairs behind that door. The walls were made of old, thick stone and if all the doors were closed, the couple would effectively be sectioned off down there. It would be safer for them. The baby might just be able to make whimpers and little cries without drawing the attention of the creatures. And in the very least, they would be hidden away and in private without anyone around to leer or stare or try and intervene.

It was their best chance.

Relief swarmed through Eric's body which almost flagged against (Y/n) who wavered and couldn't stop the tears from trickling down her face. This lady was giving them a chance. She was trying to help them, she wasn't going to have a go at them or argue or try and usher them out onto the street.

When the woman stood up again and held her hands out in front of her, (Y/n) took the hint. She shakily took the elder woman's hands while she felt Eric holding onto her waist as he stood up with her, moving to be behind her with his chest curved around her back just in case she stumbled or a contraction hit and she needed some support.

Eric took his time putting both their backpacks on each shoulder, not wanting to rattle any of the medication or scissors in case he made a sound. And the three of them walked in tandem, the stranger leading the way with a clear understanding of the church that she must have frequented a lot before today to know the layout like she did.

She walked backwards, ushering the couple along with her and started to guide them down the winding stone steps that were frozen cold against all of their feet. Considering none of them were wearing shoes and were only in their socks.

They took it slow, trying their best not to slip or trip or get too far ahead of themselves. Once they were back on solid ground, the lady opened an old wooden door with precision, but she didn't open it all the way which Eric guessed was in case the hinges creaked.

(Y/n) wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but this was far better. A large expansive room rather like a cellar with boxes upon boxes of relics, books, donation boxes no longer in use. And candles. A whole bunch of candles. Just what they needed when the room was basked in darkness, with the only slither of light coming from the stairway out in the hall.

While the lady helped (Y/n) to sit down on a blanket she found in the corner, Eric carefully set the bags down and found the lighter he had stuffed in there. He made quick work of lighting as many candles as he could and dotted them around the rather cold room. But the cool air was soothing, both of them were burning up with panic so this temperature would help them both.

It seemed and felt safe enough to whisper down here, so the woman took her chances. "You should be okay to make some small noise down here, I'll make sure all the doors are closed. If you need anything, come find me. Good luck."

"Thank you." Sincerity flooded Eric's voice that was on the verge of breaking from both the tears clogging his eyes and the fact that he was still whispering which made his throat feel strange.

Once the doors were silently closed and the couple were encased in their own sense of privacy, (Y/n) slouched back against the wall and looked across at Eric who was sat cross legged near her feet.

"This is it." There was no turning back now.

***

Everything was laid out ready from the blanket beside Eric's thigh to the scissors, still packaged and sterilised. Needle and thread was laid out in preparation, a packet of painkillers was opened next to a bottle of water and sterilising fluid was set out in the corner.

Everything was ready and prepared, except for them.

(Y/n) had done her best to stay quiet. She had writhed from side to side, bit down on Eric's tie so harshly she had torn through the fabric and left teeth marks woven into the thread. She bit on her tongue, held her breath until she almost passed out, scraped her knuckles against the stone floor until they started to shred and bleed. She did everything in her power to only let out the quietest moans and whimpers possible.

All while watching every emotion possible cross Eric's face in a blunder. He had gone from panicked to excited to turmoil and then unfiltered horror and anxiety, all in a circle that kept going round and around.

But now it was happening. There was no going back, no second guessing themselves or their vague plan and there was nothing they could do anymore but push forward and hope for the best.

She heard Eric's quiet murmur of "Nearly there," and the bewilderment in his voice as he grabbed the blanket and laid it over his hands that were now in between (Y/n)'s legs in preparation.

He inched closer, wide eyes bubbling with tears and excitement and panic as his knees scraped against the floor and his feet fidgeted behind him. Eric pressed his chest down into his knees and leaned in closer until each breath he took made his chest ache and push down against his thighs.

"That's it, push again sweetheart."

Eric found that he himself could barely breathe when his hands started to curve around their baby. God, he hoped they would be okay and he wouldn't have to try and clear their airways or check for a pulse. He hoped they wouldn't start screaming immediately or be too loud.

Please don't be a fussy baby! Please be content and soothed immediately!

"It- it's a girl, s-she's here."

Trembling took over Eric's system almost as bad as how (Y/n) was shaking back and forth against the wall. Their baby was here. He was holding their daughter. Their long-awaited baby was here, in the midst of this changing, horrifying world.

Stars sparkled before (Y/n)'s eyes and she let her head drop back against the wall as her legs shakily moved and her heels slid down against the stone floor until her legs were splayed out on either side of Eric's thighs. Caging him between her legs like he had been caught in a trap.

Her hands pressed down into the floor to try and prop herself up and ragged, heaving breaths left her lips as the acute pain switched to thunderous pulses and shockwaves instead.

(Y/n) couldn't tear her eyes away from Eric, despite how she could barely see him properly. She tried to clear her fuzzy vision and watch her husband who moved with agility and haste.

She wasn't quite sure what he was fumbling around to try and do, not until the moment their daughter began to whimper. As soon as one noise left her lips, Eric moved her and (Y/n) was stunned. He had undone the buttons on his rather dirty, messed up shirt which was now hanging off his shoulders, exposing his chest and abdomen.

He curled the blanket around their daughter before quickly pressing her into his bare chest. His lips smothered the top of her head and he began to hush her, trying to keep her as close as possible without smothering her. And the way he leant forward and curled around her, embracing her fully, made (Y/n)'s heart melt.

He was trying skin contact. He was trying to get their baby to sense him and recognise that she was safe. He wanted her to mellow and settle and this was the quickest way he could think to do it.

