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thewidowsledger · 3 months

Text

Looking Out For Two

Pairings: Avenger Natasha Romanoff x Agent Female Reader

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: +18, Natasha has a penis, pregnant reader, brief smut, pregnancy, daddy kink, Wanda being a Natasha hater, dark Natasha if you squint, violence, organ trafficking, angst, bad writing

Author's Note: This is not proofread y'all so I might edit, please excuse my silly and stupid mistakes; English is not my first language. A friend requested this to me, they said they requested it to a writer here but unfortunately they went on hiatus, so here I am bringing their ideas to life, xo.

MINI SERIES: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

⧗

You stared at Natasha in disbelief, hurt and anger warring inside of you as you watched her settle in your shared bed.

The words echoed in your mind.

I am with a child Nat…your child.

And suddenly all of the emotions and doubts and fears that you had been pushing aside came rushing back to the surface.

⧗

You paced nervously in your shared bathroom. You had taken not one, but three pregnancy tests, just to be sure. Each one showed the same result: 2 lines=positive. The news had your heart racing. You knew Natasha was coming back today, and the timing of these tests was undeniably nerve-wracking.

"Fuck this…this can't be."

Just as you were contemplating how to break the news, JARVIS’s calm, artificial voice filled the room through the speakers. "Miss Y/L/N, the team has returned. Your partner Agent Romanoff is back."

Panic set in as you realized Natasha could walk in at any moment. You scrambled to hide the pregnancy tests, fumbling with them in your haste. Shoving them into a drawer, you quickly composed yourself, though your heart continued to race.

Before you could even make it through the door Natasha stepped into your shared room, her expression hard and distant. She barely glanced at you as she set her bags down. "Hey," she said curtly.

Your eyes suddenly lost its light when you were welcomed by her cold demeanor. This wasn't the welcome you were used to. Typically, when Natasha came home, she'd greet you with a rose or a small souvenir, accompanied by her warm kisses and affectionate hugs. Sometimes, she would throw you over her shoulder and you ended up tied up in your shared bed. On occasions when you were the one returning from a mission, she would shower you with kisses and hugs the moment you stepped through the door. Sometimes she would even pick you up directly from the mission site, bringing you back to a room meticulously prepared with rose petals on the bed and a luxurious bathtub filled with rose petals and wine. Those gestures always made you feel cherished and loved.

But now, it is different.

"I uhm, I made you cookies baby and your favorite hot chocolate. I know how much you missed them, you know the last time we called…" You scrambled through your words as you noticed Natasha eye you like a predator watching its prey, she slowly dropped her bags and walked towards you.

You were just wearing one of her shirts that is oversized to you and a pink underwear. She reached your face, it was oh-so-gentle, her thumb brushing your cheek, as if you're going to break. She hummed as you talked and scrambled your words. You were falling for her once again as you stared at her eyes…you watched as her eyes slowly dilated. Your eyes grew bigger with panic, but when you were about to pull out from her embrace that's when her other hand gripped your ass and immediately pulled you with a bruising kiss. You moaned, gripping her biceps as her tongue fought its way to your mouth. You felt her hips and her hardened length bucked towards your throbbing core.

"I’ll take a shower." She said as she pulled away, leaving you on edge. She moved past you, heading straight to the bathroom without another word or touch.

You were left alone, gasping for air with an aching heart and a confused mind not to mention the needy ache on your throbbing core. But you immediately brushed your feelings off, you gave her a benefit of the doubt. Missions can be tough at times, you think to yourself so you just went to your shared closet and grabbed some fresh clothes for her to use, you also put some pajamas for yourself.

Couple of minutes after, you went about preparing the bed, expecting Natasha to rest after her shower or maybe you can still talk, you think to yourself once again.

What if she didn't want this?

You screw your eyes shut as you fluff the pillows and tidying up the sheets on your shared bed.

Maybe I’ll just move out and not tell her about it. I’ll just raise our child alone and…I—

You were standing by the bed, lost in your thoughts, when you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. You let out a small gasp, startled by the unexpected embrace.

Natasha smirked against your neck as she felt you jump a little in surprise. She enjoyed the way your body reacted to her touch, and the way you were always on edge whenever she was around.

"I don't remember you wearing this pajamas before I got in the shower, hm?" She whispered seductively, she almost growled in your ear. "You seem distracted, baby."

"Daddy can fix that."

"B-but, wait, Natty, love? Can we talk?"

Natasha was on a mission to make you forget about whatever it was that was on your mind, to make you forget about anything else but her. Her kisses and touches were relentless as she continued to explore your body with her cold hands fresh from the shower, slender fingers digging into your waist before going under your shirt and slowly reaching for your nipples.

"We need to talk," you gasped out, trying to push her away. But it was like trying to move a boulder—she was really determined, like she always is.

"No talking," she whispered against your neck. "Just us."

"Nat, please…" You whined as she soothe her tongue that's gently lapping over yet another mark she just made on your skin.

"Please what, baby?" She smirked, when she felt you tried to pull away, she pressed herself firmly against your back.

"We need to tal—"

"Hm, but we're talking now, love. Aren't we?" Not letting you finish your words.

Natasha watched you as you pulled away from her grasp, her expression betraying no emotion as you pleaded with her to talk. She then chuckled low in her throat, clearly enjoying the way you were pushing her away. Her smirk grew wider as she sensed your frustration.

"Come now, love," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Is there really something so important that we need to talk about right this instant? I'm so tired after that mission, I'd rather just relax with you."

Frustration and anger bubbled inside of you, and you lost it.

"No Natasha! We need to talk now," you almost screamed, your voice filled with desperation. "This can't wait."

Natasha paused for a moment, her eyes flashing with irritation as you screamed at her saying her full name. She was not used to it, and for being disobeyed, let alone shouted at.

"And why can't it wait, huh?" she asked, her voice cold and calm as she leaned back against the bed. "It's late and I'm tired. The mission was exhausting and I’ll just sleep now."

You stared at Natasha in disbelief, hurt and anger warring inside of you as you watched her settle in your shared bed.

The words echoed in your mind.

I am with a child Nat…your child.

And suddenly all of the emotions and doubts and fears that you had been pushing aside came rushing back to the surface.

⧗

As you opened your eyes, you immediately noticed the absence of Natasha beside you. Groggy and still half-asleep, you looked around the room, searching for any sign of her. But she was nowhere to be found. You sat up in bed, feeling a wave of nausea wash over you. You rushed to the bathroom and barely made it in time to throw up into the toilet. As you knelt there, feeling weak and dizzy, you realized that you hadn't felt nauseous like this since...since you were pregnant.

After a few minutes, you rinsed out your mouth and stood up, feeling the room spin around you. You braced yourself against the wall, taking deep breaths to steady yourself.

Suddenly, the voice of JARVIS broke through the silence. "Agent Y/L/N, I have been informed that the Avengers have been summoned for a mission today. Agent Romanoff is currently in the meeting room now together with the team."

As you sat there, trying to process the information that JARVIS had given you, the artificial intelligence noticed your distressed state. "Is everything alright, Agent Y/L/N? Do you need me to call Agent Romanoff?"

You quickly shook your head, trying to hide the panic that had surged through you at JARVIS's suggestion. "No, no, that's alright," you said quickly. "I'm fine, really. There's no need to call her. I’ll be there in a minute."

You silently cursed the presence of JARVIS in your room. "Stupid AI," you muttered to yourself. "Why does he have to be installed everywhere in the compound?"

You breathe, touching your tummy before you proceed to clean the bathroom, the sight of the toilet with your puke making your stomach churn, but you pushed through the nausea and cleaned it thoroughly anyway. Once you were done, you cleaned yourself and moved to the bedroom and quickly dressed yourself, putting on your mission gear. Your eyes fell upon the box of cookies that you had made for Natasha. They sat there, untouched, you felt your heart ache once again and a tear rushing down your cheek. You grabbed several of the cookies and stuffed some into your mouth.

As you walked at the compound Wanda saw you, she noticed the tears streaming down your face. "Hey, Y/N, are you okay?" she asked, her words carefully chosen.

"My cookies are good, right?" You asked between sobs.

Wanda stood there, stunned by your question and your emotional response, she carefully chose her words to avoid upsetting you further. "Of course they taste good, love," she replied. "Where's Nata—"

But before she could say anything more, you immediately shoved a handful of cookies into her mouth with your free hand, not wanting to hear the name she's about to mention. Wanda's eyes widened in surprise as she tried to speak, but her words were muffled by your sweet cookies.

As you cried and leaned against Wanda, she patiently let you rest on her shoulder. Even with her mouth still filled with your cookies, she gently reached up to pat your head, offering what comfort she could.

"Shh, it's okay," she tried to comfort you, her words slightly muffled by the food in her mouth.

As your tears began to subside, Wanda gently spoke up. "Hey, Y/N, I think they're waiting for us in the Quinjet now." You nodded and managed to compose yourself and brush off the last remaining crumbs of the cookies out of your suit.

The two of you started making your way towards the Quinjet when you saw Maria.

"Cookie?" You offered her.

Maria looked at you and glanced at Wanda that gave her a just take it or else she'll have a tantrum look. Maria looked skeptical at first, but she knew better than to refuse. Reluctantly, she accepted the last cookie from you. Your smile widened as she ate the last crumb of the cookie.

"What's wrong with her?" Maria asked Wanda as they both trailed behind you.

Wanda's reply came in a low hiss, her irritation palpable. "I don't know! She was crying. And I am going to kill your buddy!"

You turned to look at them but just as you turned around, your eyes narrowed as you picked up on the hint of irritation in the voice of Wanda. Their words were instantly replaced with fake smiles as they noticed your suspicious glare.

As the three of you reached the Quinjet you felt a bit more steady now that you had gotten your emotions under control.

You watch Maria and Wanda get past you before you speak silently aloud, addressing the unborn child in your stomach. "Please be good to mommy okay? We're going on a mission now," you said softly. "I promise you, this will be the last one. Afterwards, I'll retire."

The words were meant as a promise to both the child growing inside you and to yourself—this mission would be your last as an agent.

Before the three of you could come in. The atmosphere onboard the Quinjet was tense as JARVIS addressed the team, scanning the three of you. The AI's voice chimed in, breaking the silence.

"There appears to be a pregnant agent among the three of you."

Wanda, Maria, and yourself froze in your tracks, exchanging nervous glances with each other. The revelation had sent a wave of trepidation through all of you.

JARVIS continued speaking.

"Furthermore, it is suggested that they must not participate in this mission. It is imperative that they rest and refrain from engaging in any strenuous activities."

You felt the weight of JARVIS' words settle upon you, the realization that you were in fact the pregnant agent in question sinking in.

"Stupid AI." You muttered as you pinch the bridge of your nose.

"That's not me, I just fucked Darcy last night." Maria held both of her hands in the air.

"What the hell? You didn't need to tell us that!" Yelena shouted in disgust.

"I told you they were doing it. Give me my 20 dollars, Sam." Tony celebrated and pointed a finger gun at the Falcon.

Sam went behind Steve and whispered, "Let me borrow 20 dollars."

"My money can wait, Cinderella!" Tony laughed as he patted Sam’s shoulder.

The moment Maria spoke up, causing the team to gag at her blunt revelation, your heart skipped a beat. Everyone's attention was suddenly drawn away from the earlier revelation of this stupid AI, and you breathed a small sigh of relief.

But as you glanced over at Natasha, you could still feel her eyes boring on you. Her gaze was intense, and you could sense her suspicion. The tension in the air was thick as the team attempted to process Maria's blunt statement.

Your heart raced in your chest as you looked at Wanda, silently pleading with her through your eyes. She picked up on your silent plea, understanding the truth that lay hidden beneath your words.

Emotional in the morning, check. Wanda began, as if ticking off a list in her mind. Cookie cravings, check.

This may not be a complete list but I know it's not me.

You watched her standing beside you, she was fidgeting but in her mind everything was just hitting the nail on the head. Then, with a moment of hesitation, Wanda closed her eyes and spoke three simple words.

"I am pregnant."

Your eyes widened in shock as Wanda spoke up. The team wasted no time in congratulating her, enveloping her in hugs and celebrations.

"You're pregnant huh?!" Yelena shrieked in excitement, she was the first to pull her in a tight hug.

"Yeah it's me!" Wanda winced slightly, feeling a pang of guilt for the lie she was covering up on your behalf.

"We have a little witch incoming, yeah?" Steve’s eyes sparkled with joy.

Tony couldn't help but chime in as well, a smirk on his face. "We didn't bet on this one, Wilson."

Sam chuckled in agreement. "Yeah, I know."

As Natasha approached Wanda to offer her congratulations, Wanda's usual soft demeanor vanished. Her anger and frustration with Natasha over the previous situation with you were evident even though she has no idea about it.

"Congratulations, Wanda." Natasha spoke gently, extending a hug.

But Wanda swiftly deflected her affection, stepping back to maintain a distance. "Save it, Natasha," she responded curtly.

Natasha, trying to shrug off Wanda's cold approach towards her, mentally blamed it on the emotions associated with pregnancy.

"Must be those pregnancy hormones," she murmured under her breath.

As the team continues to surround Wanda, she snuck a glance in your direction. You mouthed a silent "thank you" to her, acknowledging the sacrifice she had made. In turn, Wanda mouthed back a quiet, "Take care and the baby," her words carrying a deep undertone of understanding and worry.

Suddenly, Natasha walked towards you and asked, "Are you okay?" she gently touches your arm. But you ignored her question, choosing to remain silent. Your mind was elsewhere, torn between gratitude towards Wanda for what she did for you and a deep desire to keep your own pregnancy hidden from the team and even from the mother of your child.

Without responding to her, you gently shrugged her hand off your arm and moved past her, walking into the Quinjet. You avoided her gaze, not wanting to betray your emotions.

The Quinjet lifted off, leaving behind a scene of excitement and well wishes for the witch. You retreated into the corner, seeking comfort in the familiarity of your own presence.

As the aircraft ascended, you instinctively placed your hand on your stomach, gently caressing the growing life within.

The team received a mission assignment from Fury to infiltrate a hospital involved in illegal organ trafficking, targeting children. The focus was the children's wing, and the objective was to put an end to the operation. It was emphasized that no stone should be left unturned to ensure the safety of the children involved. The intel also suggested the involvement of Hydra's experimentation. While specific details about their latest projects remain undisclosed, their history in this regard is grim.

Maria approached you, her expression was serious as she sat down beside you. "Left wing, that's ours."

"And it's the center of the operation, correct?" You confirmed, a pit of anxiety knotting in your stomach.

She nodded. "That's right. The operation is taking place there. You ready for this?"

You subconsciously once again placed your hand on your stomach and took a good look at Natasha who was piloting the Quinjet.

"Yes," you murmured, though the nervous tremble in your voice gave you away.

⧗

"Guys."

Natasha, Bucky, and Bruce exchanged looks of concern as they heard Wanda's voice through their comms.

"Wanda?" they called in unison.

Bruce was the first to speak. "You shouldn't be on comms right now. You're supposed to be resting. I'll call Dr. Cho to check on you."

Wanda winced at the mention of Dr. Cho, once again reminded of the cover up she had to do…or the lie rather. She knew the truth, but she couldn't reveal it to the others, she's not in the right position to say it.

The three immediately noticed Wanda's distress and exchanged alarmed glances.

"What's wrong, Wanda?" Bruce asked.

"Where's Y/N?" Wanda hurriedly asked.

"She's out now on the mission with Maria." Bucky informed Wanda through comms.

"I knew this was going to happen. Fuck!" Wanda hissed.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Natasha's brow furrowed, barely glancing up from her mission report at the mention of your name.

"Bucky, get her back in." Wanda immediately demanded, ignoring the presence of Natasha through the comms.

Natasha’s confusion deepened, and her frustration grew as Wanda demanded someone else to get her girlfriend back to the Quinjet. "And why should he do that?"

"Just get her back in!" Wanda insisted, her voice rising slightly.

Natasha's frustration peaked, realizing Wanda was deliberately shutting her out. But she remained calm, not wanting to distress her, "Wanda, you must be tired. Right now you should be focusing on yourself and the baby. Y/N will be fine, don't worry. She's good at looking out for herself."

Wanda’s irritation boiled over, her patience wearing thin. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath as she whispered.

"She might have a hard time looking out for two."

"What? What do you mean, Wanda?" Bucky asked once more, trying to grasp the meaning behind Wanda’s words.

"Maria can handle herself just fine, Wanda. Y/N doesn't need to look out for her." Natasha responded dismissively, trying to reassure her once again that you don't need to look out for your partner.

But clearly, Natasha knows nothing.

"No, no, no, that's not what I meant, Romanoff! Your girlfriend might have a hard time looking out for herself and for the baby growing in her stomach! So right now, Romanoff I need you to get your girlfriend out on that mission before anything happens to her!" The anger of Wanda echoed through the earpiece of the three Avengers.

"I had to cover up for her earlier, I’m not the one who's pregnant, she was. She doesn't want anyone to know, even you, Natasha, ‘cause it seems like you don't have time to talk about it." Wanda gritted her teeth as she revealed the cover up she did for you.

Then suddenly an urgent call for backup was heard through the comms.

"Back up, we need back up!"

It was Maria, her voice sounding strained and her signal cutting in and out.

"Natasha! Y/N…I can't see Y/N, Y/N is taken!"

Natasha's blood ran cold at Maria's words. The word sent a shiver down her spine, and her heart thumped heavily against her chest. She clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into her palms.

"No," Natasha whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. Fear and anger welled up within her as she heard the words.

Without a moment's hesitation, they heard Tony respond, "I'm on my way, Maria. I'll get there as soon as I can. And you Romanoff, you have to get your girlfriend!"

Wanda hissed harshly to Natasha through the comms, "If anything happens to my bestfriend and my niece I will kill you myself, Natasha. I will fucking kill you myself."

Natasha's jaw clenched at Wanda's harsh words. She knew she was only expressing her fear and concern for you and the baby, but the threat still stung.

She gritted her teeth and muttered a retort.

"I will kill myself if I won’t be able to save them. So save it, Wanda."

⧗

The room was eerily quiet, a chill running down Natasha's spine as she scanned her surroundings. She cautiously stepped forward, her senses on high alert. Suddenly, a figure lunged from the shadows, but Natasha was quick to react. Before they could make a move, Natasha had kicked away their weapon and delivered a swift punch to their stomach.

Another figure appeared behind her, but Natasha swiftly dodged the attack and delivered a well-placed kick to their chest.

As she fought off the attackers, Natasha unsheathed her batons, the metal gleaming in the dim light. With a flick of her wrist, she extended them and began to whirl them around, blocking attacks and delivering precise strikes to vulnerable spots. Meanwhile, she kept her other hand free, ready to use her widow bites at a moment's notice.

Natasha's heart raced as she sprinted through the dimly lit corridors, her footsteps echoing against the cold concrete. Natasha's mind went on high alert the moment she entered the room and saw you lying unconscious on the bed and a doctor preparing some medical supplies beside you. Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight, her adrenaline pumping through her veins, making her nerves tingle.

The doctor spoke up, his voice breaking the tense silence in the room.

"You finally came," he said. "Your wife's been waiting for you.”