His hands cradled the back of her head and her bum and he started rocking ever so slightly while he felt each whimper his daughter mewled into his warm chest. And the moment she stopped, Eric froze like a block of ice and his nose nudged against her head, fearing for a dreaded moment that he may have hurt or even suffocated her.

But the feeling of her hand bashing against his chest and her lips puckering and moving against his chest made Eric's lips curve into a wide, breathless smile.

She had settled. He'd done it. She wasn't crying yet.

(Y/n) slouched her shoulders back against the wall so she could lift her hands from the floor and reach out when Eric shuffled closer to her side. He tried his best not to move too much or too far, knowing the cord was still connected. And when he cautiously lowered their daughter from his chest, (Y/n) moved her own shirt so she could take his place and have their daughter curled up into her own chest this time.

"She's here," Those words seemed to be the only ones Eric could fathom at the moment as his hand enveloped over (Y/n)'s and his other hand cupped the back of her head so he could lean down and kiss her.

He would cut the cord in a little while, that could wait a minute or two. Right now, he needed his heart rate to settle and to have his girls wrapped up in his arms. His lips moved to attach to (Y/n)'s cheek, feeling each deep breath she took fan against his throat as he leaned into and around her like a blanket cocooning around his girls.

They had done it. They had gotten through labour and brought their daughter safely into the world without posing a risk or drawing the creatures towards them.

But the hard part wasn't over yet; it had only just begun.

#eric imagine #eric x reader #imagine #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn imagine #joseph quinn #a quiet place day 1 #a quiet place imagine #a quiet place eric #a quiet place day one

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plazainn-umbrellas · 6 months ago

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#disneyland #main street usa #op #the emperor’s new groove #food

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unadulteratedsoulsweets · 5 months ago

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A DC X DP IDEA #40

A Fool’s Gold

Imagine dis…

Booster Gold is the name of a hero that we are all familiar with both in and out of the comics. He is commonly heard as the joker of the group, the time traveler who came with a robot to keep him updated on the latest information.

I just made this, cause I noticed that writers focus more on the Batfam, Supers, Arrows, and the Flashes when it comes to time travel in DC when we have another time traveler that hasn't been talked about too much so here we are….

…

The Watchtower’s main hall is buzzed with activity as different JL members come and go towards a mission or merely fill out paperwork. Here we see Booster Gold leaning against a console, idly flipping and folding what looks like his report from last week that should have been already filed, turning it into a paper airplane into the air and letting it pile around him.

His bright suit makes it so everyone can notice him even when Batman had already put the guy in a time-out corner until he finished filing and writing down his reports but it looks like boredom won over.

On his left, you could see the main monitor playing a replay from last week's news. Booster Gold is the main star of said news, as he is seen and captured by a news crew waving and interacting with countless fans surrounding him, screaming and awing at the sight of him, some even dared to throw themselves at said hero. Him interacting with his fans with every body language of his screams of arrogance paired with his cocky grin plastered on his face even though he should be providing support to an undercover op that is happening just a few blocks away.

Superman exchanged a glance with Wonder Woman as if to ask a silent question about Booster’s latest issue, with her answering the man of steel with rolled eyes as she seems to be fed up with the gold hero. Even Flash, the most laid-back of the team, muttered something under his breath about Booster being insufferable.

Batman on the other hand is holding Booster Gold’s last month's debrief that is filled with doodles. Gripping said reports to the point of almost tearing said reports into shreds, while also practicing deep breathing tactics to calm himself down. As much as he would want to lecture Booster he knew that Booster would have in one ear and out the other.

Besides the morals of the heroes, his knowledge of the future in ways that the Speedsters cannot comprehend is the only thing keeping him inside the JL.

…

Unbeknownst to the entire League, even from Batman’s prying eyes, Booster Gold’s true purpose and where his loyalty lies far beyond what the JL expected of him. His persona, the self-absorbed, fan-pleasing, buffoon, was meticulously planned and crafted to fit into his role.

Behind the scenes, Booster created and operated a deep network of informants made out of allies and ghosts. Many of them pose as fans of his that only pass on information using this method to fool everyone from the main members to the JL, to their hidden enemies, especially his ghost informants who needed to fit and control a husk of a humanoid-shaped android to pass on as humans and information. Thick make-up and wonky movements made them occasionally throw themselves towards Booster as to suspect no one.

Each interaction in the spotlight served as a secret exchange of information between two parties. Skeets, his loyal robotic companion, despite having all future knowledge in its database kept on changing and updating itself as to each change that he and the Speedsters made.

But Booster remembered, He always remembered.

…

He remembered the original timeline, a time and place where the love of his life Daniel “Dan” Phantom was his lover. In the apocalypse of a future when he used to live in, he and Dan have each other’s back, despite the rumors of a monster roaming around the streets killing every living human there is. So imagine his surprise and heartbroken when he learned that the reason they all live in this desolate future was all because of him.

So imagine his surprise when he encountered Dan in this timeline. Booster Gold was just trying to take a peek, a glimpse if you will, the life before he turned into Dan.

There he was, Dan who was reformed and wary, guarded especially with his younger self, Danny, his clone, and older sister, who is still alive and part of his little world.

It took a while but Dan’s family warmed up to Booster, recognizing that the man was being flocked by fans on the television than the one who looked at them with nervousness and anxiety while holding a tray of cupcakes to earn the approval of Dan’s family.

Booster took it upon himself to dismantle the GIW as it threatens not only his lover but also his new family that he slowly builds for himself. Through his human informants with new ghostly informants, he slowly but surely uncovered hidden bases, weapons caches, and classified operations.

Yet the progress was slow. Too slow.

…

The day Booster’s world shattered began like any other, it was another assigned to a space mission far away from home. The moment he stepped foot back at the Watch Tower Skeet; 's alerts began flooding his visor, message after message marked important and urgent from his informants all sending him out messages about how the GIW had a raid on the Fenton household. By the time Booster returned to Earth, it was too late. Jack and Maddie Fenton are already dead, having sacrificed their lives to protect their children. Dan, Danny, Dani, and Jazz had been captured by the GIW.

Rage consumed Booster, gone was the carefree hero who smiled for the cameras and flashing lights. In his place stood a man filled with grief and fury, he tore through the GIW facilities with ruthless efficiency leaving trails of destruction with each step he took. The media caught wind of his destruction towards unidentified facilities and buildings, some even caught on tape his rampage broadcasting footage of the hero Booster Gold of the JL leveling a building. The Justice League watched in disbelief as the man they had dismissed as an airhead fought with ruthlessness.

Superman was the first one to confront him as the JL thought that Booster Gold might have been mind-controlled and sent out Superman to not only subdue Booster but also limit the destruction that Booster did.

Booster having known that they had sent Superman to subdue him immediately attacked, their fight was swift and unrelenting leaving the Man of Steel unconscious and bloodied in the center of a smoking crater. One by one, various JL members were sent out to subdue him, but none could capture him. Always outmaneuvering and using his technology and suit from the future to fight off each member.

…

Just as the JL thought they had cornered Booster and now arrived at another confrontation between them and Booster, the scene made them all stop in their tracks.

There, they discovered a scene that would haunt them. A massive facility painted white is now in ruins, with black smoke emanating from it, implying that it was just destroyed, most likely by Booster, known for destroying structures and facilities with similar appearances. There he stood, Booster Gold, his suit burnt and missing pieces displaying his bloody skin, his body beaten, cradling two bloodied babies in his arms. A huge monstrous creature with red-blooded eyes coiled protectively over Booster. Fangs bared, claws extended, he hissed low and menacingly at the League, his every gesture exuding a primitive need to defend. A red-haired teenager lay nearby, her head resting on Booster's thigh as a makeshift pillow, breathing shallow but steady.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #dp

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alienatedbug · 25 days ago

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Evil Tetro au !! Okazaki/Tsuno designs

Its kinda difficult to read my handwriting so plot and design choices under the cut :3

(Ignore my spelling mistakes.. mb)

Warnings: drugs and poorly written/explained points Design

I wanted Tsuno and Okazaki to parallel each other design wise and motive wise. Okazaki has brighter, more lighter values for them to stand out compared to Tsuno’s cooler tones, darker values.

Underneath Oka’s shawl, is a darker fabric to symbolise her less ‘heroic’ Robin Hood persona they put on. (I’m not a big fan of completely wiping a character’s personality in AUs so I still wanted Oka’s more villainess tendencies). The darker colours in their lower half is also emulate this. Okazaki has a feathers throughout her design bc it looked good, I don’t really have anything to say to add. Large feathers beneath Oka is to show her Kitsune motifs- as well as this, I thought it would be quite interesting the Kitsune/feathery tails could act as a ‘cat with nine lives’ esk thing. Okazaki in this AU is an attention seeker who strives for danger to stand out from others which causes them to get into near death experiences.

Tsuno time !

Okay, the design choices are mostly random icl. I wanted Tsuno to have a more stereotypical hero suit ig. It makes more sense if you read the story part. Tsuno has a more streamlined, simple silhouette (and sharper bc shape language) as in this AU she doesn’t realllly want to stand out as this could out her ‘nightly activities’ but does anyways. Her hair to suppose to look like a ghost since like ghosts aren’t seen..(I can’t word this part well). The reversed hair, specifically the black part, is too show her dark mindset. The symbol is a moon also to symbolise her ‘nightly activities’.

What is her nightly activities you may ask? Selling drugs to the poor, shown by the strap across her body. Inside the bottles are either drugs, to illegally sell or chemicals to throw as Okazaki lmao.

Not much else other than those main design choices so off to the plot we go !!

Plot

The characters are ooc and the story is not believable whatsoever but that was the look I was going for, so don’t come after me x

This AU is (ofc) inspires by that Von post as well as the DC franchise (specifically the Gotham area).

I wanted the story to focus on perspectives, which I’m a big fan of, most if not all of the characters believe themselves as ‘correct’ n stuff. So Okazaki, being the protag is an unreliable narrator constantly, exaggerating her feats and good achievements. They act as a Robin Hood/Dark Knight amalgamation. However, as the story continues the characters that follow Oka slowly realise that Oka isn’t all that she seems.

The main plot is as followed: Okazaki goes by the name of the ‘Phantom Thief’ they travel the country to fight evildoers, to rid the country of criminals and get more street cred. As Okazaki continues to travel Japan, she slowly recruits people to her cause (E.g. Watari and Tamba).

The main antagonists are: Sasaki and Tsuno (maybe one or two more). They both have the same motivations of taking over Japan and subsequently, the world they also most definitely hate each others guts.

Now how does Tsuno do this? Tsuno, like said previously, Tsuno sells drugs. Like the type of drugs (like Arcane) which makes the people who gets addicted extremely reliant to them- this means Tsuno is able to control them more easily and can act as her lackeys. Tsuno thinks drugs are the best thing to grace the planet, but she follows Walter White’s rule of never taking the herself to not get addicted herself.

How has Tsuno able to not get arrested? Two things, the police fucking suck and she basically runs the law. In this AU, Tsuno has a goodie-two-shoes superhero facade (like Homelander from the boys) making her OP in the sense of everyone thinks she can’t do any harm whatsoever. Which is why she wears a hood, to hide her face.