"Who are you?!" Natasha's voice held a dangerous edge, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the doctor, her gun pointing at him.

The doctor raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, a smug look on his face as he regarded Natasha's gun pointed in his direction.

"Now, now, Romanoff," he said, his tone dripping with mock concern. "You wouldn't want to cause any distress to Mrs. Romanoff here, would you? You might wanna put that gun down."

Natasha’s grip on her gun tightened momentarily before she reluctantly began to lower it. She didn’t want to risk endangering you further by provoking him.

The doctor smirked, clearly amused by her cautiousness. He knows damn well how much power he holds now that he has you captive.

"I'm Doctor Strange. And…I am your wife's doctor for today. She's your wife right? Girlfriend? Partner..? Whore? Whatever you want but I prefer that we call her your wife, okay Romanoff?"

Natasha’s heart plummeted as he pulled out a surgical knife, her fear instantly skyrocketing.

"Don't! Do not fucking touch her, I’ll make you regret it!" she snarled, but he seemed unbothered by her threat.

Strange smirked, the glint in his eyes making Natasha's skin crawl. He began to rip your suit open, exposing your stomach.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, her voice shaking with anger but also fear for you.

The doctor chuckled, his expression smug as he began to apply some ultrasound gel to your stomach, his eyes glued to your bare skin.

Strange's tone was mocking as he asked Natasha a question that cut straight to her heart.

"Did you know she was pregnant?" he asked, as if he were casually inquiring about the weather.

Natasha swallowed hard, she almost choke with her words, "I uh...I didn't..."

"You didn't know until now did you?" Strange chuckled, a sadistic smirk on his face not letting her finish, "Oh, that's a shame," he taunted.

"You are a bad mother."

Natasha flinched as the words hit her, and for a moment, she was speechless. The words stung, even more than any physical blow could have.

Her mind flashed back to the night before this mission. She remembered that you had tried to talk to her, begged her to have a conversation but she dismissed you.

Now she hated herself for that, the realization hit her with a sickening weight, and she silently berated herself for her ignorance. You shouldn't be here if she listened to you.

Strange hummed as he began to move the transducer around your stomach. He looked up at Natasha, a sly smile on his face.

"I wasn't always a doctor, you know," he said, his tone almost nostalgic. "In fact," he continued, his gaze returning to the monitor. "I started out working with Hydra when my sister died."

"You might have heard of them, right? For sure you intel already informed you that. Not exactly the most upstanding group of people." He murmured.

"Oh look at that! That's your baby Romanoff!"

Natasha's eyes flickered towards the ultrasound machine, her heart pounding as she saw a life, her offspring on your stomach. The sight of the tiny, flickering image of the baby inside you softened her expression momentarily.

Strange chuckled as he watched Natasha. He leaned casually against the counter, one hand resting on the ultrasound machine before he got back to examine your stomach once again.

"As I was saying," he continued, his tone casual. "I didn't want to remain a lowly foot soldier forever," he said, his eyes narrowing. "I wanted more power, more control. So I branched out on my own."

Strange pressed the transducer deeper into your stomach, causing you to whimper in pain.

"Don’t—"

The doctor immediately pointed his finger in the air, shushing her.

He then continued, his tone nonchalant, his gaze fixed on the monitor, watching the image of your stomach intently. "I started my own precious business and then…"

"Everything I'd worked for, years of hard work and sacrifice!" he spat out, the pressure of the transducer increased and he watched how it dug deeper to your stomach on the monitor. "And you, Avengers just waltz in like they own the place and ruin it all!"

Strange paused, he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. The pressure on your abdomen loosened slightly before he glanced at Natasha, his expression almost apologetic.

"Sorry," he said, his tone smoothing back to its usual calm. "I didn't mean to shout. It's bad for the baby, you know." He chuckled softly, his hand gently caressing your stomach.

Natasha's heart pounded in her chest as she watched Strange's expression shift from calm to enraged in an instant. His words and his behavior were unpredictable, and that made her more anxious. She maintained a facade of calm, her eyes never leaving you.

"Romanoff, your baby is healthy and developing just like it should. All the organs, muscles, limbs and bones are in place." He smiled, an evil one, his eyes flicking up to Natasha, wanting her to take a good look on the monitor.

Natasha's expression remained neutral, her eyes fixed on the ultrasound monitor as Strange pointed out the growing body of your baby.

"Isn't that nice?" he said, his tone clearly a mockery.

"Must be hard," with a sinister edge to his voice. "Knowing there's nothing you can do to protect what's most precious to you."

The doctor's laughter was cold and cruel. But what was truly horrifying was the way his gaze dropped to your abdomen, and he began to caress your stomach with a gesture that made Natasha's skin crawl.

"All you can do is watch and pray I don't do anything...unwanted," he repeated, his tone sickly sweet.

He then slowly grabbed the surgical knife and his eyes scanning Natasha's face for any reaction. A cunning smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he noticed her flinch.

"Oh, did that scare you?" he asked, his voice dripping with menace. "Why are you scared? You're not the one lying on this table?"

He chuckled darkly, waving the knife in front of her face.

Strange's fingers continued to play with the knife, slowly twirling it around in his hand. He seemed to take pleasure in seeing how it made Natasha uneasy. Her breath quickened and her heart pounded against her chest as she watched him.

She tried to keep her emotions in check, desperately wanting to remain calm, but the sight of the gleaming blade in his hand made her instinct scream in alarm.

Strange leaned back, the knife momentarily forgotten in his hand as he turned his attention to your still unconscious form. He moved closer to you, his fingers gently prying your eyelids open.

"Beautiful eyes," he commented, a hint of admiration in his voice. "These eyes could be a valuable asset to the right people."

Natasha's ears perked up at Strange's words, a lump forming in her throat as she realized his intentions.

"What the fuck did you say?"

"Oh, Romanoff. Your baby might hear you curse. You'll kiss your baby with that mouth?"

He moved away from examining your eyes, setting the knife down on the counter. He reached for a file that was among the various medical supplies and paperwork scattered around the room. He flipped through the pages, reading aloud to Natasha.

"Martin Joseph Novarich," he said, his eyes scanning the file. "He's just eight years old. Familiar with the name?”

Strange continued to read from the file, oblivious to Natasha's inner struggle.

"The boy has a rare genetic disorder that affects his eyesight," he said. "He needs a corneal transplant to restore his vision, and the process requires a perfect donor match. And his father, the president, is willing to do anything to save his only child.”

Strange smirked, his eyes scanning Natasha's face.

"Think about it," he said, his tone almost teasing. "Your wife's eyes could give the president's son a new lease on life. Or her liver could help someone else in desperate need."

Her anger flared at his words, her muscles tensing as she struggled to control her emotions when he started listing off your organs one by one, suggesting that it could be used for donation. The thought of your organs being harvested like some kind of donor bank was almost too much to bear, it made her skin crawl, it made her blood boil.

"And let's not forget," Strange added, a sly note to his voice, "that she might have more than just one healthy organ."

"She's an agent," he pointed out. "She probably leads a healthy lifestyle, so her organs are likely in great shape. And I think yours too, Romanoff.”

Strange suddenly put on a fake frown, pretending to be remorseful as he took a glance on your abdomen.

"Oh, my apologies," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "I almost forgot about the poor, innocent child in your wife's stomach." He grabbed a cloth and wiped the gel out of your skin’s abdomen.

He then trailed the knife over your stomach, Natasha's breath hitched in her throat.

"Don't," she hissed, her eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare.”

The doctor continued to trail the surgical knife and then he finally nicked the skin on your abdomen, Natasha's face contorted with anger and horror.

"Oops…too late. Just a small one, don't worry." Strange chuckled darkly, his eyes locking with Natasha's. Her eyes trailing between the knife and on your stomach.

A loud booming sound rang outside the room, startling both Strange and Natasha. Seeing an opportunity, Natasha reached for the gun she had to put down earlier. She aimed it at Strange, who slowly raised his hands in surrender.

In a desperate move, Strange pushed your bed towards Natasha, trying to interfere with her aim and make her miss. However, Natasha was too quick and too skilled. She pulled your bed towards her and immediately placed your unconscious state behind her back making sure that your bed was within range.

She immediately turned when she heard a clinking sound. Natasha fired, the bullet hitting Strange in the shoulder.

"I missed." Natasha sighed as she placed the gun at your bed. "That was a very dumb move doctor."

Natasha's voice was icy as she spoke, her eyes locked on Strange's face.

"You know what, doctor?" Natasha set the gun down on your bed. Her hand moved to your cheek, gently caressing it before moving slowly and gently over your stomach, wiping away some of the blood that slowly dripped there.

Natasha walked over to where the doctor was cowering, a surgical knife in her hand. She knelt in front of him trailing the knife in the wounded shoulder.

"I am a great shot when I'm pissed."

She then held his shoulder ignoring his startled yelp of pain, she deftly used the knife to dig deeper into his shoulder, intent on retrieving the bullet lodged there. She extracted it from his flesh.

As she dug deeper, working to extract the bullet, Strange cried out in pain. But instead of feeling any remorse, Natasha felt a deep sense of satisfaction at seeing him suffer. She knew she had the upper hand now, and she was going to make him pay for what he had done to you.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she muttered, her eyes fixed on his face. “I told you, I’ll make you regret...”

"Touching..."

"My..."

"Wife! "

With a final tug, Natasha finally got the bullet with a satisfied smirk briefly crossing her face. Natasha picked up the gun from your bed, loaded the bullet back in the chamber and spun it slowly with a flick of her wrist.

She turned her gaze back to Strange, who was still reeling from the pain. Her voice was low and dangerous as she spoke.

"And doctor," she said, the gun pointed straight at his head.

"I don't waste a bullet. Ever."

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff au #natasha romanoff fanfic #black widow x reader

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thriftedtchotchkes · 1 year

Text

the way we fight

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: you and joel love taking your frustrations out on each other—in more ways than one

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, drug use, canon-typical violence, slight spoilers for minor tlou 2 cutscene, jackson era, enemies to lovers, undefined age gap, sloooow buildup, smut, grinding, rough oral (male & female receiving)

word count: 6.7k

a/n: no idea how this got so long, but here we are! generally my fics are based on song lyrics, so this one goes out to my girl ari and social house. this honestly took a while to wrap my brain around and idk how the end got so filthy but alas, i really hope y'all enjoy! as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated 💕

It’s always an argument with him. He’s just so stubborn. Actually, Joel Miller might be the most stubborn man you’ve ever met. There’s never any room for disagreement or discussion with him—it’s his way or the highway. Half the time, you don’t even know what you’re fighting about, hurling callous, empty words at each other as if they don’t hurt. Immensely.

Maybe you really do genuinely hate each other. Or maybe it’s just for the fun of it.

It’s been like this for as long as you’ve known him, which, in hindsight, hasn’t even been that long. Probably a year? Year and a half? In all that time, you’ve never managed to crack his tough exterior and, as far as you know, no one else has, either.

The only things anyone knows for sure are that he’s Tommy Miller’s older brother and he’s got a daughter named Ellie. He hasn’t made a lot of friends here and it’s not hard to see why. He’s mean in a surly old man kind of way and rarely has anything nice to say to anyone—if he says anything at all.

Yet, somehow you still find yourself spending the majority of your time with him. It’s not something you do by choice. It’s a forced proximity thing.

You can’t tell if Tommy schedules you for patrols together because you’re the only one who hasn’t kicked up a stink about it or if he just thinks it’s funny to watch you both squirm. Most of the town thinks it’s hilarious, so you can only guess it’s the latter.

During your first few outings together, Joel wouldn’t talk to you unless it was absolutely necessary, and, even then, all you’d get was a grunt or some grumbled instructions. The silence got old pretty quickly. It wasn’t until you made your first mistake out in the field that he finally started communicating. Maybe a little louder than you’d hoped.

Now, Joel will pick a fight anywhere, usually over the dumbest shit. But his bark is worse than his bite—most of the time, at least.

On his worst days, his anger is explosive and it seems like he takes it out exclusively on you. It’s honestly a little ridiculous that you haven’t just asked Tommy to take you off his patrols already, but there’s a part of you that’ll never admit you actually kind of like your dynamic.

Not a lot happens in Jackson—it’s well-protected and even the community drama gets a little stale. Joel might be a dick, but he keeps things interesting, keeps you on your toes.

And it’s hard to ignore the fire in his eyes that makes you think he likes it just as much as you do.

It’s fucking freezing out and you haven’t even left for patrol yet before Joel’s muttering something condescending under his breath. Surprise, surprise—he’s in a bad mood and about to make it your problem. You throw him an unimpressed look over your shoulder, the best you can muster this early in the morning, and continue to saddle your horse.

“You wanna say that a little louder, Miller?”

He looks tired and annoyed and, god, you haven’t been awake nearly long enough for this shit. Today’s going to be trying enough as it is. You were assigned one of the longer routes and the clouds are already dark with the promise of rain or worse.

There are a few other patrol groups nearby gearing up to leave and their preparations suddenly slow, eyes darting between the two of you as if they can sense the impending argument. You barely notice their loitering, the small crowd inching forward to not-so-subtly eavesdrop.

“No, really, I’d love to hear to hear what you have to say,” you taunt him, hands settling on your hips. “Y’know, it’s really not like you to keep things to yourself. You sure you’re feeling alright today, old man?”

“Feelin’ just fine, sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth, rolling his eyes. “Just hurry your ass up so we can get this over and done with. I’m not tryin’ to spend any more time with ya than I have to.”

You quirk an eyebrow. Sweetheart? That’s a new one. It sounded sarcastic as hell and a little patronizing but, still, that’s not something Joel’s ever called you before. Useless and annoying, sure, but never sweetheart.

Your stomach swoops, but you force yourself to ignore it; that’s not even remotely something you want to analyze today.

“Uh, yeah…whatever,” you eye him strangely, and he abruptly looks away, shifting his focus back to checking his saddlebags. It’s like he’s purposefully avoiding your gaze, and it’s weird. He’s acting so fucking weird today.

Sparing him one last glance, you throw a leg over your horse and start toward the gate at a slow trot. You don’t bother waiting for him to catch up.

“What’s our first checkpoint?” you call over your shoulder, but he’s somehow already right behind you, his horse falling in line with yours.

“You should already know that,” Joel sighs, brow furrowed in what you can only assume is irritation. Oh, here it comes—the inevitable lecture. He does this every single time you're on patrol, whether you’ve done something wrong or not. You must’ve really pissed him off if you’re hearing it this early.

Except—he’s not berating you. Instead, he pulls a map out of his backpack. “Alright, look,” he says, leaning in closer so you can see. “This is us right here, and—,” his index finger traces a route from Jackson, winding along a road that passes through a small neighborhood, and lands on your first stop, located a few side streets off a main road, “—we should end up here in about an hour if the weather holds up.”

Nodding, you look up at him. You hadn't realized how close his face had gotten to yours, and your lips part around an involuntary gasp. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long before he pulls away, folding up his map and tucking it back into his pack.

You try to convince yourself that you imagined it, that Joel Miller would never intentionally look at your lips like he wants to kiss you, but you can still feel his warm breath on your skin and it’s affecting you more than you want to admit.

This is…not at all like your normal dynamic and it’s throwing you off. Joel hasn’t raised his voice once today and, at most, he’s only made a few snide remarks that weren’t nearly as bad as they usually are.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” you breathe out, creating a tiny puff of condensation in the air. “It doesn’t even feel like it's cold enough to snow, anyway. The worst we’ll probably get is some rain and we’ve ridden in way worse than that.”

All you get in response is a low grunt, and then he’s lifting the reins, leading his horse in the direction of your first checkpoint. You sigh. Guess you’re back to square one. You never thought you’d miss your spats, and can’t help but wonder what the hell happened to make him change his behavior so radically.

“Seriously, though, are you okay? You’re, like, really quiet today,” you prod, and his whole body tenses. He turns to you, expression angry, and it sends a shiver down your spine. There he is.

“Didn’t I already fuckin’ tell you I’m fine? What, you suddenly lose the ability to hear or somethin’?” He shakes his head in annoyance, and you’re glad he’s not looking at you anymore because you can’t suppress the grin that spreads across your face.

“This girl, I swear,” you hear him mutter as he trots away.

You don’t say anything to each other for the rest of the ride to the checkpoint. The crumbling attorney's office is basically the same as you remember from the last time you were here. It’s old, obviously, and musty, but it’s stocked with random provisions, like food and ammo, so patrol crews can replenish their supplies before heading out to their next destination.

There’s also a killer view of Jackson from one of the windows, and you get distracted looking out at the lights and mountains in the distance. It’s starting to flurry, so you drop your backpack on the floor and stick both hands out to catch some of the snowflakes in your palms. So much for rain.

“You dilly dallyin’ again? Just sign the logbook already so we can move the fuck on,” Joel’s voice startles you out of your reverie. Huffing, you turn away from the window, looking for the pen that’s supposed to be next to the notebook, but it’s nowhere to be found.

“You know what, asshole, you could’ve just as easily signed the damn thing yourself. You were there too, or are you getting forgetful in your old age?” you shoot back as you hunch down, getting on your hands and knees to search under the desk. You hear him scoff behind you.

You spot the pen towards the back, because of course it rolled that far, and bend down so you can reach out a little farther. Your fingers brush one end and then you’ve got it, sitting back up with your prize in hand. Looking over your shoulder, you just barely catch Joel’s eyes darting away from where you were a moment ago, basically puppy-posing on the floor. That’s…suspicious.

“The fuck? Were you just staring at my ass?” you ask incredulously. There’s no goddamn way. He snorts, arms crossed with an uncharacteristic smirk on his face, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

“You wish, sweetheart,” he says condescendingly, and there it is again. That fucking word. So, he’s calling you pet names and staring at your ass now? There’s something seriously off about him today and you want to know what his deal is.

“You wanna tell me why you keep calling me that? You’ve been acting weird as fuck all day and it’s giving me whiplash,” you glower at him, taking a seat at the edge of the desk and forgetting all about the logbook. He shrugs.

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he says simply, and you squint at him.

“Seriously, Joel? You've called me sweetheart twice today and now you’re checking me out,” you hop off the desk and walk over to where he’s leaning against the wall. “If I didn’t know any better…,” you glance down at his lips, moving closer, “I’d say you were flirting with me."

Well, that made him angry. "Fuck you,” he growls in your face, and his lips are soft where they accidentally graze your cupid's bow. He’s trembling now, fists clenched at his sides, and you think he’s about to push you away when he grabs you by the hips and shoves you against the wall. Your head lolls back and you laugh cruelly.

“Yeah, Joel,” you roll your hips into his and he grits his teeth, tightening his grip. “I think that’s exactly what you wanna do.”

But before you can go any further, there’s a crash just outside the door accompanied by a familiar sound that turns your blood to ice.

It’s unmistakable. The clicking, guttural and stuttered, is followed by a high-pitched shriek that echoes throughout the small space, and you both freeze. You look up at Joel, terrified, and he raises a finger to his lips, eyes telling you to be quiet or else.

There’s no way either of you can unholster your guns—and reload, in your case—without alerting it to your position. Joel reaches for the hunting knife strapped to his thigh, and you move to do the same, only to realize it isn't there.