—

This was very fun to write and design evil tetro characters so I will be doing this again so if you want me to design/write of the the Tetro characters feel free to ask in my inbox but rq two since I’ll be doing it in batches of two x. Thanks so much for reading if you’ve read to the end i really appreciate it <33

#tetro danganronpa pink #danganronpa tetro #tetro pink #my art !!#Evil Tetro pink #evil tetro Danganronpa pink #tetro au #okazaki hanano #tsuno manami #alien thoughts

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strawberryys-stuff · 2 days ago

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VENGEANCE | OP81

Oscar Piastri x reader

summary: You swore to avenge your father, no matter the cost. Along the way, someone began leaving clues—each marked with the same initials: OP. You don’t know who they are, only that they’re leading you closer to the one who pulled the trigger

contains: violence, detailed descriptions of death, blood, heavily inspired by The Last of Us

The floorboards creaked under your boots as you stepped into the remains of what used to be a shipping warehouse — now nothing more than rusted beams, cracked cement, and shadows that refused to move even when the wind howled through the broken rafters. Rain pattered down from the holes in the roof, cold and constant, soaking through your threadbare jacket and plastering your hair to your forehead.

You were standing over a corpse with your blade slick with blood and hands trembling—not from fear, but from the adrenaline that hasn’t left you in weeks. Their pleas for mercy hung heavy in the air, long after they took their last breath under your sharp, unforgiving, gaze. You had pleaded too. You had sobbed in front of them when their leader, Abby, had your father at gunpoint. You were an innocent child, a fifteen-year-old, who was forced to watch a bullet pierce his skull.

Your father was a master of survival, hardened by a world that left no room for mercy. He did whatever it took to keep you safe—even if it meant crossing lines others wouldn’t dare approach. His choices weren’t always clean, and more than once, they left ripples in the lives of those around him. And Abby was one of them.

She had been just a face in the crowd once—a soldier, a follower, someone with orders. But your father’s actions had touched her life in a way that festered, a wound she couldn’t let scab over. He had made a decision that saved you and cost her everything. And when she stood over him, gun shaking in her grip, it wasn’t war or infection that brought him down. It was vengeance.

You still saw the way she looked at him—not with rage, but with something colder. Purpose. The same purpose you now carried in your bones like marrow.

You remembered your father’s last breath, the way his blood soaked the floor as you screamed and fought and begged. You remembered the stillness that followed, like the world itself had stopped spinning. And then Abby turned and left, her boots echoing in the silence, leaving you broken but alive. Maybe that was her final cruelty—letting you live with it.

But she made a mistake.

Because your father taught you everything he knew. How to track, how to survive, how to stay alive when the world wanted you dead. And now, with that same fire in your veins, you moved through what was left of the world like a shadow sharpened into a blade. You were going to find her.

You were going to find all of them.

You knelt beside the corpse and pried a folded map from its vest pocket. Circled in red ink was a town five miles east. Just beneath it, scrawled faintly:

"She’s heading here next. For supplies. —OP."

You folded the map slowly. It didn’t occur to you to question why OP was helping you. Not yet. All you felt was heat. Raw, seething heat under your skin, in your ribs, pulsing behind your eyes. Abby’s face lived in your memory like rot—sharp, furious, victorious. You saw her every time you blinked.

The journey took two days on foot. You slept in a barn the first night, curled under a moth-eaten coat that still smelled faintly of horses. Rain pounded the roof until dawn, leaking through the boards and into your hair. You didn’t dream. You hadn’t in a long time.

By the time you reached the outskirts of the town, your boots were soaked and your fingers numb. It was quiet—too quiet—and that only sharpened your senses. The main street had been hastily barricaded, trash bins turned over and a burned-out car pushed into the middle of the road like a warning. You stepped around it, careful not to disturb the stillness.

And then you found the second sign.

On the cracked window of an old pharmacy, someone had drawn a circle with ash. Inside, two crossed lines. The symbol OP used when a building was safe—or, more often, watched. You ducked inside, blade already drawn.

There were more of them here—Abby’s people. Some older, one barely out of her teens. They didn’t recognize you until it was too late. The first went down with a single swipe of your knife. The second screamed before you silenced her. The third... begged.

You remembered her. She had laughed when Abby pulled the trigger.

"Please," she sobbed, crawling backward into the corner, blood dripping from a gash in her leg. "I didn’t want to—she made us—"

You didn’t answer. Your hand was steady as the blade found her throat. The sound she made wasn’t much of anything.

Outside, the wind picked up. You stood still, letting it whip through your hair and wash the blood from your face like baptism.

You headed north.

The road narrowed into wilderness. Asphalt broke apart under your boots, giving way to weeds and roots and silence. The trees had a way of swallowing sound here. Even your breath felt muffled. Birds didn’t sing anymore. Nature had learned to stay quiet, too.

You moved fast during the day and barely slept at night. Each hour stretched long and taut, held together only by rage and the thought of her face. You’d replayed that day a thousand times: the sound of the gunshot, the warmth of your father’s blood on your face, the way Abby didn’t even look at you after pulling the trigger.

Like you were nothing.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until your cheeks felt cold.

Two nights later, you found one of them.

He was alone, limping, holding his side like something inside had torn loose. He had a hunting knife but didn’t use it. Maybe he saw your eyes and knew there was no point.

He recognized you.

"Shit... it’s you," he whispered.

You didn’t speak. He tried anyway, eyes wide with panic.

"Please. Please. I didn’t shoot. I—I just watched—"

"Exactly," you muttered.

And then he stopped talking.

His blood soaked into the earth, mixing with the moss. You stayed there a while, staring at his body, your fingers still curled around the handle of your blade. His backpack had a map. You took it, tracing the faded ink with shaking fingers.