Fuck, it has to be somewhere. Probably in one of the dozen random holsters you have attached to you right now.

Frantic, you pat at your sides and legs—anywhere it could be—as your panicked intakes of breath gradually increase in volume. A hand slaps over your mouth, and suddenly Joel is crushing your body against the wall, halting your movements.

"Quit," he whispers harshly, lips brushing the shell of your ear, and you nod quickly.

The creature abruptly changes course, jerking toward the open window, and that’s when you notice something familiar by its feet. It's—fuck, it's your backpack. And your knife is gleaming from where it sits, nestled in one of the side pockets.

Stupid, that was so stupid. If, by some miracle, this thing doesn't kill you, there’s no doubt Joel will once he realizes your mistake. His hand drops from your mouth and he glances back over his shoulder at the clicker, gripping his knife a little tighter.

He looks resolute, and it dawns on you that he’s about to make a move. It takes everything you’ve got not to grab onto his coat and pull him back to you as he slowly shifts away, but then something else stops him in his tracks.

Another screech rings out from the other side of the room, and now you know you’re fucked. There’s only one option left now. Either you run, or you get torn apart. He reaches down to take your hand in his, warring emotions of anger and fear in his eyes as he looks into yours, and squeezes; it’s now or never.

The path to the doorway you came through is somehow miraculously clear, and Joel takes off at a sprint, dragging you with him but, to his horror, you decide to do yet another stupid thing.

For reasons you can’t explain, you find yourself ripping your hand out of his, swerving to snatch your backpack from where it lies just a few feet from the clicker.

Joel is yelling, or at least you think he is, and you vaguely feel his blunt nails scratch the back of your hand as he reaches out to stop you, but he can’t. You’re moving on autopilot, can barely register your body moving at all, until your fingertips skim the strap of your pack and the clicker is shrieking in your face.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this close to one before, even dead, and it’s worse than you could’ve ever imagined. The world freezes for a moment and you freeze with it, unable to move or look away from the fungus erupting from its skull, teeth gnashing inches away from your throat.

And then you feel warmth—warm, strong arms wrap around your waist and tug harder and harder until you’re back out in the cold. Joel spots his horse a short distance away, likely spooked by the commotion, but you can’t see much farther than that. What was a gentle flurry less than a half hour ago has become a violent blizzard, and you’re both getting pelted by ice that burns as it scrapes across your skin.

There’s one horse—just Joel’s horse—but there’s no time to think about the fate of your own before his hands are on your hips, lifting you up and into the saddle, and he’s climbing on in front of you.

He urges his horse forward and you’re off without so much as a glance behind you, galloping away from danger and down a street that you realize you actually recognize.

“Joel,” you squeeze his waist and he ignores you. He’s shaking and it’s definitely not just from the cold. You can feel the anger radiating off of him in waves and it’s warranted. You fucked up big time. “Joel, turn right,” you say a little louder, and he’s still not listening. “Turn right! There’s a library up ahead, you have to turn now!”

He growls, and you think he’s purposely going to miss the turn until he’s yanking the reins to the right, nearly throwing you both off the horse.

“You better know what the fuck you’re doin’,” he all but shouts back, and you wrap your arms around his waist a little tighter.

“It’s safe!” you yell, struggling to speak loud enough for him to hear you over the wind. “Ellie’s been there before, loads of times, and she says it’s safe. “

And that’s all it takes to convince him.

The library’s completely boarded up and, with the wind howling against your backs, it takes more than a few hard tugs to yank enough of them off to get inside the lobby with Joel’s horse.

He hands you the reins before moving into the next room, crouching along the rows of aging books and knocked-over bookcases, and you peek in, watching him anxiously. Cracked bricks litter the ground, and he steps over a few as he crouches into place behind a broken book cart.

He picks one up and then shoots you a look, eyebrows lifting pointedly, and you realize he wants you to get back into the lobby, out of sight. You duck behind the wall, placing a soothing hand on his horse right as you hear the sound of the brick shattering against the ground, and wait. A few agonizing seconds pass before you hear him throw one more a little farther out, just to be sure.

When nothing startles or jumps out, Joel whistles and you know that’s your cue to come out from your hiding spot. Normally, that would piss you off immensely, him whistling for you like you’re a fucking animal, but you can’t find it in yourself to care right now.

You’re exhausted now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, and the only thing you want to do is curl up into one of the torn-up chairs in the corner and pass out until morning. But that’s not what Joel has in mind.

“Y’think you’re off the hook for the shit you pulled earlier?”

You sigh, head tipping back and thumping against the bookcase behind you. “Do we have to do this right now? Joel, I’m tired and hungry, and fucking cold, and I really don’t have the energy.”

“Seriously? Sure looked like ya had the energy when you were runnin’ straight into that clicker’s mouth,” he scowls, reaching down to grab something next to the book cart and throwing it at your feet. “Thought ya might want this back since you apparently decided it was worth more than your life.”

You inhale sharply through your nose, eyebrows pinching together. Joel…he—

It's your backpack.

You were so sure it got left behind when he saved you from that clicker and yet, there it is. You lean over to pick it up, but Joel kicks it out of reach before you get the chance. He looks livid and now, you realize, you’re about to get that lecture you dodged earlier tenfold.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Me? I'm not the one having an identity crisis! You’ve been nothing but distracting all damn day,” you scoff bitterly. “None of this would've happened if you hadn't had a complete personality makeover overnight.”

You can’t believe he…is he serious? There’s no way you’re taking the fall for this, not all of it. Yeah, you fucked up with the backpack, but Joel isn't entirely blameless, either. If you hadn’t been fighting again, you would’ve just signed the stupid logbook and moved on like you were supposed to.

"Yeah, alright, sweetheart. It's my fault you almost got us both killed. Maybe you’re forgettin’ I saved your goddamn life back there, somethin' I wouldn't have had to do if you hadn't gone and done something so fuckin’ stupid."

Sweetheart.

"Stop calling me that! I…fuck, Joel, I just don't get you. I get it—I know I fucked up, but…,” your voice cracks and you can feel your lower lip wobbling, but you can’t let yourself cry. That would only prove to Joel what he already knows—you’re weak. “I’m sorry, okay? What more do you want from me?”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “You really wanna know what I want from ya?” He crowds your space, leaning in slightly. His head tilts like he's going to kiss you, and your breath hitches. “I want ya to get your shit together and stop makin’ unnecessary mistakes,” he says cruelly instead.

Your jaw drops.

"No, you know what? Fuck this,” you seethe. “When we get back to Jackson, I’m telling Tommy to never put me on your patrols again. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Think I give a shit about that? Go ahead, you’d be doin’ me a favor!” he yells at your back as you storm away, and you flip him off over your shoulder. Behind you, he sighs heavily, sounding as worn out and frustrated as you feel.

What a load of bullshit. You don't deserve to be treated like this. There's a stark difference between the inconsequential arguments you normally have and whatever the hell that was.

And the worst part? It hurts so much more than you expected it to. Leave it to you to get attached to the asshole whose personal mission it is to make you miserable. This whole thing was fun while it lasted, but you meant what you said. You and Joel, it’s over.

You exhale wetly, tears still threatening to fall as you leave him behind in what the yellowing signs tell you is the romance section. Well, isn’t that ironic.

You quickly realize navigating the library in the dark is more difficult than you anticipated, even with your flashlight. Not even ten steps away from where you started, you trip over something protruding from the ground and almost land flat on your face.

Joel comes running over as you let out a frustrated noise and push yourself up onto your knees. His knife is at the ready like he was expecting danger but, no, it’s just you humiliating yourself even further. He lets out a relieved sigh, holstering his knife, but then just stands there glaring down at you.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you wave a hand from the ground. He shakes his head, reaching down to help you up, and his hand feels so nice in yours—big, strong, and calloused.

You curse yourself for still thinking about him like that, like anything at all, but you can't help it. And when his hand drops yours, it feels distinctly cold and empty.

Shaking it off, you aim your flashlight at the offending spot on the floor. “What is that, anyway?” you ask Joel as he crouches down to brush away some of the dirt and debris.

“A handle,” he mumbles, pulling out his knife again and digging it into a crack in the floor, tracing around what looks like…a door?

“Is that a trapdoor?” You lean over his shoulder to get a better look. He looks back at you and nods, looking a little less angry and a lot more concerned. “Well, should we check it out?”

Instead of answering you, he wrenches the door open and shines his flashlight into the opening. There’s a ladder leading down and you can hear something rumbling below that sounds like a generator.

“Stay here,” he eyes you sternly as he begins his descent down the ladder.

“Uh, yeah, that’s not happening,” you scoff, following him. The ladder’s longer than you expected, and once your feet touch the ground, you reach out to run your hands along the wall, searching for a light switch.

A few moments later, your fingers come across something vaguely switch-like and you flip it, a warm glow filling the room, emanating from about a dozen heat lamps hanging from the ceiling. Your eyes adjust and—

“No fucking way.”

Joel is silent beside you, and you glance over, his expression just as stunned as yours is. You step closer. “Is that…?”

“Weed,” he breathes out.

You didn’t mean to get this high. Really, you didn’t. But you're in a fucking grow room hidden beneath a library in some tiny, backwater town, and you almost just died. So really, what reason was there not to?

The blizzard’s still going strong outside and, at the very least, it’s nice and warm down here. There's also the added bonus of something fun to do while you wait it out.

…Yeahhh, so you might’ve found a mason jar full of already rolled joints between some couch cushions, literally just sitting there for the taking. What were you supposed to do? Not smoke them?

But what surprises you even more than the pot itself is that Joel is smoking it, too.

It’s cute how he coughs after every drag, eyes watering as you pass a joint back and forth. The air is thick with smoke and a strange tension that neither of you can really describe, but you’re not fighting anymore. Not yet, at least.

The couch you're sitting on is cozy and less tattered than the chairs upstairs, so you settle there for the night, sitting closer than you ever willingly have before. Enough time has passed that you’re beginning to realize neither of you plans on moving, either. That you’re actually enjoying each other’s company.

The warmth of him seeps pleasantly through your clothes, and he feels so solid and real against you. Unconsciously, you melt into his side, your fuzzy brain chemicals urging you to feel more, more of him, and he tenses only for a moment before lifting an arm to rest behind you on the back of the couch.

It's strange how readily he's accepting your touch now. With each drag, you feel a little braver and press more of your body into his, draping your legs across his lap and nesting your head in the crook of his neck. He goes boneless when you mouth damply at the skin just below his jaw, his throat rumbling under your lips as he lets out a ragged breath.

You’ve both loosened up so much since earlier. It’s an easy, comfortable sort of peace you’ve found down here, even after the horrors you experienced earlier in the day. Part of you wishes it could always be like this with Joel but, then again, that just wouldn’t be you and Joel.

Your relationship thrives on the way you fight, almost like you can’t exist together without the promise of battle. So, when the high wears off and the world feels less lazy and more dire, you’ll both remember with sharp clarity that you hate each other. The memories will fade away and the war will continue. That’s just how it is.

It’s a little sad when you think about it, but for at least a little while longer, you’ll still have this version of you and Joel. You’ll enjoy the way he feels pressed up against your body; the way he feels pliant and suggestible under your lips.

And you’ll ask the question that’s been eating away at you all day because right now, you’re positive your lips can convince him to do anything.

“Tell me why you keep calling me sweetheart,” you murmur against his skin. He freezes, clearly not expecting you to bring it up again. You lift the blunt to his lips and encourage him to inhale to calm his nerves. The smoke plumes from his nose like a dragon as he exhales, and you're enraptured by the way it swirls through the air before dissipating. He braces a hand on your thigh before responding.

"Well, I…uh—," he mumbles, his cheeks turning a deep shade of burgundy, and you can’t resist reaching out to stroke the heated skin with your fingertips. He breathes shakily as he continues, "I—had a dream about ya last night, and…you, uh—you were…"

He cuts himself off, and your mind goes fuzzy for a moment as you let that little bit of information sink in. So, Joel was dreaming about you last night…and now, he’s treating you so much differently. Calling you pet names, eyeing you up, touching you. It all makes sense—but now you need him to tell you everything.

"What was I doing in your dream, Joel?"

He meets your gaze, looking flustered and a little ashamed, and it's a far cry from the man who was yelling at you not even an hour or two ago.

"You, uh," he clears his throat, still hesitating. You bite your bottom lip in anticipation, sucking it wetly into your mouth, and his eyes darken. He lifts a thumb to your mouth, tugging your lip down just slightly, and you can see the moment his apprehension disappears. "You were on your knees for me," he murmurs. "Doin' such a good job, too, workin' that pretty mouth of yours."

You inhale sharply and his thumb drops, but his eyes never leave your lips. Gingerly, you pluck the joint still burning between his fingers and take one last deep drag before flicking the rest to the side and crashing your lips onto his.

God, they feel exactly like you thought they would, soft and a little chapped from the cold, but so fucking eager against yours. You hold his face in your hands, rubbing your thumbs along the roughness of his beard, and he groans as you exhale into his mouth, tasting the smoke on your tongue.

Sighing, you lean back slowly, heavy-lidded eyes roving over his face to take in his kiss-swollen lips and that beautiful burgundy flush. He's so pretty, and you can’t help but run your fingers through his thick, graying hair as he pants heavily below you.

You need to feel more of him, all of him, so you climb into his lap, straddling his hips and grinding down against where he's already straining in his pants. He grips you tighter in response, working you steadily across his hardening cock.

"Keep going,” you moan breathily. You're already so wet, and heat blooms in your belly every time your clit grazes the seam of his jeans. It's a foggy, hazy pleasure, what you feel when he speaks, and you're addicted to it. “Keep telling me about your dream—a-about my mouth…I wanna hear more.“

You feel rather than hear him growl low in his throat as he ducks his head down to your neck, sucking and biting bruises into your skin.

“Your mouth…so fuckin’ wet—s-soft and tight around my cock,” he sucks hard under your jaw, and you gasp. “Takin’ me all the way down, like I always knew you could.”

Your breath hitches, eyes rolling back. The thought of him dreaming about his cock down your throat makes your cunt pulse, and now you're positive you're soaking through his pants.

You bet he thinks about it when you're on patrol together, too—that when you're fighting like you've both got something to prove, he's thinking about shutting you up with his cock. Fucking your mouth to show you that what he says goes.

"M-more, Joel…ngh, fuck, I need more," you reach down to shove his shirt up so you can feel him, his stomach flexing and unflexing under your palms. He starts to buck into your clothed pussy faster, like he's fucking you through the fabric, and you whine pathetically as he tugs hard on your hair, yanking your head to the side.

"S’alright, n-needy girl, 'm gonna tell you exactly how I was fuckin' that sweet mouth of yours last night…h-how you were—," he groans raggedly in your ear, voice cracking, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat racing between your legs. "…c-chokin' and gaggin' around my cock while I was cummin' down your throat…"

He keeps giving you what you asked for, tells you all the filthy shit he wants to do to your mouth, and his hips start to stutter like he's bringing himself closer to orgasm with his own words. It would make a lot of sense—Joel's always loved the sound of his own voice, especially when it's directed at you.

But you can’t hear much of anything anymore aside from the sound of your own stuttered moaning, suddenly so, so close to hurtling over the edge with him. You’re sliding so easily over his cock now and you brace your hands on his shoulders as your thighs start to quake around his waist. He digs his fingers into the plush curve of your ass, pulling you down harder, but you squeeze his shoulders roughly to get his attention.

“Y-you—Joel, you can’t cum,” you whine into his neck, and he all but snarls in response. “No…no, no, no. Want you t-to fuck my mouth—you have to cum in my mouth—”

He abruptly yanks you off his lap, shoving you back onto the couch and wrenching your jeans and underwear down in two hard tugs.

You barely have time to let out a squeal before he buries his face in your cunt, honing in on your clit and sucking wetly. He flattens his tongue, circling once, twice, three times, and then you’re cumming with a loud exhale, gushing as you grind into his face.

Your pussy’s still pulsing, locking down around nothing, as you tug him off of you by his hair.

“Joel—jeans..o-off…now.” You help him push them down just enough to free his cock, and then your mouth is on him, sucking him down to the hilt.

His hips buck off the couch of their own accord and he groans pathetically as you gag around him. He’s petting your head and saying something raggedly above you, likely apologizing for hurting you, but it’s drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

Instead of pulling off to reassure him that you very much want him to keep gagging you, you guide his hands to bury themselves in your hair and squeeze his thigh, praying he gets the hint. His fingers tense against your scalp as he holds you in place and, yeah, he absolutely gets it.

Your head feels like it’s disconnecting from the rest of your body as he starts fucking into your mouth the way he was probably dreaming about last night. He’s just so fucking big, and you feel a weird sort of pride bloom in your chest at being able to take him like this.

Tears are streaming down your face from the effort and you’re drooling all over his lap but, fuck, if he wants to do this every time you patrol together, you’ll let him. You take back everything you said before—if Tommy ever takes you off Joel’s patrols, you’ll kill him.

His fingers start to tug harder, painfully at your hair and you can hear him moaning something above you, his words slurred and desperate.

“S-so fuckin’ good, sweetheart, you’re…ngh—fuckin’ perfect,” he grits through his teeth, breath hitching as you wrap your lips tighter around him, flattening your tongue along the underside of his length. “‘m gonna cum…fuck, fuck—need you t-to swallow it all, sweetheart… know you can do it…so goddamn good.”

Humming and swallowing around him, you reach up to cup his balls and he erupts, pumping thick cum into your mouth and down your throat. Deep groans are punched out of his chest with every spurt and you can feel his cock pulsing against your tongue.

There’s so much of it. You try your best to do what he asked, to be good and swallow everything, but it’s starting to leak out the corners of your mouth and down his cock. Slurping up as much as you can, you pull off with an audible pop and lick off the rest of the salty, white streaks remaining on his skin.

When your watery eyes finally meet his, he’s looking at you like maybe he really has been dreaming this whole time. He’s still a little dazed, from both the weed and the intense orgasm, and he reaches out to cradle your face in his hands almost as if to prove to himself that you’re real. It’s a surprisingly tender gesture that kind of makes your heart ache.

Your lips quirk up as you lean into his touch, aching to prolong the moment, and he leans forward to press a sweet kiss to them, mouth coaxing yours open to taste himself on your tongue. You whine softly as his tongue runs along your bottom lip, and then he pulls back, hauling you into his arms to lie back on the couch.

Those heat lamps feel unbearable now. You're both hot and sweating, chests heaving from exertion, but you still refuse to separate from each other. Your brain’s feeling a lot less foggy, so you’re probably coming down from your high, which means Joel is, too. The realization sends a pang of worry through your chest like you expect him to suddenly come to and push you away, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls your back to his chest, positioning your bodies more comfortably before murmuring fondly in your ear, "You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”

You breathe out a sigh of relief. Maybe you’ll get to keep this after all—and without sacrificing everything that makes you and Joel, well…you and Joel. You twist around to shoot him an unimpressed look, but the burgeoning grin on your face betrays you.

“What, you’re just figuring that out? Took you long enough.”

He scoffs. “Listen, sweetheart—“ But you gasp, cutting him off before he can finish his sentence. No, way. How are you just putting two and two together now?

“Wait…oh my god, wait—is this why you keep calling me sweetheart? Because it's what you called me when I was blowing you in your sex dream?” You’re grinning so hard it hurts. How the fuck didn't you notice that earlier?

There was plenty of time to work it out when you were all but fucking on the couch for the past hour. But then…he didn’t actually start calling you sweetheart until he was cumming, and the realization makes your cunt throb. You file that information away for now, but make a mental note to come back to it later—hopefully back in Jackson with Joel.

…who’s still mumbling irritatedly into your shoulder. You tilt your head back to press your lips under his jaw, and you're quickly learning that kissing that particular spot turns him to jelly.

“You can keep calling me sweetheart,” you start, thinking over your next words carefully. “But I’ve got conditions.”

“Oh, she’s got demands now,” you can hear the dramatic eye roll in his voice. You suck a bruise into his skin to stop the back sass and it works spectacularly.

“Oh, shut up. It benefits you too, asshole,” you glare up at him before continuing. “I want your dick in my mouth every time we patrol from now on. And next time, you have to fuck me.”

His fingers dig into your sides, and you’re pretty sure you just felt his cock twitch against your ass.

“…Y-yeah, I, uh. I can do that,” he stutters, suddenly demure, and it dawns on you how much you like seeing all these different sides of Joel. He’s been mean and angry, shy and tender, and so fucking sexy all in the span of a single day. It's not something you ever would've expected from him.

You used to think he was just some grumpy old man and that his one personality trait was being an obnoxious jerk, but tonight you were proven very, very wrong.

You pull his arms tighter around you, let yourself get lost in the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back, and hum contently. You’ll have to thank Ellie and her weed-grower friend later.

“Y’know, I almost thought you were gonna say no more fighting,” he says after a few seconds of silence. You look up at him incredulously, and he chuckles.

“Nah, where’s the fun in that?”

thanks so much for reading! 🥰

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller

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kithtaehyung · 11 months

Text

and f*ck you, too (m) (teaser) | pjm

title: and f*ck you, too (m) (teaser) pairing: fuckboy assassin!jimin x assassin!reader(f) rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ; work rivals!au, assassins!au, enemies with benefits summary: you despise each other. and yet, you can’t seem to stay away. which is fine, since both of you are completely fine walking the line where it’s drawn. fic warnings: (smut warnings under the cut) language, violence, angst, blood/wounds (reader’s, jimin’s, and others’), cocky!jimin, cold!jimin, baddie!reader >:)), weapons: knives/guns, alcohol/drug mentions, reader has fast cars :))), ties to chairs, chains but who is shocked??, jimin has fast motorcycles🙄, angst, yoongi as a weapons specialist gets his own warning a ha ha, jimin looks too good in tanks, and without a shirt at all, this jimin is a warning in itself, did i mention angst? note: lmfaooooooo this is just assassins getting in each others’ ways with a generous splash of filth and a side of angst :)) WE ARE GETTING A PROPER JIMIN FIC, Y'ALL!! est. word count: 15-20k | teaser wc: 908 est. drop date: oct 2023 18+ taglist: sign up here (i check all blogs)

smut warnings: explicit scenes, biting, bondage (ropes, pillowcase), scratching, angst, slapping, hickies, body worship, piercing play, spit play, orgasm denial, pussy spanking, voyeurism, exhibitionism, face riding, slut/whore mentions, edging, oral (m/f rec), thigh riding, possessive but they won’t admit it</3, choking, angry sex, angst lol, hair/head pulling, protected/unprotected sex, praise kinks galore, easy access, cowgirl, hitting from the back, rough sex, spanking, teasing, creampie, chains (stay on!!!!), multiple orgasms, aftercare when it’s least expected👀

Glass.

Bullet casings.

So much broken glass.

As you listen in the scattered silence, you’re careful to skirt around the tiny shards making an ocean out of your villa.

Well. It’s now more of a wreckage than a beautiful seaside vacation home, but nuances mean nothing when you’ve only used it to store an eighth of your arsenal.

And your fucking pink McLaren that’s now face down in the nearest reef.

You are going to end this man.

“Come out, my love…”

Fuck him for double-crossing right when you were getting along.

At least, you felt like you were.

Maybe it was just a lapse in judgment, and the last goddamn mistake you’ll ever make around Park Jimin—assassin, playboy, sole occupant of the top of your hit list.

“Your target’s on the run, you know.”

Of course you’re fucking aware. But he won’t trick you a second time.

As soon as he gets a clear shot, he’s taking it.

And despite rivulets of sweat and blood running down your arm and a fresh gash on your upper chest, you are poised to do the exact same.

“Shouldn’t you be following them? Awhh, wait, your ride… What a shame.”

The gritting of your teeth almost gives you away.

Think.

Based on where you hear Jimin and the layout of your place, he’s somewhere around the foyer.

And hiding in an open hall next to your kitchen, there’s no way you can get him from where you’re poised.

So wait.

“What to do… Ah! I can call a taxi to pick you up! How does that sound?”

Wait, goddamn it.

Don’t fall for his shit.

Watch for any dark waves in the debris-riddled floor. Hold off until he’s in a good sight line.

Fuck, your wounds hurt.

Hot exhaustion warms your mouth as you wince, blood starting to harden along your slick skin.

“Or you can just let them get away. This would be Chance Zero, though, so. You’d end up getting a geo-bounty on your file… but it’s your decision!”

Breathe.

Geo-bounties aren’t too bad if they’re low.

Only when they evolve into Global status should you be worried. And that only happens if the Council deems it.

You’ve stayed on their good side… other than screwing up the missions Park Jimin has ruined.

“Come on, love.”

He sounds closer.

“Be a good girl.”

A lot closer.

Now you just have to wait until he… rounds the… corner.

…What happened?

Where the fuck did he—

Your body reacts before your mind does, ducking to avoid a strike into hard spackle.

Twisting, your forearm prevents the next swipe of Jimin’s blade as you retrieve your side dagger, and four boots trample the glass below in a violent dance of combat.

Above below swipe left dodge right parry parry lunge parry.

When you aim at his chest, your gun is quickly shoved, bullet firing into one of the last kitchen cabinets left standing.

And your opponent has the nerve to look appalled.

“You were gonna shoot me?”

All you do is tsk.

Clashes ring out again as you dart forward, and you go for a opening while mapping out how the hell you’re gonna catch up to your target before—

Fucking hell!

Chilling pain sears across your shoulder from the cut Jimin makes, and you half-stumble, half-crouch to avoid his killing blow.

Taking the risk and rolling across your favorite broken vase, you slide and fire again, the kickback hurting your arms like a bastard.

“Fuck!”

Finally.

Through slitted eyes, you can tell you just grazed Jimin’s thigh, and he collapses to a knee while you struggle to stand upright.

Crinkles of glass echo throughout the hall as you both haphazardly collect yourselves, with him breathing hard and you grunting through stinging pain.

Shit, he’s cursing like you’ve never heard before.

But you can’t let that distract you from your goal.

Up first, you aim your weapon just in time to face his expression.

Those wide eyes.

You have the perfect shot.

And yet…

You hesitate.

Time bends as you vascillate between decisions, your moral compass going haywire and refusing to align with any direction. Electricity fizzes and pops while another patch of your ceiling falls, but neither of you move.

Spare him. End it. Kiss him. Finish the kill.

Your heart squeezes the trigger.

And you fire at the light fixture above him before fast limping out to your garage.

Curses ring in the falling shards while you make your getaway, fingerpainting the walls with swift red strokes.

Get there get there get there.

Jimin won’t be far behind.

Ripping open the back door, you grit through the pain while swinging a heavy hand onto a glowing pad.

After the blooming beeps, you swipe in a password before hitting Floor, and find ponderous support on the door while you wait.

Breathe. Breathe. Holy shit, everything hurts. Breathe.

At your feet, the solid garage foundation slides open to reveal a car rising on a platform.

The other McLaren that Jimin didn’t launch off the nearest cliff.

Lamenting the leather interior already, you drag yourself to the drivers side with a series of groans, swiping a roll of wrappings and a couple gun magazines from a counter along the way.

Run run run.

He’s probably right behind.

In seconds, you’re zooming out of the driveway.

And with a bruised as fuck heart, you blast holes in Jimin’s motorcycle wheels for good measure.

tbc. :)

what do we think bc i already wanna fight this man lol | join the taglist!

a/n: thank you all for reading! if you did enjoy, please interact however you can! even a like is okay at this point, but all tags, reblogs, comments, and messages are super super appreciated :D see you at the droppppp hehehe ⇥ masterlist ⇥ writing updates board

#here we gooo!#bts fic #bts imagines #bts reactions #jimin fic #jimin x you #jimin x reader #pjm fic #in which both parties are stupid and attractive and despise one another lol #bts smut #bts angst #jimin angst #jimin smut #ryenwrites #*latest #*ryenfictalk #*teasers

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unoislazy · 10 months

Text

Masterlist

Oldest to newest

(The only things out of order are the Headcanons which can all be found at the same spot, specifically for BES)

If I did it correctly you should be able to click the underlined places and they’ll send you right to the story!

Special Information

Request Information

Y'all will never believe what I forgot to add

RDR 2

How To Aim

Arthur Morgan x Reader

One Part

Th actual fic that started it all

————————————————————

HTTYD

Question? What Question?

Hiccup x Reader

Part 1

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: Hiccup accidentally lets it slip that his father is expecting him to ask someone a question. Who could that someone be… and what’s the question?

Part 2

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: You and Hiccup go out to figure out where that smokes coming from. You decide to return back to Berk to tell Stoick what you saw. However, Stoick had other plans in mind.

Somethings Off About That Boy

Hiccup x Reader

Part 1

Word Count: 1k

Summary: Hiccup has always been weird but lately he’s been acting… weirder than usual. What could he be hiding? Maybe you should try to find out on your own. Who knows, maybe he’s just going to the woods to make weird outfits.

Hiccup Haddock Headcanons

Word Count:459

Hiccup x reader headcanons : just general ones, no specific focus.

What Can Never Be

Hiccup Haddock x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: You and Hiccup fight together during the battle against Drago Bludvist, what could go wrong?

Warning: a bit of angst

Trapped With You

Hiccup x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: if you’re prone to second hand embarrassment this one’s gonna be a doozy

A Dragon Trappers Fate

Eret son of Eret x Reader

Part 1

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: You’re forced to tag along on the quest to find Hiccup after he went off, determined to find Drago. While you there you happen to stumble across a certain dragon trapper. You feel… weird when you look at him. Why?

Part 2

Word Count: 1.7k Words

Summary: you thought you’d only have to see Eret once and never again, that way that weird feeling you got when you looked at him would disappear. Well, turns out you need him again so you an find out where Drago Bludvist is located. No one better to interrogate than a dragon trapper.

Just Talk To Me!

Hiccup x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: You and Eret have gotten pretty close due to your constant fighting practice. Of course, a certain chief isn’t too happy about it but he has a bit of trouble trying to tell you this.

The Outsider

Hiccup Haddock x Reader

(Shocker I Know)

Part 1

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: You wound up on the shores of Berk after something… had happened to you. Thankfully someone had found you and reported your presence to the Chief.

————————————————————

Blue Eye Samurai

Spar With Me

Mizu x Reader

Part one

Word Count: 2.7k

Part Two

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Not much sparring actually happens this time. But you still somehow wind up in an embarrassing position.

Disclaimers: light language, has not been proofread, shorter and way more embarrassing than the last chapter

Part Three

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: after dealing with a situation in town, Mizu helps you calm down a bit.

Disclaimer; a small bit of violence

Healing Takes Time

Injured! Mizu x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 4.9k

Summary: you’re just a simple healer minding your business, avoiding a fight that had broken out along your street when suddenly an extremely wounded strange man ends up at your door.

Disclaimers; very soft angst, nothing too bad.

Part Two

Jealousy Looks Good On You

Mizu x Jealous!Reader

One Part

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: You and Mizu have been close friends for quite some time. You truly enjoyed each others company, that was until Taigen showed up.

Disclaimers; light language, has not been proofread, I am currently delirious from packing and moving all day but I had to write this out to feed the starved mizu lovers. A fair amount may not make sense at this point in time. My apologies ❤️

'Til The Caged Bird Sings

Mizu x Mixed! Fem! Reader

Part One

Part Two

Word Count: 3.9k

Content Warning: Contains violence and mentions of SA

Part Three

Cw: A bit bloody, mentions of SA

Headcannons

Mizu Dating Headcanons

Mizu Fluff Headcanons

Jealous Mizu Headcanons

BES Characters and pets

BES College Au

NSFW Mizu Headcanons

Fucking Brat

Mizu X reader

Part One

Disclaimer: light cursing obvious

Heated but no NSFW

Your Touch

Mizu x Reader

One Part

I lied, here's

Part Two

Fem! Reader

a bit heated, but doesn't go all the way

I Am No Coward

Mizu x Fem! Reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Art

Mizu Drawings 1

Mizu Drawings 2

Mizu Drawings 3

Mizu Drawings 4

Mizu Drawings 5

Mizu Doodle (w/ Progress picture)

Mizu Drawings 6

Mizu Drawings 7

Mizu Drawings 8

Mizu Drawings 9

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penvisions · 6 months

Text

by the grit of sandpaper {chapter 3}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader

Chapter Summary: With the overnight patrol behind you, it's now time for your annual leave from the roster altogether. But Joel doesn't know that and you're hesitant to tell him, feeling like it would be the best for you two to get some distance. But as with all things involving the man, it was hard to keep the distance.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, illusions to past death, illusions to past trauma, blood, hurtful language, town gossip, rumors, negative feelings, pining, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, lots of feelings, slight angst, hurt and comfort, joel miller's hands need their own warning, two (2} instances of joel miller gently touching reader, intentional flirting, unintentional flirting, talk of pregnancy, casual intimacy, urges to kiss joel miller get their own warning, sexual content, masturbation (f and m), yearning, protective joel, tommy is a scheming lil brother and we love him for it, fluff, this is so unbelievably soft, reader is described as smaller than joel (bc c'mon), reader has a commonly used nickname but no assigned name, joel and reader pov

A/N: i'm not really back in wake of some bad comments and confrontational haters, but love y'all ♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

A knock on your door the next morning caught you bundled up and out in the backyard, the sound echoing throughout your empty house. It was small: a simple one with a larger than average kitchen, a living room, one bathroom across the hall from the bedroom, and a laundry / mudroom with a deep utility sink and a few cabinets of storage. It’s where you kept the tools for the garden, where you washed and prepped everything you managed to grow before moving it into the kitchen space. But you were on the modest back porch, a cup of steaming coffee cooling in the early morning air as you looked out at the trees that took up a good chunk of the large area.

Dragging your eyes from the one that looked like it was about at the end of its life, a large crack running down through the trunk, you heeded the knock at the early hour. Knowing it could only be one of four people.

“Was worried I woke you for a moment, you sleep okay?” Maria greeted you as she waddled past you and moved into the kitchen. She spied the other cups worth of contents in the coffee maker and sighed in longing. The scent of it heavy in the air, mixed with cinnamon you were apt to put in with the grounds before brewing. But her sigh turned into a delighted hum as she shifted her attention to the cooling pan atop the stove and moved closer to inspect the baked goods settled on it.

“Probably not much better than you, momma. How you feelin’?” You slid a plate to her as she began to pick pieces off from one of the flaky breakfast hand pies you had made. She placed the one she had begun eating along with another before following you to the large table that ran through the middle of the room. Setting it down and pulling out the chair for her, you helped her to lower into it. With a caressing touch to her swollen belly, permission given from her months ago, you began to set up a kettle for some tea.

“Big.” She stuffed a large bite into her mouth, eyes fluttering at the taste of the filling. Crumbs of the flaky crust sticking to the front of her shirt, jacket having been shrugged off. “Olive, these are fantastic. Is there anything in here I shouldn’t be eating?”

“I wouldn’t have let ya get your hands on it if that were the case. Just bacon and onion jam, eggs, a little bit of milk, and a whole bunch of thyme. Nothing too bad.”

“Nothing too bad, my ass. You should totally make these for the mess hall on your next shift.”

Another knock on the front door stole the words from your mouth and you looked to the woman who all of a sudden had great interest in picking the crumbs from where they had fallen.

“Maria, what is this?”

“Can’t I call on a fellow morning bird without ulterior motives?”

“You could, but you didn’t this time around. I don’t get many visitors so I wonder who you- Oh! Good mor-morning, Joel.” Surprise overtook you as you were suddenly face to face with the man over the threshold of your front door. He was bundled up as well, though his hair was wet, slicked back and shining in the early morning sun peeking over the mountains.

“I just figured we could all chat about the Teton route.” Maria’s voice carried from the kitchen. But it didn’t break the stare you could feel as Joel’s eyes took in the apron you had thrown on earlier.

“Mornin’.” He rumbled, a hand reaching out from within his jacket pocket to swipe at your cheek. His touch burned, but you were frozen in place at such a forward action so early in the day. Lips parting as you tried to pull in a breath but you were sure all you managed to do was huff out what air was already in your lungs. “You got a lil flour or somethin’.”

“O-oh, um, thank you.” His hand lingered, the back of his knuckle dragged down your cheek and then the finger curled around the neckline, tugging slightly. Nerves sparkling as you felt the warmth from his hand so close to your neck, you could only swallow as his eyes finally met yours with a playful grin displaying that damned, endearing dimple normally hidden in his scruff.

“Never seen you so homey before, it’s a good look on you.” His voice was tipped low, just for you and you felt your stomach lurch. When you didn’t say anything, just continued to stand there caught like a fly in his trap, he chuckled and asked if you were going to let him inside. It was then you realized he had inched closer, crowding you in the doorway, with his hand still around the strap of fabric over your neck.

“Oh! Of cour-course, I’m so sorry. It must be the early hour taking my manners.” But you knew he wouldn’t believe that for a second, he knew you were a morning person. Something you had revealed to him on patrol. Just like he had revealed to you that he took any opportunity to sleep in, apt to hit snooze an embarrassing about of times if the sound even reached him. You had both laughed at the polarizing tendencies, ribbing each other about it throughout the day. It had been a good one, free of the underlying…tension of whatever had shifted when you had pressed your lips to his injuries. Something you would take back if it meant cutting the undercurrent of whatever had befallen your interactions.

“There’s, um, breakfast hand pies and one last serving of coffee,” You spoke as you turned your back on him and went to retrieve your own mug from the porch.

After the shuffle of greetings, of ushering Joel to take a seat at the table. You plated up two of the hand pies and poured the last of the coffee for him, setting it down in front of him with a small smile before fetching the whistling kettle and preparing a cup of tea for Maria who was already a bite into her second pastry.

“Now, the horse you two lost.”

Joel made a surprised sound, mouth biting into one of the pastries on his plate.

“It was my fault.” You rushed out before Joel could even respond around his mouthful. His eyes flicked to you across the table where you had finally taken a seat, watching as you willingly took the blame for the unfortunate event. “I wasn’t quick enough taking down the Infected that were coming at us. Two of them had set their sights on her, with all the noise she was making while another went after Joel on the ground.”