Next stop: an old ski lodge in the mountains. Remote. Hard to access. Perfect for regrouping.

You folded it and tucked it into your jacket. The cold wind hit your face as you stepped out of the trees again, but you barely noticed it. You couldn’t stop now. You wouldn’t.

She was close.

And you had promised yourself—sworn it, in blood and fire and memory—that you would erase every single one of them.

Even if it killed you.

The mountains looked like the spine of some old god, jagged and dusted with snow. You weren’t dressed for the cold, not really, but you barely noticed it anymore. The wind bit through the seams of your jacket, and your fingers were numb inside your gloves. Still, your grip on the rifle never loosened.

The trail had grown quieter the higher you climbed. No infected. No birds. Just wind and the sound of your boots crunching over ice. And then—finally—tracks.

Boot prints. Not fresh, maybe two days old, but deep and staggered like someone was dragging a limp leg. You recognized that step. You had seen it in the blood-slick hallway of a burnt-out hospital a week ago. He was still alive then. Maybe still was. You didn’t care. He was one of them.

You followed the trail to a ridge that overlooked a cluster of buildings. There, nestled between snow-covered trees and crumbling ski lifts, was the lodge.

It looked abandoned at first—windows boarded, snow piled against the doors. But the smoke curling up from the metal chimney told a different story. You dropped to your stomach in the snow and pulled out a pair of binoculars taken off a corpse four towns back. Through the cracked lens, you saw movement—a shadow passing by the second-floor window. Two people talking in low, tense gestures.

Your stomach turned. One of them had broad shoulders, hair outgrown and curling at the ends. You didn’t recognize the face, but the way he moved—defensive, alert—told you everything. Soldiers. Survivors. Killers.

Her people.

You crouched low, moving through the underbrush toward the back of the lodge. Your boots barely left a print on the fresh snow, the world around you muffling the sounds of your approach. You didn’t even glance at the blood stains marking your path from the last town.

You waited until the sun dipped low and the snow turned the color of ash.

That’s when you saw it: scratched into the bark of a pine tree near the back entrance.

OP.

A small arrow below it, pointing right.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t seen his signature in a week—not since the broken bus on the highway. You almost thought he had died.

But you didn’t have time to wonder. The arrow pointed to a break in the lodge’s fencing, half-hidden behind a collapsed snowmobile. You slid through the gap, hugging the wall, counting heartbeats and checking windows.

Inside, the hallways were dark. Someone had killed the power—intentionally. Your boots didn’t make a sound on the old carpeting. Your gun was loaded, safety off, but you didn’t want to fire unless you had to.

You passed a cracked mirror and saw your reflection. You didn’t recognize yourself.

Hair wild. Skin too pale. Lips split. A smear of dried blood on your cheek you hadn’t bothered to clean. Your father would’ve hated this version of you—then again, maybe he would’ve understood.

The silence pressed down on you like a weight. The lodge felt alive with tension, as though it were holding its breath, waiting for the storm to come.

The stairs creaked beneath your boots, narrow and steep, each step vibrating with a tension that had been coiled in your spine for weeks. Your fingers curled tighter around the cold metal of the pistol in your hand—heavy, scratched, and reliable.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of a fire leaking through the cracks beneath a door at the end. The air smelled like smoke, damp wool, and something older—sweat and blood long since dried into the wood.

The sound of murmurs reached your ears—a low, muffled conversation from the room at the end of the hallway. There were two voices. One low and gruff, the other careful—measured like someone was choosing their words too deliberately.

You crept forward, your movements a blur of practiced stealth. The hallway stretched out before you, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your weight as you neared the door. You pressed yourself against the wall, listening again. Their voices had quieted, but the silence that followed only amplified the thundering pulse in your ears.

You nudged the door open with your shoulder.

Inside, a fireplace flickered weakly, throwing trembling shadows across the room. Two figures stood near the window. One turned sharply at the creak of the floor under your boot.

Recognition stabbed into your gut.

He had been there the day your father died. Not center-stage, not the one holding the gun, but he had watched. You remembered the shape of his face in the firelight, remembered how he didn’t blink when Abby pulled the trigger.

You gripped your gun tighter, your heart hammering in your chest. The pain of what had been taken, what had been stolen from you, surged forward like a beast breaking free of its cage. The rage boiled in your veins, hot and unrelenting.

The other man moved—fast. His hand flew toward a rifle propped against a table.

A gunshot cracked through the lodge like thunder.

You flinched.

The other man jerked violently as the bullet struck him square in the temple. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. The rifle clattered from his limp hands.

Your eyes snapped to the shooter. He held the pistol steady for a moment longer before slowly lowering it, the muzzle still faintly smoking.

You raised your own in return, finger tense on the trigger, heart thundering in your ears. "Who are you?"

He licked his lips, jaw tight. "Oscar. Oscar Piastri."

Your heart stilled.

Oscar Piastri.

OP.

The clues. The marks. The scratched initials left beside burned-out campfires and carved into collapsed doorframes. The scavenged maps with circles in red ink. Every single one signed with the same two letters: OP.

A long silence passed. The air felt heavy. Dust floated lazily in the thin strip of light cutting through the window. The lodge was too warm, stifling almost, like the building itself was holding its breath.

"You left the clues," you said slowly. "Why?"

His voice dropped, quieter than the fire. "Because I want her dead too."

You stared at him, gun still trained on his chest, arms aching. Oscar stood in front of you, silent, hands loose at his sides.

"Why should I believe you?" you asked, your voice rough—shaken, but not weak. "You stood there while she murdered him. You did nothing."