“And there was no use of anything other than the shotgun?”

“That’s correct.”

“Joel, do you agree with her synopsis?”

“Yes. She acted fast, but there was no way Kiana was gonna make it back, she had been freaking out the second they came outta the tree line, most likely would’ve run off.”

“She always was easy to spook, that’s why she was designated as your horse, calmed her down and got her to focus.” It made sense, Joel was a very level headed person, capable of gently focusing someone should their minds or attention wander.

“I wish every incident discussion was this lovely. No arguing, good food, people who don’t want to go around in circles. You two are truly one of the best pairs we have on the roster.” Maria stirred in a bit more honey into her tea, taking a sip as she looked you both over.

A nervous laugh bubbled up from you as you dug into your own pastry, unaware of them sharing a look.

“This is amazing,” Joel offered, reaching for the kitchen towel folded atop the table to clean his hands off. “You should make these your next shift at the mess hall.”

“I just told her that, imagine the buzz they would cause.”

“They’re not all that special.” You muttered, shoulders rising as you felt rather put on the spot.

“This filling, these onions? It had to have taken a lot of concentration to reduce them down so soft but not mushy. Take the credit where it’s due.” Joel hummed his agreement as he reached for his mug.

“You’re off patrol this week and next, to do your annual thing.” Tommy announced as he sat beside you, his tray thudding against the top of the table, laden down with food from this mornings offerings.

“I can still patrol and get what I have to done.” You didn’t look up from the notebook you were writing in, trying to map out the way you were going to turn the harvest of the olive trees in your backyard into. If you were being honest, patrol twice a week wasn’t so bad with the added allure of Joel Miller. But it would be hard to juggle it paired with the time of year. Every autumn you took out your dirtiest, most ratty pair of overalls and got to work picking the fruit from the trees. Taking your time to sort them, wash them, turn them into oil and pickle some of the others. It was just you, hands aching at the end of the day from spending it all at your kitchen table with various tools. But you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The kitchen was your happy place. Even after the end of the world. Or maybe in spite of it.

But this year, you didn’t want to miss out on patrol, normally taking the two weeks off to sort everything out and give all your attention to the gift of fruiting trees. Even if…you felt like it would be good for you to get some space from the man you felt in every other thought. The past two weeks had yielded quiet patrols, just the passing of a thermos between hands. You were sure you had overstepped a line by pressing your lips to his face, lost in the moment of adrenaline and want after those Infected had tried to turn you both.

His eyes were heavy on you when he thought you weren’t looking, but searching for what you didn’t have the faintest clue. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to bring it up and let you down gently. Tell you that he hadn’t appreciated your affections that way. Whatever went on behind that handsome, rugged face you hadn’t a clue.

“We both know that’s a mighty lie,” He stuffed an overfull spoon of grits into his mouth, humming around it as he pointed the utensil at you. “Didn’t you say this would be the last year for one of them?”

Sighing, you set the pencil you had been writing with down. Trading it for the cup of coffee in front of you.

“Unfortunately, the trunk spilt when we had those winds come through in February. I’m surprised it bloomed any fruit to be honest.”

“It’s a fighter, like it’s caretaker.”

“Oh hush, tryna flatter me.”

“Don’t you know it.” He winked, cheeky smile growing wider underneath his mustache as his eyes caught sight of something over your shoulder. You were about to turn to see what had him so delighted when a pair of hands placed a tray right next to you. The burly form of Joel huffed as he settled into the seat beside you.

“Mornin’.” He greeted, placing plate of toast in front of you, his hand momentarily brushing against yours before he dug into his own food. You felt heat bloom up your neck and across your cheeks as Tommy feigned a cough to cover up a snicker. Joel leveled an unimpressed stare at the man, an eyebrow cocked and a warning in his eyes. You pretended not to see it, busy slathering a piece of the gifted toast with some butter left out on the tables for the breakfast service.

“Good mornin’, brother.” Tommy lilted, face lit up with something you were hesitant of. Scheming, the man was scheming, up to absolutely no good. And you had a hunch it involved not only you but the man beside you. Taking a bite of the toast, you noticed the way his face twitched before he started whatever he was up to. “How are you today?”

“Fuck off, Tommy.” The older man didn’t even look up from his plate, knowing from years of experience that his brother was aiming a mischievous look his way. “I gotta list a mile long of stuff to do this week and next, don’t have time for whatever else you’ve taken on.”

“That’s a shame,” He took another heaping bite, chewing it thoughtfully as he looked between you both, taking in the way neither of you were willing to look at the other. “Sorry, Olive. Looks like you’ve gotta fell that tree on your own.”

“That’s okay. I’m a big girl, did it the year before last and I’ll do it again this time around.” You downed the last two gulps of your coffee. Gathering up your notebook, you shoved out of your chair and stood, preparing to walk away. But he scrambled, quick on his feet and determined. Joel glanced at you, a parting nod the only indication from him.

“Well, seeing as you’ll be off patrol the next two weeks, that should give you enough time to take care of it.”

“Tommy!” You whirled around on your heel, eyes wide. You hadn’t wanted Joel find out this way, from his trouble making little brother with you right beside him.

“What’s he talkin’ about?” Joel turned with a loaded fork halfway to his mouth. Forgotten in wake of the sudden news. He looked taken off guard, shock coloring his features as he looked to you for answers.

“Didn’t she tell you, brother?” Tommy set his own fork down, tray nearly empty now. “Olive always takes this time of year off to tend to the trees. Harvest and make that lovely oil you see everywhere around town.”

“That’s yours?” His eyes danced around the mess hall, taking in the incriminating glass jars atop every other table. The light green contents revealing the literal fruits of your labor. The hours you would spend hunched over your own kitchen table working away on ensuring everything was perfect. He looked down to the warm plate of food in front of him, the roasted potato hash and scrambled eggs. “You’re the reason the town has cooking oil?”

“Yes, it is.” Feeling pleasure flutter at his impressed tone, you knew your voice had taken on a breathy quality. If Tommy’s growing grin was any indication, his teeth sparkling as he watched the two of you across from him. Joel had turned completely in his chair to face you, while you had pivoted your body in his direction. Both of you undoubtedly drawn to each other even in the most casual of ways.

“What are you gonna do with the wood? Didn’t you burn it and mix the ashes into the soil last time?”

“Yes, I did.” You gripped the notebook tight, fingers aching from the pressure. “It helped to reduce the acidity of the soil and ward off slugs from targeting the blooms once spring came around.”

“Well, uh, I can come by and lend a hand. If you needed it, but I don’t want to intrude if you’ve got it all under control.” Joel ran a wide palm over the back of his head, fingers brushing through the curls as he offered his help in a round about way. Something you suspected Tommy had anticipated. It took you a second to process his words, remembering the feel of his hair tangled around your own fingers. It had been soft despite a days’ worth of travel and an overnight stint atop a dusty mattress. You wondered how he cared for it, what it looked like slicked back fresh from the shower, water dripping from the ends of it and-

“Oh, that’s okay!” You shuffled on your feet, shaking the rather intrusive thoughts and not wanting to burden the man with another task. “You just said you’ve got a lot to do, don’t want to add to it.”

“I could shuffle a few things around, clear up an afternoon to come help ya out.” He insisted, something smoldering in his dark eyes. His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he regarded you carefully, as if he had noticed the lingering gaze on his movement. He shifted to pull that damned little note pad of his own from his back pocket and flipped it open. Looking over the long list penciled on the page.

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You don’t have to do that, Joel.” You waved your own notebook at him, hoping he realized you kind of wanted the space from him. Kind of needed it, actually. To get the image of his softened face out of your head and the ability to look at him without feeling a jolt of desire strike through your body. Space would probably be good, would allow you to reign everything in and be better equipped to ride alongside him once again. The lines had begun to blur and they needed to be defined.

“It’s no problem, I can-“

“It’s really okay, I can handle it. But uh- th-thanks for the offer.” You scurried away before he could add your name to the list among his other tasks. “More important stuff to tend to than a me-measly tree.”

“I really don’t’-“

“I’ve got it.” You called over your shoulder, leaving the two men to their breakfast.

The second you were walking through the door, Joel rounded on the younger man. The shit-eating smirk was securely in place among his brother’s features across the table. Irking Joel further.

“Shut up.”

“Oh brother, you got it bad.”

“Shut up, Tommy.”

“C’mon, she could really use the help. It’s just her.”

“No one offers to pitch in? The other women with personal gardens all help each other out.”

“It’s the age gap. Olive’s about a decade or so younger than them.”

Joel contemplated his brother’s words, thinking back on the thinly veiled disdain Marsha had voiced to him the last time he had been tending to the woman’s home. He knew you were younger, but he hadn’t anticipated it causing any problems with the rest of the settlements occupants just how it wasn’t the cause of any between you and him. At least, not any real problems. Age was just a number nowadays, if you were alive, you were alive. If you weren’t well, you weren’t. Friendships and connections blooming between people regardless of age and backgrounds in abundance as people clung to what they could in order to survive.

“Does anybody ever…talk about her to you?”

Shifting from annoying little brother to something more serious, Tommy looked over his brother as he chewed the bite he had just taken.

“What do you mean?”

“Marsha seemed to insinuate that Olive is common topic of discussion.”

“Marsha doesn’t like Olive. Never has.” Tommy scowled, stabbing at a chunk of potato rather harshly.

“Does it have to do with the patrol you won’t tell me about?”

“…yeah.” Tommy was suddenly very interested in the rest of his food, ignoring the look he could feel Joel pinning him with from across the table.

“Tommy.”

“Her old patrol partner was someone she showed up with, when we first brought her here. He and Marsha’s daughter got on quickly, were engaged within a year and planning on havin’ a kid or two.”

Joel was silent as he picked at his food. Marsha’s daughter, Millie, didn’t have any kids or a husband that he knew of. The two women sharing a home close to his.

“They blame her for what happened.”

“What did happen?”

“Joel, you’ve gotta ask your girl that. It’s not my place to give details.”

“She’s not my girl.”

“But you want her to be, c’mon, I can see it plain as day.”

“We are not talking about this.”

“I think she likes you back. But it’s hard to tell since she doesn’t get a lot of interaction around town aside from when she’s trading or cookin’.”

“She don’t like me like that. We’re just…friendly.”

It wasn’t friendly the way Joel took advantage of any reason to touch you. From soothing minor injuries, to brushing his fingers over yours as he passed you something, to brushing things you tended to smear along your cheek. Just to hear the hitch of your breath and to witness the way your eyes widened. It wasn’t friendly the way you were the last thing he thought of at night and the first thing he thought of when he woke up. It wasn’t friendly the way his gaze lingered on you while out on patrol or when he caught sight of you around town.

It wasn’t friendly the way he spent hours in his workspace sketching out designs and carving into wood in the hopes that you would enjoy what he was creating.

It wasn’t friendly the way he didn’t engage with you for worry of making you nervous, like he noticed he had begun to do. Stuttering every other word around him and others in a habit he couldn’t figure out was his fault or something you were just prone to do. It wasn’t friendly how he wanted to see if it was just him that caused it, wanted to see how quickly words would fail you completely if he were to focus his attention on you in a more than friendly way…

But his brother didn’t know anything about that.

Never one to miss out on the chance for a slow morning, you allowed yourself to wake up naturally.

The sun was just beginning its descent from the highest point in the sky, peeking in through the drawn blinds of your bedroom.

Your body was warm underneath the covers, sleep making your mind take the sensation and let it influence your dreams.

A large body hovered over you, looming like the mountains around the settlement. Protective, a sight to behold at any time of day, as steady as the day turns to night. But the body was so much closer, pressing your back down into the mattress, making your head spin with the heady feel of it.

Thump, thump, thump.

Heart beating hard as pleasure coursed through your veins, brought to life by the feeling of fingers smoothing over your skin. Trailing down over your belly button and through course hair to find your slick folds. Delving between them, parting them, caressing over your fluttering core and then in, producing an obscene sound as they filled you up. Another set of fingers gentle nudging that little bundle of nerves to light your body up even further, heat encompassing you, suffocating you as they quickened their pace.

Thump, thump, thump.

Your heartbeat was harsh in your ears, roaring loud and with a jolt, you realized it wasn’t your heart. It was the sound of someone knocking on your front door.

Eyes flying open, the phantom sensations of being pinned down, of thick fingers caressing the most intimate parts of your body, of the rasped-out nickname in a voice that wasn’t real were ripped from you. You were alone in your bed, your hands the only ones bringing you pleasure.

“Olive?” The faint call of that deep voice your mind had tried to convince you was whispering sweet nothings in your ear was down the hall and on the other side of your front door.

What was Joel Miller doing calling on you in the middle of the day, effectively splashing a bucket of cold water over you as you realized you had been fantasizing about him as you touched yourself.

Embarrassment and guilt squashed the pleasure that had been consuming you, lingering tingles making it hard to clear the fog of your sleep hazed mind. Throwing on the robe hanging on the back of your bedroom door, you took a deep breath to steady yourself before approaching the door he knocked on again.

He must’ve been preparing to walk off when you swung your door open, his back to you and a hand on rubbing on the back of his neck. He turned back at the sound, eyes taking in the disheveled form you were sure you made in your doorway. It was the afternoon, and here you were in a robe and hardly anything else, being pulled from your bed.

“Oh, hey- you were sleeping.” His eyes quickly averted, a hand waving at you as a blush crept up along the apples of his cheeks. You wondered what had him so flustered, his hands clenching and unclenching just below the sleeves of his jacket.

“I should’ve been up already, it’s okay.” You said quietly, taking in the bulk of him on your small stoop. It was a little disorienting, mind imagining him and now being faced with him so close. “D-did you need-“

“Was coming by to see if you needed any help with taking down that tree Tommy mentioned.”

You fell silent at the way he cut you off, his words low like your own, as if he was frustrated.

“Cause if you did all you had to do was ask.”

“I-I didn’t want to add to your list, that little notepad is always so full of-“

“I offered too and you said no. But you’re not even doing what you took the time off for.”

“Excuse me?” You leaned back from him, worry and your own annoyance flaring. Just because you took one morning to yourself didn’t mean you were shirking your responsibilities. His words hitting too close to the wound that everyone else’s had dug close to your heart.

“You take the time off every year, which you didn’t tell me about. Tommy blurted it out to get some sort of satisfaction out of your miscommunication and you’re not even taking care of the trees.”

“Joel-“

“You know what, just, never mind. I’m heading around back to take care of it for you. Go back to bed.”

And then he was stomping down the steps and rounding the side of your house. The gate creaking open to signal his entrance to your backyard.

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me, Mr. Miller.” You mumbled as you shut the front door and moved back to the bedroom. Dressing in a ratty pair of jeans and a long-stained t-shirt in a rush. Putting up your hair as you walked into the back room to retrieve the axe he would need for the work he took it upon himself to do.

It was hard not to stare, your eyes glued to the man as he expertly wielded the axe and chopped down the damaged olive tree. He had shrugged off his flannel after trimming it of the few branches that stretched from the trunk, leaving him in just the t-shirt he donned underneath. A crisp white that displayed the sweat on the small of his back and between his broad shoulders. A crisp white that displayed the bulge of his biceps as he worked. A crisp white that fell just over his waist and billowed up to catch on the spiral top of his notepad peeking out from his back pocket. A crip white that now displayed his rather toned backside to you free from obstruction…

Shaking your head, you continued to pick the fruit from the others. There were three rows of about ten trees, the one you were worried about in the middle of it all. Your movements made you feel like you were slowly circling around him, honing in on the man taking out whatever frustrations he had on the plant. Until everything was gathered, and you retired back inside as the sun beat down what little warmth it still had this late in the season.

The fruit was already washed in the utility sink, resting in strainers set over ratty towels to dry atop the long table in the middle of the room. A record played in the living room, soft guitar and brass filling the space.

Sighing, you poured yourself a few fingers of whisky and then a few into a second glass as you heard the thud of the axe being set against the wall in the back room and steps heading your way.

“Joel, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how.” You offered one of the glasses to him, taking in the way he swiped at his sweating forehead with the back of his arm.

“I know…I’m-I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I’m sorry too.” His fingers brushed yours as he took the peace offering. But he didn’t drink until you lifted your own glass and clinked it to his. “Just…wanted there to be a reason why you weren’t by my side for a little bit.”

Stepping forward to run a hand down from his shoulder to elbow in a comforting move, you motioned him to follow you.

Through the hours of the afternoon and into the evening, you explained the difference between the colors of the fruit. The flavor profiles of each, of how you always sorted even portions of the harvest out for oil, for pickling, for the raw fruit to be shared with the town. You walked him through the process of turning a small batch into a paste, straining it over and over again to produce the oil. Two pairs of hands slick with it as he helped you after he had asked how you managed to do it.

He had asked of your knowledge, prompting you to admit that it was all learned since arriving here and being assigned to the house with the trees in the backyard. That it hadn’t been something you carried with you beforehand. You asked after his woodworking, how it had turned into crafting small figurines.

And he answered much the same as you. Learned skills to help deal with and adapt to the slower way of life Jackson allowed you both to lead.

“You left one on the table.” His voice was right behind you, having followed you into the backroom. You turned to look at him over your shoulder before going back to placing the jars in your hand into a battered plastic crate. One was for the pickled and general olives, while another was for the oil you would make once the distraction of Joel Miller was gone from your kitchen. The only evidence of such from today’s activities in his hand.

“Oh, that one’s for you.”

“I couldn’t, you need it for trade. Everythin’ helps.”

“I insist, it’ll be good to have in your kitchen.”

“It’s just gonna sit there on the counter beside the stove.”

“Well, take it. Just in case.” You whispered. Noticing how close he had gotten in an attempt to hand the jar to you. He was close enough to smell the way the olive leaves had permeated his clothing. The perfume of the freshly chopped wood stained his skin in a heady way. You felt the counter dig into your hips, having unconsciously backed into it beside the deep sink.

“In case of what, sweetheart?” He lowered his voice to a raspy whisper, tongue peeking between his lips as he took in the way you had a smudge of dirt under your eye in the warm light of your kitchen bleeding into the backroom. His gaze snapped to his hand as you bravely tangled your fingers with his own. Feeling your lips curl into a playful smile, you leaned up and whispered into his ear.

“The food critic decides to play personal chef.”

Oh, he liked that. If the widening of his pupils was any indication, the way his breath caught in his throat and he swallowed as he pulled back a little to look over your face.

He leaned in to press a cautious kiss to your cheek, knowing there was no bruise or cut to disguise his move as anything other than the blatant want for it. The soft scratch of his mustache lighting you up.

Your breath fanned out across his face, skin prickling along his body at the warmth of it bouncing back to you. A small huff the only noise coming from you. His eyes flicked up to capture yours, and you felt your heart lurch. He was so handsome, his lips looked so plush and pink this close. There was no way he could’ve missed the way you had glanced down at them, how you were thinking of feeling them pressed to your skin in other places, of the way you pulled your own bottom one between your teeth at the thought.

He leaned in, sharing breath with you, his nose brushing against yours before-

The needle of the record player scratching across vinyl startled you both, jolting in response to the harsh noise breaking the bubble of tension surrounding you both. Your hands had flown up to grip his shoulders tight while his arms had wrapped around your back and pulled you to him. Heart thundering for a completely different reason now, you cast your eyes over his shoulder toward to the record player.