His jaw clenched. "I was new. I didn’t know what she was going to do—"

"That’s bullshit," you snapped, taking a step forward, lifting your gun higher. "You saw it. You watched. And now you expect me to believe you're on my side?"

The fire crackled behind him, shadows dancing along the walls. His features flickered between hardness and something else—guilt, maybe. Regret. You couldn’t tell. You didn’t want to tell. You wanted to hate him.

“I didn’t stop her,” he said quietly. "I wanted to. I thought I might. But I was too fucking scared."

You laughed bitterly. "And now you want forgiveness?"

He shook his head. "No. I just want her dead."

The words hung heavy between you.

Your finger hovered near the trigger.

Your breath came in short bursts now—not from fear, but from the tidal wave of memories pressing against your ribs. Your father’s voice. His blood on your hands. The weight of his death carving itself into your spine. And this man—this stranger with a familiar face—standing right in front of you...

You hesitated. The shaking in your hand had crept into your shoulders now, into your chest. You hated how calm he was. You hated that a part of you—deep, buried—wanted to believe him.

The silence hung thick in the air, broken only by the muffled groan of the wind outside and the creaking bones of the old lodge. The corpse between you had stopped bleeding, but the red smear on the floor looked fresh enough to crawl.

You finally lowered your gun.

Oscar turned and knelt by a worn backpack resting beside the broken bed frame.

"I didn’t pack much," he spoke, voice low, like he was afraid the sound might break whatever thin understanding had just formed between you. "Didn’t think I’d still be breathing."

You didn’t answer. Your hands were shaking—still from the adrenaline—and you busied them by checking your own gear. Bullets. Knife. Water flask, half-frozen. The faded photograph of your father, creased and frayed at the corners. You tucked it back into your pocket.

"We can cut through the backwoods. Less patrols that way."

"We?" you repeated, sharpening the edge of the word as you walked over to the corpse, nudged the shoulder with your boot, then crouched to pull off a side holster and extra ammo belt.

"I don’t trust you," you revealed unashamedly, voice sharp and cold.

"I wouldn’t, either."

"But I need her dead."

He nodded once. "So do I."

You stared at him for a long time. And for once, it felt like someone understood your motive—understood the way grief could ferment into obsession.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader

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bonuscatart · 4 months ago

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[Image ID. Tumblr tags reading:

#hocus pocus #thackery binx #warrior cats #no but this would work! #like Binx learns about the medicine cats and their herb stuff and their communing with StarClan and and he’s all like #OMG! It’s a cat witch!! Hissssssss! #and somebody has to set the newcomer straight before he freaks out #and then at some point he gets killed but comes back because of his curse #and everybody is shocked and suspicious of this random cat having nine lives #why? was he a leader? how can this be? #???

End ID.]

Okay, so in Hocus Pocus, Thackery Binx decided to spend his eternity as a cat guarding the black flame candle. But because of the way the candle works, he really only had to watch the Sanderson house on Halloween, yeah? And only Halloweens with full moons? So he could spend the rest of his time doing whatever as a cat, roaming around learning modern lingo and pranking people and whatever, right?

Here’s a concept: he wanders by a particular part of the woods and accidentally stumbles into the plot of a Warrior Cats book. And for some reason he just has to roll with it undercover. By the time he gets a chance to leave, he’s made friends and found a place to live where he doesn’t have to be in constant crushing isolation, so he decides to just stay. ‘Cause why not? He gets a clan name and role, and hides the fact that he can speak the language of whatever they call humans in those books (my Warrior Cats phase was quite a while ago, I don’t remember), and makes his excuses to leave every Halloween. Heck, maybe the truth does eventually get out, but whether they believe his story or not, they eventually accept his connection to humans because he gives them insight into the strange ways of those bipedal jerks.

It’s a super weird mashup of fandoms. I think it’s a really fun concept though. I quite enjoy imagining Binx’s reaction to first wandering into some hyper-dramatic battle over clan territory or something. Like, there’s these two cats pacing around each other, lashing out at each other threateningly with their claws and snarling, like “You can never defeat us, for we have the hearts of lions, and our strength is in our bond and devotion to our clan” “Ah, but you underestimate the power to be gained by surreptitious means, and you will fall before me, as weak in battle as in rule.” Meanwhile, Thackery’s just hiding in the bushes watching this super intense kitty cat standoff like Is this real??

#OP your mind #I'm guessing Thackery would've already found out he can understand cats #but then he's watching the Clan Drama like ''huh?''#because the clans are relatively new to the region #(old forest was random loners before Dawn of the Clans; lake territory hadn't had a group since the Ancients)#the loner groups before were smaller and more like street cats #what do you mean they have a government?#what do you mean they have witches I mean healers?#what do you MEAN they have cat afterlife??#on the other hand (paw) the Clan cats would be weirded out and maybe in denial by Thacker's immortality #a clean/off screen kill could be brushed off as luck; a revived mauling is obvious #Clan cat: clever trick‚ trespasser‚ holding your breath underwater for so long. but you Will leave our territory #Thacker (had drowned): whatever jellicle #this probably could have gone in a main text reblog but eh #writing ideas #hocus pocus #warrior cats #described

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attapullman · 1 year ago

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So Hold Me Close and Say Three Words | bungalow!Robert "Bob" Floyd

PART OF THE BIG WINDOWS, SMALL KITCHEN UNIVERSE

Summary: There's only one thing that can get your boyfriend's mind off the horrible popcorn ceiling.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: f!reader, smut, 18+ as always, cockwarming, pet name Honey, title is from McFly's "All About You"

A Note From Mo: Welcome to bungalow!Bob! A dash of acts of service, a sprinkle of a condescension kink, and a whole lot of extremely loving boyfriend. Live-in boyfriend Bob is my biggest indulgence so no one look at me, I'm fragile.

He’s been planted in the big easy chair all morning, staring up at the last project on his list before the kitchen, and sighing. Dragging long fingers through wild hair as his eyes take in the wide expanse of the living room.

His arch nemesis: the popcorn ceiling.

The little dipples and spikes of joint compound taunt him daily. A major contrast to the rest of the bungalow, all smooth ceilings with stunning walnut beams - one major selling point of the property. And while the previous owner did a great job with the addition bringing in natural light with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the backyard, he was off his rocker for choosing popcorn ceilings.

Bob hasn’t hate anyone more than the previous owner. Well, maybe the neighbor across the street who stops by a little too much.

Before he moved in, Bob barely noticed any features of the sweet green bungalow you owned. The majority of his time here was spent in the bedroom between your thighs. But the switch flipped that first weekend after he moved his shoebox apartment in. Lounging on the sectional, girl on his chest, book in hand, and one look up at the world’s ugliest ceiling.

He had to fix it. You deserve your dream house and it was his mission to give it to you.

The line between his brows is adorable as he mutters something rude at the drywall.

“Bobby, babe, it’s just a ceiling.”

Those wide cornflower blue eyes blink at you, as if noticing for the first time you’re also sitting in the sun-drenched living room enjoying your coffee.

“It’s an ugly ceiling.”

You can’t help but giggle at the disgust in his tone. “It’s not that bad, I don’t notice.”

Your sweet boyfriend just rolls his eyes and leans back, side-eyeing the offending design choice.

Peering over the edge of your mug, you admire the way the mid-morning sunlight streams through his hair, highlighting it copper. His sweats hang low on his hips, underwear forgotten, black shirt slightly too small with how much he’s filled out with all the manual labor fixing up the house.

While not the main reason you asked him to move in, pajama Robert Floyd is a high perk of the situation.

The scowl on his face isn’t quite as endearing. Your heart hurts knowing how frustrated he is by the ceiling. He loves you. He loves this house. It’s too much pressure on him wanting to make it perfect.

Ever since he permanently parked his truck in the driveway, Bobby’s been nothing but generous. He sees the charm and coziness of the bungalow, but also the repairs and fixes you’re too busy for. His entire leave was spent weeding the backyard, and your skin still heats remembering his muscles bulging after carrying the pile of boxes from the garage to the attic.

While you won’t satiate your boyfriend by allowing him to drop cloth the living room and scrape every dimple of drywall off the ceiling today, you do have a better idea for getting Bob’s mind off his dreaded enemy.

His eyes widen as you stand up, admiring the way your body stretches in your cozy waffle knit robe before heading through to the kitchen. Listens to you fiddle with dishes before passing him again to the bedroom. Too far away to hear, he sinks back into the leather armchair, allowing his body to meld to the material while frustration sits low in his gut.

The birds at the feeder chirp away before you return. Toes against hardwood catch his attention, and Bob’s head turns toward the hallway, mouth dropping open.

You’re walking toward him in just his threadbare Naval academy shirt. The shirt you put on the first time you stayed the night. The shirt you were wearing when he last came home from deployment and you shyly asked him to move in. His favorite shirt.

“H-honey…” It’s an unfinished sentence as he takes in how the sunlight illuminates you from behind, baring the silhouette of your figure inside his shirt.

A smile dances on your lips as you come closer, dropping something on the end table with a soft tink. A noise lost as you straddle Bobby’s thighs, his fingers racing to touch as much of you as quickly as possible. Groaning when he realizes that the shirt is all you have on, the soft flesh of your ass swallowed by his big hands.

Your fingers smooth their way up his torso, gliding over the dark fabric until the long expanse of his neck pulses beneath your ministrations. Eventually curling into his hair, combing it back into place as he gazes at you earnestly. Within moments the two of you so deeply tangled it would take twice as long to separate.

Eyes filled with nothing but love, your lips quirk sweetly before pressing a kiss to his. Allowing it to linger before pulling away to explain. “I appreciate how much work you’re putting into the house, but I don’t want you to stress. Can I help you relax?”

In place of a response, he groans and pulls you tighter to him, relishing the feel of your skin.

“Is that a yes?” Your laugh fades as he captures your mouth in a soft kiss. The sunlight highlighting him as you gaze lovingly into his oceanic eyes. The same color as the La Jolla print you bought last summer that he just hung up.

Bob is more than happy to spend the rest of the morning making out. Enjoying the soft warmth of you beneath his hands and the taste of your tongue. The morning sun setting the mood while the birds on the porch sing the soundtrack. It was perfect for him.

Well…perfect until you ran your thumb down the outline of his cock and breathed the most sinful words against his jaw.

“Actually, I was thinking I could keep your cock warm?”

His moan is more of a whine as he immediately swallows your tongue, so grateful for this Saturday morning surprise. Raises his hips as you drag his sweats down, releasing his slowly hardening cock into the space between you, already wet at the tip.

“Honey - ah, that feels s’good,” he interrupts himself as your hand wraps around him,”-but we should prep you. Don’t want to hurt you, honey bear.”

Your face splits into a gentle grin, so enamored by the way he takes care of you even when he’s hotly thrusting his hips into your fist. A grin that pops in surprise when his fingers trace along your folds, appreciating the arousal dripping over your thighs.

It’s so hot that you only wear his shirt without panties.

His rough thumb slips along your clit, working its way in soft circles. It’s a treat the way your nipples harden against his shirt, level with his eyes as your mouth falls open with sounds only for him. He can’t wait to watch you fall apart stretched out on his cock.

A hand on his wrist makes him pause, your half-lidded eyes finding his. You give him a sly smile as you lean forward to the end table. “Don’t need to, you got me nice and open last night, remember?”