With nervous laughter you stepped away from the man and set about lifting it from the still spinning record. His eyes are on you as you replace the record with another, setting it up to play and then turning back around to him. Your heart still thumping in your chest as you watch him hold tight to the jar in his hand and dip his head to you in a departing bow.

He made sure it was well into the evening before enlisting Tommy’s help. The forlorn way you had looked at the pieces of the tree once it was no longer standing proud among the others had stirred an idea in his mind. He was going to take the thickest part of the trunk, because he wasn’t stealing it away. No. He was going to return it to you once he had cut it into slabs and let it dry. He was going to return it to you in the form of a cutting board, crafted from the beloved trees in your care and in honor of the namesake you’d adapted.

But it had to be perfect. He would practice on other planks and cuts of wood until he was able to craft one that would be good enough for you. Setting his mind and heart on the endeavor.

Once he was back home with the trunk set in room set up as his workspace, stepping out of the shower and collapsing into the bed, he let a lazy smile overtake him.

He may be tired, exhausted beyond his limits. But he wouldn’t have traded his afternoon with you for all the restful sleep in the world.

He couldn’t get the feeling of your lips against his skin out of his mind. The gentle pressure of them grazing over his injuries, the gentle pressure against the patch in his beard he had never been fond of until that moment.

“Fuck,” He groaned out, palm tight around his aching cock. He had woken up thinking of your lips on more of his body, trailing over his skin in sucking kisses, tongue laving at every inch. He had been leaking and hard, his hand around himself before he had even come to complete consciousness.

The very real image of you stood in your doorway clad in nothing but your robe, the way the swell of your breasts was visible with the way you must’ve thrown it on to answer his knocking. The way your eyes were cloudy, slowly clearing and your face slightly flushed, as if you had just been- he groaned deep from within his chest. It had looked like you had just been deep in the throes of pleasure, body overwhelmed with it and torn away by his calling on you. Hair mused and breath a little too quick, he wondered what you sounded like. Would you whimper softly or moan out loudly, would you be shy and cover your face with your arms or would you scramble for any purchase as it raced through your body, swelling up to consume you.

He pumped his hand slowly now, reveling in the feeling stirring low in his gut. The strikes of pleasure moving through him as he recalled the way you had felt against him as you both rode back on your horse.

The way your hip had felt in his hands as he had tried to steady himself. His mind taking the thought and running with it, the imagining the way he would grip you from behind. You down on your hands and knees, legs parted to make room for him to fit between them, thrust against you as deep as he could, your keening-

He choked on his own breath as the sheer force of his release hit him, sudden and overwhelming. Spurts of pearlescent cum coating his hand and dripping over his knuckles.

Euphoria filling him up with satisfaction, his body humming with it until the guilt slammed into him.

He just fucked his fist to the thought of you. His patrol partner. His…friend. The woman he couldn’t get out of his mind even if his life depended on it.

Catching his breath, he looked out the window across from his bed. Stars glittering at him through the curtains as if they know all the dirty things that had just run through his mind, sharing in his secrets.

The only small blessing of his complete lack of self-control and oversight is that he doesn’t have to ride alongside you today on patrol.

“I’ve got the first batch of the season,” You announced as you walked through the doors of the small makeshift market. It was right along the main street, a few fronts down from the mess hall and the Tipsy Bison.

“Oh, lovely!” The man at the back counter praised, clearing a space atop it for you to put down the delivery.

“Marsha.” You nodded toward her in greeting, uncomfortable with the way her eyes had followed you through the few aisles after letting the man go over the contents of the crate. Another nod to her daughter, standing right beside her with a small wicker basket full of root vegetables. “I’ve got a jar in there for you, with the garlic you managed to salvage from the garden.”

She didn’t say anything, looking for all the world like her voice had been stolen from her. A small nudge from her daughter jostled her and she seemed to find it.

“Thank you, Olive. That was…very sweet of you to think of me.”

“Of course, anything to be of help.”

“Yes, of course.” She repeated your words, trailing off as she noticed a figure across the street. Her eyes tracked their movement but when you turned to see what had caught her attention there was no one there. Suddenly she was speaking your actual name and it roused your nerves to life. “You…do so much for the town, I just wanted you to know that we all appreciate the time you take each year to handle the harvest.”

“O-oh, well, um, thank you, Marsha. That’s very k-kind of you to say.”

“Momma,” Millie whispered, taking ahold of the older woman’s arm. Something in her voice you couldn’t quite get a read on. Taking that as your queue to cut off the rather awkward interaction, you waved at them and began to head back up to the counter to collect the items you had requested in exchange for the crate of jars. Your ears were strained, trying to catch the hushed words the women shared behind your back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I realized how…unfairly we speak about her. Someone convinced me to apologize to her.”

“She doesn’t deserve apologies, she’s the reason-“

“Millie, we need to work on moving past that. It’s been five years now. We can all live alongside each other with the understanding of what happened.”

“No, momma, you may be ready to forgive her but I’m not. She got my Aiden and I’m not going to let her drag down Joel too.”

“He was the one who told me to be nicer to her, just trying to appease the lovely man.”

Any good feelings of a successful harvest and two weeks of working countless hours to jar, pickle, and transform the fruit from your trees vanished. The awkward yet positive sentiment from one of your more…complicated social connections going down with it at Millie’s angered words. You tried to muster up a smile for the man at the counter, taking the crate back from him with the trade items but you weren’t sure if you were able to. Not turning to look at the women, you exited the shop and made your way straight back home despite the list of errands in your pocket.

Of course Joel had caught wind of the way people spoke of you.

Heard it from Marsha herself, the source of all your troubles despite having done everything in your power to counteract the bad you had brought down on the town with your incompetence. He had put his own reputation at stake by sticking up for you and you only hoped it didn’t affect the way he was received. He was so important to the town, achieving far more than you in what he provided and brought in his skill set.

You didn’t want him to feel even a fraction of what you did as you navigated life here in the settlement. The pitying looks cast your way, the whispered words of what people felt entitled enough to voice, the way you seemed to only be good for one thing and it was the crop in the backyard of the house you had been assigned by pure circumstance.

The crate thudded atop the table where you thrust it harshly, frustration controlling your movements as you moved through the small house back to your room. Shucking off and resisting the urge to hurl your boots toward the closet you sighed as you felt tears prickle your eyes. They rolled hot down your cheeks as you curled up in the covers and gave up on what was supposed to be a good day.

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a-edgar-allan-hoe · 2 years

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Wild Horses

Part 3

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Doctor!Reader, other characters x reader

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 4

A/N: Part 3 is finally here y’all! Sorry it took such a while to finally upload, I have been extremely burnt out and needed some time to recharge after completing my semester. Therefore I have made this chapter extra long! Also sorry if it in any way feels rushed, I tried to get this posted as soon as possible since it has long been due. Let me know if you would like some more dynamics between the reader and the other characters. As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated, I love hearing y'alls thoughts and things that you enjoyed! (Also this chapter contains a surprise guest!) 💜💜💜

Summary: Imagine being the new physician assigned to the team and a certain masked individual takes a new keen concealed interest in you. The two of you are too awkward to function.

Warnings and notes: language, violence, blood and gore, fluff, angst, slow-burn, slight implication of past abuse.

(Quick Disclaimer: I am not a doctor nor have any professional knowledge or experience involving surgical procedures. I am just a student studying in the medical field who has just started taking courses that are more degree-related. So I apologize if some of the stuff may be inaccurate.)

🍂That night, the same night Ghost saw you on that roof, your face illuminated by the stars and the moon that seemed to pale in comparison to you, he had returned to his own quarters as stealthily as he had came. His presence had always gone unnoticed both to you and the others at this time of night, a time of night when even the nightingales had laid down to rest, exhausted from their song. When he settled himself in bed that night, his torso covered by his blanket and his arm propped up on the pillow to rest under his head, he could not sleep, staring at the ceiling just as he did the night before. His body begged for a moment’s rest, anything to let his consciousness slip away in order to escape the reality of this world in which only sleep could provide. But in spite of the efforts of his nervous system, his mind contested for a few more minutes of wakefulness, moments that would only turn into hours.

🍂There was always this unspoken battle within Simon Riley, a battle of peace and conflict, a constant struggle between giving in to the comforts of life and leaving everything behind, or preoccupying himself with his current line of work that seemed to be the only thing that kept his thoughts at bay. But starting a new life? That was something that was not cut out for him. His past was and will always be his present and his future. Society had no place for people like Simon Riley, and he it. I’m telling you, this man needs therapy, bad. And one hell of a vacation.

Never in a day of his miserable life did he know you would be thrown into the mix. You, a woman of better upbringing, a woman so delicate and blinded with hope, a woman who shared the warmth of her spirit with all whom she knew. And yet, here she was, wasting her time away in a place with the likes of them, where war consumed every living soul that ever crossed its path. God were you naïve, and completely fucking daft, he had thought to himself many times, a doctor like you leaving the hospital in the city for a place like this. Jesus. Either you were a complete fool or the military offered you a shit ton of money. Or perhaps it was your youth. After all, you were younger than the rest of them. He believed a woman of your degree should not be here amongst men like them. You were soft, tried too hard to see the good in people, and one day, one day, that might be your downfall.

Sometimes he’d find himself hoping you would transfer somewhere else. And the more he thought on the subject, the more he came to despise you being here, part of the reason why he avoided you in the first place. And yet, as the days went by, the man had developed a bit of a soft spot for you as they might say. But don’t tell him that or else he might just loose another one of his knives. Truth of the matter was, he had seen what war had done, even to the best of people. And with no disrespect, a young woman like you would get eaten up alive in a place like this.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he did not want to see you wound up in this chaos. So what would he do? He'd often times monitor your activity, and by that I mean he would on some occasions check up on you, in his own avoidant way of course, whether it be making sure you woke up by standing around the corner to see you trudge along to the coffee maker in your white coat, or catching you finish your shift when you left your office in the evening. By this time, you'd be surprised to know that he has grown familiar with part of your schedule, from when you leave your room and make yourself a cup of coffee in the morning before heading into your office, to what time you have your little lunch, down to the hour of the evening when you leave your office after your shift has ended. He calls it "running a constructive operation", but you and I both know what it is. Despite his cold, masked exterior, he's not completely heartless and does want to make sure you're safe, as with the rest of his teammates.

At the same time, your safety also depends on your environment, and there is only so much a few men can do. Perhaps it would be best if you were somehow convinced to go back to the states and leave, lest this place will end up devouring every last bit of vibrancy that radiated in you. And if that meant being callous towards you and making your time here a living hell, as if you did not belong, so be it. I know it sounds like he absolutely loathes you but I promise it only seems that way.

The man obviously has trouble sleeping, which was nothing new to him, a good nights rest was something of a rarity in his case. But now it was you he found inhabiting the walls of his mind, and frankly, he found it to be quite a nuisance. And as if to make matters worse, tonight it was your voice that haunted his thoughts, that siren-like voice that rung out softly underneath the pale moonlight as if he were a sailor awaiting to plummet to his death down into the abyss of the deep indigo waters below.

He needed sleep, desperately, and if he did not get it soon he might just go insane. That’s to say he isn’t already. And despite finding you to be the cause of the whole ordeal behind it, behind him not being able to shut his eyes and fall into a short-lived coma, you were still the only doctor here and just how was he supposed to go about that. Usually people go to doctors if they have trouble sleeping, but how the fuck was he supposed to go to you. He couldn’t just walk in your office and ask if you had anything strong enough to knock him out. Sure there was always alcohol but that meant dealing with a hangover and you most likely sending him a pamphlet about the dangers of alcoholism without even knowing like some kind of psychic. On the other hand, knowing how you were, if he were to mention his symptoms you would just ask him a bunch of questions. And then what was he supposed to say? That he couldn’t sleep because you tormented and occupied his thoughts??? Never. He decides it’s better to just deal with it.

And boy oh boy your singing did not help. You reminded him of the nightingales that used to nest in the tree outside his bedroom window in his childhood home. You and your guitar, singing your song out into the night for someone out there, whomever and wherever they were. The song and your voice an empty promise, a false hope for the things that never were and never might come. And yet, despite his slight demurral towards you, in the days to come, he came to find comfort in your voice, his feet finding their way to the rooftop to see if you would be there.

On the nights that you were there, he would sit against the wall away from your line of sight, hidden in the shadows and listening to your voice, the only thing that kept him sane and dare say, even bring him an ounce of peace. He would say it was to make sure you don’t pull anything stupid or draw unnecessary attention towards yourself. But truth was, though he could not see it within himself, maybe he was watching over you, making sure no harm came your way. Little would he know, that your voice and the serenity of your aura would soon come to remind him of home, of the days where it was just him and his mother and the nightingales perched on the tree outside his bedroom window, the sound of your voice lulling him to a much needed sleep that his body craved.

Now back to the current.

That next morning you had woken up from the sun shining down on your face, its rays hot against your cheeks as you squinted against the bright light, pulling your blanket over your head with a groan before bolting upright, eyes widened with alarm. Oh shit, what time was it? You look at the watch on your wrist, eyes widening even more to see that it was NOON????? It's fucking noon?

"Fucking shit." You let out a string of curses between your teeth, grabbing your things off the floor only to get up with a gasped groan from the sharp needle-like sensations that shot up your spine, your back hunched over like a shrimp with kyphosis. You wince, hissing as you attempt to straighten yourself out, letting out a couple ows from the cracking sound that came out from between your vertebrae. Boy were you an idiot. Never sleep on cement, now your hips and back feel like they were broken in by the Hulk and you're willing to bet there would be bruises.

You could have sworn you looked like one of those grandmas depicted in the cartoons, wincing almost each time you took a step. A frown pulled on your lips as you headed towards the door that led back to the building, opening it up and nearly whining at the sight of the stairs spanning out below you. "Fuck my life."

You make sure to take your time going down, not wanting to tumble down the steps and risk a broken limb or concussion only to have one of the men patch you up and risk getting an infection. It's not that you don't trust their handiwork......but you don’t. And the thought of having your prefrontal cortex accidentally removed shakes you to your core. Don't tell them that though, you'd probably hurt their feelings.

"Y/n." You hear someone calling your name in the distance, turning your head to see Price heading in your direction.

God damn it, out of all the people to see you in this state. Don't tell anyone but Price is your workplace crush. I mean if we're being honest the whole team is fine as hell. But you loved his snarky sense of humor, his kind eyes and smile, and the way his eyes seemed to disappear into these curved crescent-shaped lines whenever he smiled or laughed. And now as he stood in front of you, his bulky frame towering over yours. You're praying there aren’t any spots of snot on your face from the way you bawled your eyes out last night.

"Oh fuck me." You inaudibly curse under your breath, knowing damn well that to hope he doesn't notice how you literally look a sleep-deprived Quasimodo would be damn near impossible.

"Where've you been? I was beginning to get worried." Price asks, looking over your hunched state that oddly paired with your puffy eyes and face. "Jesus Mary Joseph. Are you alright?"

"Yup, it's just allergies." You nod your head with a strained smile. "Perfectly peachy."

"Do you need any help?"

"Nope! I'm fine." You hurry past him. "I'm going to take a shower so whoever is in there right now tell them to hurry up."

Price watches you go with furrowed brows, wondering whatever the hell happened to you before shaking his head with a shrug and heading towards the showers to make sure it was empty for you. During your time there, the team had sorted out to give you a designated time slot for when you preferred to bathe, wanting to ensure that you received your privacy because of there only being shared showers, something which was common with being in the military. They had even given your own designated shower head. But even then, you always went in and came out fully dressed with both your towels and your clothes, terrified with the idea of the men seeing you in nothing but a towel once you stepped out. Luckily for you, no one was in there when you had arrived. When you hurried in there with your fresh pair of clothes and towels bundled in your arms, that had to be the quickest shower you had ever taken, other than the times you almost slept through your alarms and missed your exams back in med school.

So by the time you step out of your room with your white coat, empty coffee mug in hand and your hair barely brushed through looking like Dr. Emmet Brown, you don't even bother to put on any makeup or concealer to hide the fact that you had been crying last night, you already had a late start to the day as it was.

Going over to the kitchen, you groggily place your mug on the counter, staring at the pasty tiles for a good minute to gather your thoughts and remember just what it was your were doing in the first place before turning on the coffee maker only to see that it isn't working. "You have got to be kidding me." Honest to god if I don't have coffee in the morning I will commit a felony.

"There's no use meddling with that." Price comes up beside you, watching the way you moved the small machine around and smacked the sides with your palms. "I'm afraid it's broken."

"Broken?" You turn to the older gentleman, trying your best to mask your annoyance at yet another misfortune to add to your list of shit that happened today so you don't get written up for having an attitude or whatever it is they do here for uncompliant personnel. "What do you mean it's broken?" What you mean to say is, how the hell are you going to get through the day without your daily dose of caffeine? You were not in the mood for a caffeine withdrawal, not now.

"You'll have to blame MacTavish for that." Damn this man just threw him under the bus no hesitation.

"Soap? How?”

"Bloke put the coffee grounds where the water is supposed to go."

"He put the.......what?" You squint with a scrunch of your nose, trying to picture the young Scotsman mixing up the steps for the coffee grounds and water before pinching the bridge of your nose with a shake of your head. It's too damn early for this. Bitch it's literally the afternoon.

“You look like shite.” Price teases you of your completely disheveled appearance. Honestly he thinks you look pretty cute in a I just had 15 shots of espresso and forgone a whole week’s worth of sleep kind of way. Price is the type of man to see you at your worst looking like a corpse from the grave and dig it, with some concern for your overall health and well-being of course.

“Gee thanks.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Happier than a kid at Disneyland.” You roll your eyes before slipping out a small groan, burying your head in your arms upon the counter and muttering something along the lines of how you’re going to euthanize yourself.

“Oi. There’ll be none of that, you hear?”

“Wait and see.” You mumble to yourself but Price hears it anyway.

“Cheer up. I got you something.” You hear Price say to you before hearing something being placed on the counter.

"Is it benzoylmethylecgonine?" You mumble out.

"What?"

"Benzoylmethylecgonine." Your voice is louder this time but still muffled from your arms.

"The fuck is that?"

".................cocaine."

"Jesus Mary Joseph." Price rolls his eyes. “You’re a character, you. Why don’t you give it a look eh?”

You slightly lift your head from your arms, peering over to see a cup next to you.

"For ya." Price smiles as he pushes the cup towards you, watching you stare at the thing with skepticism.

"Well. Go on."

"Is that-?"

"Coffee.”

"Yeah I know that but-“ you lift yourself up to stare at the thing with a tilt of your head. “where the hell did you get it?”

"From a small coffee shop down a couple blocks."

Right. "What kind is it?”

"Iced caramel macchiato. Heard you mentioning it the other day."

"Oh. You did?” You blink. "You didn't have to do all that."

"Eh it's nothin, my treat. The men and I needed our caffeine too, and well, since Soap broke the machine, we needed to get it one way or another.” All but Simon of course. Dude hates coffee.

“What, did you tell him he's buying?"