As visions of pounding you face down in the bed only hours before run before his eyes, his mouth opens to protest. He’s fully aware of how big he is and how tight you are.

You press your finger to his lips as you raise what you’d grabbed in the bedroom. “A little of this and we’re good, promise.”

The lube bottle slips between your fingers, applying the slick substance along his shaft as you press soothing pecks along his temple.

“Can’t wait to be full of you, Bobby.” His fingers dig into your skin. Your dirty mouth will be the end of him. Especially with how your eyes burn into his while you raise up on your knees, lining up his obscenely shiny cock with your dripping slit.

“You sure you can take all of me, Honey?”

His gaze meets yours with that steely hint of condescension right as his tip breeches your folds, your pathetic nod spurring the beginning of your descent.

The popcorn ceiling is the last thing on his mind as your velvet insides take him in. The snug fit of you mixed with the heady scent of your sweat has him dizzy, wrapping his strong arms around you to maintain control. It’s hard to think straight when you take every inch of him so beautifully, the lube assisting your efforts.

“Almost there, so close,” Bob breathes against your lips, the hair of his pelvis beginning to brush against your clit. You’re at capacity and there’s still more. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together, every time you think you’ve taken all of him, there’s always more.

Breath caught in your chest, his lips swallow your moan as you finally take him to the hilt, hips pressed fully together in their loving embrace. You’re so full, too full, deliciously full. His warm hand along your back soothes you, massaging while gritting himself against how good it feels.

You laugh through the consuming fullness. “This is supposed to be relaxing you, sorry.”

“Hon, never apologize for making me feel this good. This is exactly what I needed.”

Despite the tense way he’s holding his jaw, he looks content. Soft sapphire eyes shining with admiration, sandy hair swept off his forehead, a soft bead of perspiration trailing down his neck as he fights off the need to thrust. You cradle his jaw between your fingers, loving the way he keens beneath your touch. He’s out of a fairytale.

“I love you.”

“Love you more.”

Time stands still - the melody of the birds fading into the sun-drenched morning - as you bask in the feel of each other. Connected as one in the soft leather of his favorite chair. Soothing fingers trail up your back beneath his shirt, skimming the edges of your breasts, as your own trace the defined planes of his features.

“I just want your house to be perfect. You deserve perfect things.” He burrows his face in the crook of your neck, placing a delicate kiss as he feels your satin walls contract around him.

You whisper against his hair. “It’s our house.”

Actions replace words as his hands travel up your shirt, crossing over your back as he holds you to him, dragging his lips over each spot of skin available. Skin warmed by sun is covered in adoration.

You shift, the pulsing of his shaft dizzying, as the acts of his love pepper your cheeks, your jaw, your sensitive neck. You love him more than words could ever express.

Love you. Love you so, so much.

When your foreheads finally rest against each other, antsy with arousal and admiration, Bob finally can’t help himself. A soft thrust up into your dripping center, the most delicious treat. The desperate whimper you release against his cheek only spurs him on, shifting his hips back once more only to sink fully into the home of your body.

“I think I’m done with cockwarming,” you admit with a breathless smirk as his hips buck into yours once again.

Your horny boyfriend has never heard more beautiful words.

Strong hands grip your thighs as he pushes himself up to stand, your legs clenching around his lithe waist as your sense of gravity disappears. The shock instantly replaced by the growing hunger consuming you as he walks to the bedroom, still buried deep in you.

“Ugh, stop showing off. You know I think it’s so hot you can carry me mid-sex.”

Bob pauses in the hallway, leaning back to hold your gaze. “Maybe that’s why I keep doing it.”That cobalt steel back in place. “Now be a good girl and let me take you to bed.”

taglist: @bella-maria2018 @berryvanille @bobfloydsbabe @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @desert-fern @drxgxnslxyer @hangmanapologist @hiireadstuff @himbos-on-ice @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @mariaenchanted @maryelizabeth13 @midnightmagpiemama @nerdgirljen @nouis-bum @petersunderoos96 @roosterforme @seitmai @senawashere @sometimesanalice @sorchathered @sweetwhispersofchaos @sydsommersss @topherwrites @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld @primroseluna @hauntedduckdefendor @unpretty-reader @erospecies @pinkdaisies9285 @spinning-away @livingoutsidethetardis

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

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

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile.

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket.

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority.

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers.

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.”

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement.

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx.

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences.

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.”

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books.

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.”

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately.

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind.

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head.

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle.

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into.

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own.

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first.

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room.

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves.

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize.

“Good work as always, Tomb.”

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms.

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day.

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well.

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?”

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt.

“Kate?”

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?”

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him.

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?”

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin.

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain.

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put.

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair.

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching.

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm.

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse.

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern.

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around.

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces.

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.”

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.”

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat.

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you.

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain.

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet.

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.”

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?”

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained.

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of.

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.”

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye.

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious.

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light.

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed.

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply.

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all.

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.”

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job.

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?”

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces.

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?”

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.”

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles.

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.”

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man.

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.”

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.”

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far.

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up?

Why did he want to see your laugh?

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.”

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise.

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats.

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either.

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words.

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!”

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders.

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm.

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground.

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!”

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands.

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it.

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off.

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes.

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back.

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags.

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.”

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing.

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side.

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you.

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes.

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again.

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes.

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest.

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care.

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John.

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin.

Angled up, your face is on full display.

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring.

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch.

His panic spikes again.

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.”

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut.

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells.

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead.

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out.

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises.

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking."

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.”

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave?

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand.

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries.

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