“No.” Price leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he stares off into the distance in thought. “Now that I think about it I should’ve, aye?”

"Poor Soap." You shake your head with a chuckle, grabbing the cup to take a sip. “Oh......oh that hit the spot.”

Okay remember when the boys were competing with giving you little gifts and I said that Price showed his appreciation for you in other ways? This is what I mean. He makes sure you’re taken care of and that your little needs and requests are met. Though rare as composed to Soap's little visits, he likes to stop in your office at times, peeking his head through your cracked door and asking if there is anything you need. This man’s love language is acts of service, I’m sure of it.

“Proper innit.” Price chuckles at your blissed expression.

“Hm. Chef’s kiss.” You take another sip of your coffee as you lean back against the counter, savoring in the cold, smokey, buttery liquid as it went down your throat.

“The hell is on your feet.” Price nods towards your shoes.

“They’re my crocs.” You give a hurt look, the ends of your lips pulled into a frown.

“They’re downright hideous.”

“They’re comfortable!!!” You defend. “I even put little buttons on it.” You lift one of your feet up to show him.

“Doesn’t make it any less hideous.”

"You should try looking in a mirror first before you come talking to me about what's hideous and what's not." You snark, a teasing tone in your voice that catches the older man off guard.

Price is stunned, mouth slightly agape as he is surprised to see such a statement come from a person as demure as you, and dare say even aroused, at being affronted by someone smaller than him. "You cheeky girl." Price shifts his weight, pressing his tongue against his molars before tightening his jaw. "You've got a sharp tongue on you."

"Don't insult my crocs." You lift your chin with a raised brow, a smug expression on your face as you lift your coffee cup to your lips.

As Price and you talked, Ghost had appeared in the far corner, his eyes lowered to the ground and not a single thought behind them before hearing the sound of Price's voice. Stopping in his tracks, he peers around the corner, not wanting to look conspicuous but also curious to see who it was the captain was speaking to, looking over to see the two of you together engaged in a conversation looking a bit too comfy.

The soldier froze, tensing at the sound of you laughing and Price……flirting? Was the man flirting with you? Ghost watched the way Price leaned in ever so slightly in your direction, a slight yet noticeable shift in his demeanor as he told you a joke, the way your cheeks swelled as you snorted, your smile hidden behind the cup held in your hands in an attempt to hold back a laugh, and the way he reached a hand out to adjust the collar of your white coat. He is not jealous he is not jealous he his not jealous. Once again, HE IS NOT JEALOUS. Looking away from the scene, he turned back around and headed back to where he came. He had no reason to feel threatened by the situation, it’s not like he felt anything towards you or if you meant anything to him. And yet, why did it irk him to see you laughing with Price like that.

That was the first he had heard you laugh, though as light and brief as it was. He could tell it wasn’t your true full-hearted laugh, the ones that left you gasping for air as tears welled up at the corner of your eyes. He had seen those laughs many times at the pub from the groups of friends that gathered together after a long day of work or when they had just left from a futbol match, times when he craved a glass of whisky. The laugh you had let out right now wasn’t one of those full chested laughs, this one was different, more timid, like fresh rain in the middle of spring, where fog blanketed and seeped through the meadows and trees, where dewdrops patterned themselves like mosaics upon the blades of grass and the petals of roses. This laugh was light and airy, crisp to his ears, and it had sent a slight shiver down the stone-hearted soldier that he had never once felt before.

He convinces himself that what he saw between the two of you was none of his concern and that who you fancy is none of his business, and yet why did he find your little interaction with Price to bother him? Better yet, why does he find himself wishing he had made you laugh instead?

It should also be mentioned that Ghost did not fulfill the task he had promised himself when he said he would throw away the Dum Dum lollipops you had given him last night, thinking your little form of bribery to be quite inane. What did you take him for, a child? Regardless of the many times he stared at those two pieces of candy with your little note next to them, your graceful and sophisticated handwriting a strange polarity to the bright and colorful wrapped candy often meant for children, curiosity had gotten the best of him, as well as midnight cravings.

And alas, with numerous stealing glances toward the lollipops and his mouth watering for just a quick sample, the man had given in. And let’s just say, he’s addicted. I mean, I was not lying when I said this man has the sweet tooth of Augustus Gloop. Also, he may or may not have snuck into your office the next morning to steal a lollipop or two, or three, before rushing out the door. So you should probably hide the those things before you walk in on an empty tray one day.

"Also, I wanted to let you know that Alejandro, Ghost, and Soap and I will be heading out on a mission later today. Gaz will be staying behind just to make sure nothing happens here while we're away." Price informs you.

"What time will you be back?"

"Not till late. If everything runs smoothly, there's no need to wait up for us."

“Geez. Will it be dangerous?” Your brows furrow at the center. You knew what their job entailed, but that didn’t stop you from worrying.

“Well that’s part of our job now innit.” Price smirks.

"Just………make sure to come back in one piece alright. I'm not trying to perform any amputations today." You scrunch your nose in a teasing manner, though your words mean more than what your voice gives away.

"Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours. We'll be back like before aye.” Price gives you a comforting smile, bringing his hand up to brush his thumb and forefinger against the bottom of your chin before dropping it back down at his side. Though the action was small and brief, an informal unveiling of the captain’s fondness towards you, that didn’t stop your face from heating up faster than a hot pocket in the microwave. You were sure one would burn their hands if they grazed your cheek.

The others had soon cluttered into the area where you were, chatting amongst themselves before turning towards you and price, the sudden group of movement causing you to clear your throat and step just the slightest inch away.

"Hey doc." The men greeted you, their faces brightening upon seeing you before glancing down at your bright crocs.

"The fuck are those?"

"Oh my god. Don't tell me you guys have never seen crocs before." You exhale, your voice coming out in a scoff.

"Why are they called crocs?" Soap questions, brows furrowed with confusion. You and me both Soap, I don't have a clue either.

"Looks like something my abuela would wear." Alejandro comments, a mischievous glint in his eyes at teasing you.

“Que te folle un pez (get fucked by a fish).”

Alejandra is stunned from the words that just came out from your lips, cocking his head back and tilting it as he looked at you with surprised amusement. He never knew you spoke Spanish. Maybe it came with being a doctor and being around people all the time. On top of that, was this the first time he had heard you curse? Was that a stroke of confidence he heard from your mouth? Was he offended? Was he turned on? He couldn’t tell.

But as Alejandro still stood there, silent against your remark, the others begin to wonder just what it was that you said that had him like this.

“Uh what’d she say?” Soap leans over to whisper to Alejandro, his eyes darting between the two of you as did the other men.

“Ahora, ¿dónde aprendiste una cosa así, eh? (Now where did you learn such a thing, huh?)” Alejandro nods his head towards you, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Conoces gente de todo tipo cuando eres médico. Y además, el idioma era parte de mi plan de estudios de todos modos. (You meet all kinds of people when you're a doctor. And besides, language was part of my curriculum anyway.)” You shrug your shoulders, taking a sip of your coffee as your eyes meet Alejandro’s dark ones over the lid of your cup.

Alejandro chuckles, pointing at you with a smirk. “Bueno, será mejor que tengas cuidado cariño. Palabras como esa pueden meterte en problemas. (Well, you'd better be careful, sweetheart. Words like that can get you in trouble.)”

“No te preocupes por mí. Soy una niña grande Me licencié y todo. (Do not worry about me. I'm a big girl. I’ve got a degree and all.)”

“What are they saying?” Soap asks again, this time to Gaz.

“How would I know?” Gaz hisses, obviously annoyed with not knowing what the two of you were conversing about. Were the two of you planning a date? Were you plotting a scheme? Were you making fun of the rest of the team? The boys definitely didn't like being left out from a conversation, especially from you.

“I didn’t know you can speak Spanish.” Soap turns to you.

“Well it seems here that our little doctora is full of surprises.” Alejandro comments, making you roll your eyes with a shake of your head.

“Right.” Gaz squints at you in a jest, adding on to the men poking fun at you. “Now really doc, what the fuck is on your feet?”

"Oh screw y'all, they're comfy for my feet alright." You roll your eyes at the way they tease you about your choice of footwear, though in all honesty, you're not able to hide the smile that tugs at the ends of your lips, that is until a certain someone appears.

Ghost is the last one to show up, hoping to have avoided your presence. But when he sees you still there leaning against the counter, his eyes lock with yours before looking away as if you had never even existed in the first place.

You're almost sure he hates you, chewing on the inside of your cheek from the way he looked you over like a speck of dirt on his boot before completely ignoring your being. You have no clue why he is the way he is around you, wondering if he had seen the note you left on his door. He has to have seen it right? He’s got to. And then it hits you, at least you think. Maybe your little detail of adding the lollipops had offended him, and you’re almost terrified to think what he thought of them. On top of that, he still had never bothered to show up for his blood results. So he truly was avoiding you on purpose, wasn’t he. You wish you knew the reason behind his avoidant behavior. Did he find you disgusting? Was that a possible reason? Had you somehow at some point offended him? Were you going to end up on his hit list? Maybe. Were you going to die some mysterious death by his hands tonight? Sounds likely.

“Alright you lot. Let’s get moving.” Price gestures the men to follow him before turning back to you. “We won’t be long. Gaz, you know the rules.”

“Yessir.” Gaz nods his head before stepping over to you, looking down at you drinking your coffee with a soft smile on his face. “I’m sure this day will go by smoothly.”

“Oof. Don’t jinx it.”

You wish he had not said those last words.

You had spent most of the day relaxing as Price had suggested when the men left, their gear strapped to their forms and their guns locked and loaded. A strange scene I might add, if one were to walk into the area of the building and see a group of bulky hardened soldiers and then you, a young woman in a white coat and scrubs and her special decorated crocs along with her vintage Donald Duck watch. You almost looked out of place with the war-ridden atmosphere.

When you had stepped into your office the first time that day, you were surprised to see a slight change in your usual environment, the lack of an apple at your desk. This absence, though small and what one might call insignificant, had saddened you to a certain degree. Though at first you found the little act to be annoying, of finding the red fruit there every morning placed upon your desk, as time went by, you had grown accustomed to it a bit. So when you noticed the absence of the apple after expecting to see it just like the days before, it had lowered your spirits. Though you did not know the meaning or intention behind the gesture or the person directly involved behind it, it had come to bring you a sense of security, a slight token of someone’s watchful eye over you. Or at least that’s what you believed it to be. Little did you it was just a simple act involving the confusion of idioms.

But imagine your confusion when in place of the lack of an apple, you instead find your tray of lollipops looking a little less full than it was yesterday. Had someone broken into your office or were you just loosing your mind. And as you inspect the little tray, you're even more surprised to find a distinct black, powdery substance smeared against the side of it, right on the edge. Using your thumb, you wipe it off the side of the tray, raising your hand to further inspect the foreign substance to see that it looks a lot like eyeshadow.

"Huh. That's strange."

Ooooooo someone just got caught.

With the men gone, all except Gaz of course, you went about reading more chapters of your book, lounging about on the couch in the common area before your nerves got the better of you and you decided to do some cleaning around the area, to which Gaz had offered some help, with much eagerness in his end. Gaz of course had kept watch, letting you lead the conversations as the two of you made small talk every once in a while before going back to your little tasks, you with your paperwork and inventory of medical supplies and Gaz with his patrol.

During the moments where the two of you did talk, you began to unravel little details about each other, details mostly involving Gaz since you still preferred to keep your walls up. You called it being professional, but those who were close to you would call it a fear to let others in. Perhaps they were right. After your father’s death, you had rarely let anyone in, sometimes not even your own self. And Gaz, being the sweet soul that he was, never pressured you to reveal anything you did not want to. He wouldn’t ask about your personal life or your past unless you offered to.

The more the two of you talked, the more you learned little things about the soldier that you never knew, like his love of the ocean and how he had wanted to become a marine biologist when he was a little boy, as well as how his favorite sea creatures were, and still are, sea otters and sea turtles. He had even mentioned how his favorite movie was Nemo growing up, with Crush being his favorite character. In fact, the movie was what inspired him to study in that field in the first place. He was extremely almost embarrassed to release that bit of info to you, scared that you might pass it on to the team and that he’d never hear the end of it. When that little bit of information slipped from his tongue, he practically begged you not to tell the others. So imagine his relief when you stick your pinky out in an offer to make a pinky promise on it. You honestly find it kind of cute.

As time dragged on and when the day had become night, when the sun had long passed the horizon to lay to rest, you had grown quite weary waiting for the men to return, and oh was there a sight waiting for them to behold once they did. Your little act of cleaning around the house had drained a good amount of your energy, eventually causing you to crash out on the couch with your head resting against Gaz’s shoulder. Your legs were curled up on the cushion of the sofa, your book placed open on your lap after Gaz had asked if you could read to him, curious about the story within the binding. But the late hour combined with the cleaning around had pulled a yawn from your chest as you read the pages out loud, your voice low and muzzy and your words drawling out as your eyes scanned the printed letters before another yawn escaped your lips, and another, then another, before everything became blurry and you slowly drifted off to a deep sleep.

Even Gaz, who was supposed to stay watch, had fallen asleep beside you, his head thrown back on the back of the couch and his mouth slightly parted as soft little snores escaped it. He was never one to fall asleep on duty, known for his control over his mental fortitude. But the poor soldier had soon followed suit, infected by by your fatigue as he too yawned after each time you did. In that time, he smiled down softly as he watched you grow tired next to him, resting your head unconsciously on his shoulder and chuckling at the sight of the thin line of drool that slipped from the corner of your mouth.

He almost felt relieved, and comforted to see this side of you, after having seen you do nothing but shove your nose into paperwork and files on top of staying on guard to take care of them and make sure no serious injury happens on your watch. And as he watched you, making sure to stay as still as possible as to not wake you, your soft breathing and the warmth radiating off your body had finally pulled him in, until eventually, his state of alertness fell limp, his head rolling back as he too drifted off shortly after you.

You don’t know long you had been asleep, nor did you know you had your face smushed up against Gaz’s shoulder, your lips parted slightly and your drool pooling into a wet spot on the fabric of his jacket. If you did, you don’t think you’d be able to look him in the eye from how embarrassed you’d be. Not only did you most likely cause his arm to cramp up and fall asleep under your weight, but you had also marked his shoulder with your saliva. And if the others were to see this, they would have a kick out of it, with Soap taking multiple pictures at unflattering angles and teasing the two of you for the days to follow. And in a short matter of time, they would have seen it, stumbling upon the scene if they had not burst through the front door like a team of SWAT.

The sound of the door slamming open and their shouts had startled you awake, their voices echoing through the front of the building and making you sit up in your seat.

“What the-“ you mutter out groggily, squinting against the dryness of your eyes and not even paying mind to how you had completely crashed out. Where they back?

“Sounds like trouble.” Gaz had also woken up next to you, quickly getting up from the sofa and rushing towards the commotion as you followed closely behind.

You almost froze at the scene, watching the men come into the area with their faces worn out and beaded with sweat and spots of blood. You knew what they were getting into, what their job required of them, yet seeing them return from the mission first hand had in some way unsettled you. Sure, you had worked in the ER during your residency. You had seen conditions far worse than this, patients suffering from injuries ranging of a varying degree as they were wheeled around, gruesome wounds that still at times scarred your memories till this day. And yet, why did this seem to daunt you far worse than anything you had seen in the emergency department. It's almost as if you forgot these men were killers, and you didn't quite know how to feel about that.

Alejandro had been the first to step into the area, carrying an injured Soap under his arm and helping the Scot walk next to him as he muttered some words of encouragement in Spanish.

“What-what happened?”

“Nada serio querida. No te preocupes. (Nothing serious love. Don't worry.)” Alejandro answers simply, groaning under Soap's weight and from his own injuries.

“Nada serio querida.” Soap copies what Alejandro had said with a limp in each of his steps, his face pale from the loss of blood from his wound as he gives you a smile to assure you that everything was in fact fine, though we all know this isn’t the case.

“Well it sure as damn well looks serious to me Alejandro.” You remark as you hurry over to help the man set Soap down carefully on a chair, your voice slipping the hint of your father’s accent, a small habit that revealed itself whenever you got upset over something. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to tread carefully around me, I'm not made of glass you know."

Alejandro fell quiet as he watched you try to examine Soap, taken aback by this more....authoritative side of you, not that he had any reason to be surprised, you were a physician after all and this sort of conduct was necessary especially since people's lives were in your hands. He had not intended to alarm or offend you, the reason why he said those words in the first place, but the situation itself had managed to speak much louder than his words could ever manage. And in this moment, maybe it's best to let you be in charge.

Your eyes scattered about the area as the others soon came through, focusing on each and every one of them to try to gauge both their mental and physical state. Ghost was the next to enter right after Price, his blackened eyes from behind his mask meeting your concerned ones for a brief and fleeting moment before looking away. The skull-masked soldier was supporting another man, another masked soldier you had not seen before, one whose stature towered over everyone around him, even Simon Riley himself, whom you have thought to be tall enough already. Y'all already know who it is.

“Sir-“ you spoke up to the troubled-looking captain as he walked up to you, your eyes studying the wounded and bloodied scene behind him. You don't know what the hell happened back there, but you didn't need to hear the details to know it wasn't good. “Is everything alright? The hell happened?”

“Y/n.” Price finally stood in front of you, his hand placed on your shoulder as means of reassurance, or even a way to steady his exhausted body as he turned back to his men, running his fingers through his beard before looking you in the eye. “We were ambushed. Suffered a few injuries but we got the most of em.”

“You sure? Y’all look like you took quite the beating.” You state lightheartedly but more so from a place of worry and sympathy. “Listen Captain, if you don't mind, I need to take a look at these men."

“Right. Right.” Price nods his head, breathless from the mission. His countenance was masked behind an aura of composure as he looked over his injured soldiers, but one look at his eyes told you otherwise. He was tense, nonetheless, and you could clearly see the restlessness behind them from the way he held responsibility over the lives of his men, believing himself to be accountable if any harm should come to them.

“Do you have any wounds I need to take a look at sir? Any trauma to the head? Any lacerations or punctures?"

“No. No, I’m fine.”

"It'll be alright." You give the man a comforting smile, placing a hand on his arm to provide the only means of consolation you can give him in a moment like this.

“Thank you.” Price returns your smile, placing his hand over yours and giving it a soft squeeze. Though he felt contrite for throwing such a burden on your shoulders, he knew that you were the only person qualified enough around here given the circumstances, and he could not be more grateful for your presence. "Just....let me know if you need any help."

"Of course."

The men were badly beaten from what you observed as you examined them. A few fresh bruises marked their bodies, nothing terribly serious, but Soap, Alejandro, and the new guy were the only ones who had sustained more serious injuries. MacTavish had taken a bullet to the thigh, but luckily for him, the bullet had missed his femoral artery as well as any major nerves in the area. The poor Scotsman had felt bad for disturbing you at such a late hour such as this. But you had reassured him time and time again that this was part of your job, and that you had read over the part of the contract that said you would mostly be on-call when you signed your name at the bottom.

Soap doesn't know why he was so on edge as you operated on him. He’s nervous, extremely nervous. And what does Soap do when he’s nervous? He talks, like a lot, like a lot a lot and I don’t mean that lightly. I mean this man just talks your ear off while you’re wiping away any excess blood on his thigh and practically knuckles deep into his bullet wound. This man had been shot before so why should this be any different. Was it the local anesthetic you had injected into him? Or was it because you were a practicing physician and therefore would be able to pinpoint the finer details and eventually break some kind of devastating news to him like "I hate to break this to you Soap but I'm afraid I'm going to need to perform an amputation." Also I genuinely believe this man is afraid of needles. Don't ask me how I know. I just know.

"Y/n." Soap speaks up, gulping from the question that is about to spill from his lips as he watches you disinfect his wound.

"Hm?" You hum, focused on cleaning the area where the bullet had lodged itself.

"Am I gonna loose my leg?"

"What?" You stop, raising your head to give him a weird look. "Where'd you get that idea?"

"Don' know. Ye look pretty serious..........................ya sure I'm not gonna loose my leg?" He asks again, the panic in his voice more evident this time as an image is generated in his mind of him having a wooden pegleg like some kind of pirate.

"No. No you're not going to loose your leg Soap. You're just fine.” You go back to mending his bullet wound. “If anything, you're just going to get a few stitches. I am going to have to leave the bullet in place though, so don’t fret.”

"Yer leavin the bullet in there?" Soap's face pales after hearing your statement, eyes wide as he stares at you like you’re some kind of lunatic.

“Don’t look at me like that. I can feel you staring at me like I’m crazy. The reason I’m leaving the bullet in your leg is because it’s not in a fatal area that needs removal, and it's going to do more damage than good if I take it out. And besides, your body will build a sort of......wall of scar tissue around it so you'll be fine.” You try to explain to him in a way he can understand.

“I will?”

"I promise. Now once I’m done here I'm going to prescribe you some antibiotics and pain relievers as well as an ointment to help with the healing process and keeping away infections. Just make sure to get some rest and go easy on that leg of yours and you'll be up and running in no time."

"Oh.....okay."

Poor Soap is still nervous, despite your words of consolation. So in order to ease the tension he decides to crack a few jokes, a trait that has become familiar with his teammates, much to their annoyance, whenever he's out on the field. Whether it's for his own welfare or yours, we may never know. Perhaps it’s for both, but let's just say it’s more so for his own sanity. And the way he jumps from one joke to another only makes you question how the previous medics ever sat through it.

"Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?"

"No."

"Great food. No atmosphere."

"Jesus."

"..............Hey y/n."

"Yes Soap?" You’re pretty sure this is the 45th joke he’s told you so far and now you’re just concerned for his mental well-being. But you also want to know where the hell he got all of these jokes in the first place.

"Why do seagulls fly over the ocean?"

Oh god. "Why?" You ask, bracing yourself for whatever was about to come next.

"Because if they flew over the bay, we'd call them bagels."

Jesus fucking christ. At this point you're positive your eyes are going to pop out from your sockets from how hard you are trying to stop yourself from rolling them. "Soap-"

"Yeah?"

"Please hold still."

Alejandro on the other hand was especially quiet while you tended to his wound, a gash on the proximal part of his arm on the lateral end, just below the acromial region, left from the bullet that grazed it. If he did speak, it would be small little words of motivation, sprinkled with terms of endearment in Spanish as he told you how good of a job you were doing, which you thought to be a risky thing to do considering you were sticking a needle in his flesh to sew his wound shut. He'd even tell you short little stories about his life before here, some of which may have elicited a soft chuckle from your frowning lips, a stern look that always unconsciously formed on your face whenever you were focused on something. He finds your little look of concentration quite cute honestly, the way you'd sometimes pout and squint your eyes. But most of all, he admired how calm and collected you were at such a task, as if you were doing something as simple as stitching the seams of fabric together.

He tried his best to soothe you, seeing the strained look on your face and imagining the stress you must be under, knowing when it would be best to offer you silence so that you may focus on the work at hand. And when you were done suturing his wound and wrapping fresh gauze around his arm, he pulls you in to give you a warm hug, which catches you off guard since you’re still wearing nitrile surgical gloves spotted with his blood and practically reek of alcohol-based solutions and the bleach-like scent of antiseptics. Regardless of how you look and smell like chemicals, the man only pulls you in tighter, wrapping his uninjured arm around the top of your back with his hand squeezing the back of your shoulder as he thanks you in his native tongue.

The two of you stand there for a moment in this sort of half-embrace, Alejandro with just a single arm around you and you with your hands held out behind him with your face pressed up against his chest. Next thing you know he presses a kiss to the side of your head, which takes you even more by surprise. This man really does not care how you look or smell. You could be covered in saline solution and antibiotic ointment and he’d still think you were the most stunning woman to walk the earth.

Also, speaking of smell, Alejandro smells really good, despite the hint of gunpowder from the mission he just returned from. But to say you are obsessed with his cologne is an understatement. This man smells AMAZING. His scent is woodsy, and spicy, like tequila mixed in with cardamom and bergamot, with sharp hints of clove and peppers balancing over velvety floral notes. He smells like something out one of those cheesy racy romance novels where the romantic interest climbs up your balcony during a hot summer night to hand you a single rose before whisking you away under the stars for a night of passionate-cough cough-you know what I mean. It's almost sinful, erotic, luring you in to perform acts that would make Satan and the Pope seek counsel with each other. This sudden emotion causes this stir in the pit of your stomach, lighting your whole body in flames and you almost feel ashamed for wanting him to stay a while longer just so you can get another and longer whiff of him.

“You know chica, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a really good machaca." Alejandro pulls away from the embrace, looking down at you with a slight smirk.

“Why don’t you go get one?”

“Only if you agree to come along.”

You’re stunned, caught off guard, and you better come quick with a witty response or else you’re just going to look like a fool standing there blinking at him. "Are you asking me out on a date Vargas?" Wow. I haven’t heard that one before.

"Mm, maybe. There'll be good food."

Speak no more. I am bringing the church and a marriage license. “You know, now that you've mentioned it, I suppose I have been craving some spicy food for a while."

The new guy, who’s name you found to be König, was surprisingly polite, despite his intimidating size and aura. He was a bit reserved around you at first, the blues of his eyes from behind the loose fabric of his mask studying your features to try to get a sense of your character as a person. He had heard quite a lot about you from the others, mostly the way you were gentle and kind in nature. Yet he had trouble understanding how a person could be capable of providing peace, as the others explained it, but one word from your lips and a benevolent smile in his direction was enough to convince him.

Telling from his body language, you made sure to inform him about every measure you were going to perform for the procedure, wanting to ensure he was as relaxed as possible with what you were doing, something you took seriously with every one of the patients you ever had. And the more you spoke, asking him simple questions like beginning with his name and asking where he was from and what his hometown was like and how he was currently feeling, he eventually warmed up to you, partly because he thought you were really pretty, but also because you made him feel comfortable in a place he usually did not find comfort in. I mean this man is still a killing machine despite his social anxiety. Not to mention, this was the first time he had met you. So the fact that you look out for his own wellness first really puts him at ease.

The tall Austrian had suffered a gunshot wound to his abdomen, an area that would usually require more serious care. But thanks to his bulletproof vest, the bullet was prevented from puncturing any organs or cavities or any major blood vessels or nerves, passing through his layers of skin and reaching the adipose tissue and barely imbedding into the muscle of his abdomen. You of course were able to extract the piece of metal, injecting some anesthetic for the pain and disinfecting the area beforehand before using a pair of forceps to carefully pull the bullet out.

Though the man was slightly anxious around you, he didn’t want to pry to much on your behalf and end up offending you in any manner, especially with how quiet you were, minus the little questions you’d ask him of course. Instead, he is fascinated by your steady hands and your precision, wondering how hands as small and delicate as yours were capable of performing such complex labor as he asks questions about every step that you take into the procedure and every tool that you have laid out on your table. By the end, he is completely starstruck by just how much you know. He even may have slipped a little compliment on how wise and pretty your eyes were. You’ve never heard anyone compliment your eyes as being wise, but you like it, not being able to hold back the small smile that pulls at the corner of your lips.

“Thank you for your help……..liebling.”

“It’s no problem.” You smile. You had heard that German term once before, a word once exchanged between an elderly couple that were once under your care. And the fact of knowing the meaning behind it warms your heart.

“Du hast sehr schöne kluge augen. (You have very beautiful, intelligent eyes)." The soldier mutters under his breath, nearly catching himself at the end of the sentence and praying you had not heard nor understood what he said.

“Sorry?”

“Oh um…….." König gulps, thinking of how to respond and deciding whether he should just lie or tell the truth to behind the meaning of his words. "It means you have really pretty wise eyes.”

“Oh……..why thank you. That's really sweet."

After handing König a bag containing his antibiotics, pain killers, and a tube of ointment, you also hand him a couple Dum-Dum lollipops to go with it. The Austrian doesn’t know how to react at first. Did you just give him a candy? Was this a common practice of doctors in your country? When he finally realizes this was just your way of showing kindness, he is more than delighted and thanks you for them in German, grasping both of your hands as he does so. Don’t ask me why or how but I just feel like he likes to hold both of your hands whenever he thanks you for something. Also the more eager he is, the more he shakes your hands in his.

This man’s crush on you has just went to the next level. König likes to collect whatever catches his attention, something he had done since he was a child from time mostly spent by himself. And it’s almost as if he has an eye for these things, picking out whatever has unique colors or patterns. So when you find some wildflowers or interesting looking leaves or a variety of colorful bird feathers or butterfly wings that had fallen to the dirt on your desk one day, just know he picked them out for you whenever he goes on a mission.

Believe it or not, the Austrian also has a secret talent of wood carving and is actually very skilled at it. During the days where his anxiety seems to overwhelm and suffocate him, he likes to sit outside in the grass surrounded by nature, covered in wood shavings with a knife in hand as he makes little wooden figurines of animals that he sees, whether it be birds, deer, foxes, bunnies, squirrels or skunks. It’s the only thing that he can fixate on that brings him total serenity and nirvana, sitting amongst the grass with his back up against the trunk of a tree, where there isn’t a single soul in sight except for himself and the ones that belong in the woods, where the only things that can judge him are the tall ancient trees and the creatures that walk it. But I won’t get further into this till later. Just know that he’s working on one especially for you.

Now, moving on.

By the time you were finished patching the three men up, you cleaned up the area and your tools, taking off your bloody gloves and throwing them into the biohazard container until you see Ghost stumble by in the corner of your eye. Little did you know he had been watching you from afar, not in a creepy way but in a ‘just want to make sure my teammates are alright’ kind of way. Not that he doubts your expertise of course. The lieutenant had not expected the mission to go sideways as it did, even though it was somewhat accomplished in the end. And seeing his team get wounded had unlocked this new fear in him that, to some degree, had always been there.

So when he stood there in the corner, leaning against the wall and hidden in the shadows like typical old Ghost, he found a sense of relief in watching how quickly and proficiently you moved about and just how composed you were, especially under the pace and pressure. Maybe it’s how quiet you are when you get really focused on something, maybe it’s how calm you are throughout it, or maybe it’s the amount of caution and supervision you take towards making sure the others are treated with the utmost care. Truth be told, you are like a remedy to Ghost, to the Simon Riley underneath, to the troubles and trauma that mold the broken man beneath the mask. If only the big dummy were to realize this instead of treating you like as if you were the plague itself.

When you lift your head towards the sound of slight shuffling in the corner, you catch him moving out of the shadows and sneaking away from the area. Usually you wouldn’t think anything of it, thinking he was just overseeing your work like a supervisor. But as you watch him walk off, you notice that something is off about him, something not quite right, and this intuition only builds this deep and heavy bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

“Ghost?”

Ghost stops abruptly at the sound of your voice, his head ever so slightly tilted to the side as he was not expecting you to have seen him, much less even say something.

“Is everything alright?”

Goddamn you and your manners. The masked soldier moves away with the slightest huff, not wanting to answer your question but you call out once more.

“You’re not hurt are you?”

“Negative.” He begins to walk off, not even looking in your direction to acknowledge you.

“Lieutenant, could I please see you for a minute?”

“Another time.”

“I insist.” Your voice is more firm this time and it catches him by surprise.

He had not heard this tone from you before, and yet, he can sense the shakiness behind it, the uncertainty. The more there is silence on his end, the more you are sure that you have reached the expiration date of your life, terrified that you had officially provoked the stone-cold soldier and that he is about to march over here and stab you in the neck with your own scalpel any second now. And as he stands there, debating on whether he should just leave, he hears your voice once again, a faint ‘please’. Heaving out a heavy sigh, the man shuts his eyes for a brief moment before turning back around and heading in your direction.

You’re not sure if you should freeze up like the fresh-caught fish on a bed of ice at the supermarket or run in the opposite direction as this man walks towards you, his mask not helping in making him look any less more pissed off than usual. When he finally stands in front of you, his bulky form towering over yours, you can only do the first thing that comes to mind, freeze up. At first the masked soldier glares down at you, the irises of his eyes only darkened by the grooves of his mask as he waits for you to speak, wishing you were the first to say something, anything, but instead you’re staring at him like a deer caught in front of headlights. Don’t worry babes, I would too.

“Well? Whadya want?”

“I just want to check to make sure you’re not injured-“

“I feel fine.” Ghost narrows his eyes at you, slowly becoming irked by your constant need to monitor his well-being and wishing you would just take his word and leave. But he knows better than to argue with someone that was literally tasked by the government to manage the sanity and wellness of task force 141. Was your etiquette a part of the job requirements as well?

“You don’t look fine.” You snark.

“Yeh?” Ghost sneers. “And who the hell are you to say that?”

“I’m a doctor.” You blink. “Or if you wanna be more specific, I'm technically your doctor. It’s my job. And telling from the dampness of the blood on your mask there that still has not dried since the moment you stepped trough the doors and god knows how long since before,” you point to the area near the bottom of the left side of his neck, more so near his shoulder. “I’m guessing it’s yours and not someone else’s.”

“The fuck are you on about? Listen here princess, there’s no-“ Ghost pulls his hand up to his neck only to feel the exact same dampness you had just mentioned. Fuck. He had been so caught up with everything around him that he had not even been aware that he had been injured. When he finally pressed his fingers to the area there, tensing from the pain, that was when he was finally able to register through that thick and stubborn skull of his that he had in fact been injured this whole time. This man probably takes the phrase ‘mind over matter’ quite literally.

“Now can I please take a look at you?” You quirk a brow up at him, waiting for a response and knowing better than to expect a quick answer. But if there’s one thing you know, if you just slightly annoy and pester him enough, he might just eventually cave in, that is if he doesn't add you to his hit list. “Look, if you wait any longer you might pass out and go into hemorrhagic shock. And depending on the class, you can suffer from organ damage and even death. So unless you want that to happen-“

Well when you put it like that- “Fine. Get on with it.” Ghost growls as he sits himself down on the chair. Bloody fucking hell you talk way more than he had ever expected from you. But you sure can keep your ground, he'll give you that. He’s just glad that none of the others are here to see him being bossed around by someone almost half his size and about a foot shorter than him.

"Thank you for cooperating." You give a short and quick smile. You may or may not have exaggerated about the last part to get him to comply. Well…….that is.........depending on the exact location of injury and the amount of blood loss of course.

Thank you for cooperating. Ghost scoffs at your statement.

“You know……I wish you wouldn’t avoid me like I were a crackhead outside your local 7-eleven.”

A what? Ghost gives you a weird look, wondering if he had heard you correctly as you go over to the sink, rolling the white sleeves of your lab coat up and turning on the faucet. The shit that comes out of your mouth, he swears makes him question your license. Then again, he’s not sure how to respond to what you had just said. It's no lie that he has indeed been going out of his way to avoid you at all costs. But the idea of you even noticing his absence had never even crossed his mind, much so that you would come to be offended by it. Noticing your lack of pressing further on the matter, he shifts in his seat, watching you wash your hands in a methodical series of steps until he notices a small marking on your inner right wrist, a small and delicate tattoo of a heartagram. It can't be.......can it? He had never listened to much of their music but.......were you a HIM fan? If so, this is certainly a detail he had never expected from you and he almost doesn't know what to think of it. What other tattoos do you have?

Once he sees you turn off the faucet, he quickly returns to his original position on the chair, not wanting to make it seem like he was watching you.

"Now I’m just going to take a quick look here." You head over to where he sat, pulling the nitrile gloves over your hands as you look down at him, reaching out towards the bottom of his balaclava before feeling him swat your hand away.

“Hey!” You yelp, more so from being startled than the actual impact. “The hell was that for?” No way in hell he just did that.

“…………….”

"I promise I won't sneak a peak at your face if that's what you're afraid of."

“……………………..”

“Listen lieutenant. I can’t check to see if you’re okay if you won’t let me.” You sigh, reaching out once more, but this time you feel his hand grab yours, his gloved fingers wrapping around the bare skin of your wrist as he eyes the ground at his feet. The loud beating in your chest reaches your ears, deafening you as you stare at the soldier who could practically fracture your wrist if he tightened his grip. At this point most would be petrified, bracing themselves for the number of possibilities that can take place just from under his control. Most would either try not to glance over at the scalpel that lays out on the table just beside within arms reach, not wanting to instigate anything further in fear of the soldier catching the movement of their eyes, or some would dare to do so anyways as part of their fight or flight response.

Maybe you should be scared of him, of this soldier who has more blood on his hands than you can count. And yet, somehow, as you finally regain control of your thoughts after being startled from the sudden motion, you can’t seem to find yourself to. If he wanted to kill you, you’d already have been dead, you tell yourself, because here you are, well and unharmed. Despite the calloused disposition of the man notorious for his ruthlessness and merciless on the field and just the sheer size of his hand around your wrist, you’re surprised at the gentleness he handles you with, the carefulness of his hold a stark contrast to the rough fabric of his gloves that rub against the sensitive skin there.

Ghost can feel you tremble ever so slightly under his grasp, feeling your racing pulse through his gloves from under his palm, not to mention the peculiar coldness of your limb, but he can also feel the severity behind your eyes as you stare him down, as if you were just waiting for him to meet them. For a flicker of a moment, you have him wondering just how much more there is to you than the Dr. Y/n y/l/n that you put on stage only for others to see. Just what else lies beyond the pristine white lab coat, those neatly pressed scrubs and your observant orbs.

“Ghost-“ Your voice is firm but heedful. “Please let go of my wri-“

"I'll do it."

“What-“

“I said I’ll do it. You’re not touching the mask.”

“Alrigh-”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your wrist as quickly as he grabbed it.

"Okay." You throw your hands up in defeat, taking a step back to give him some room. "Fine by me."

Ghost can't help but huff at your behavior, hesitating for a moment before finally lifting the bottom of his balaclava, peeling away the fabric that had become sticky with blood to expose his neck. Damn you.

"Let's see here." You lean in closer to inspect the area before cursing under your breath. “Jesus fucking christ.”

Ghost side-eyes you with a raised brow at the words that came out of your mouth. Did he just hear you cuss? Better yet, just what the hell did you see to make you say those words. You almost don’t even have to hear him say anything to know what he is thinking.

“See this is why it’s important you come to me.” There’s that same strictness in your voice, and yet, this one is different. Is that a slight hint of genuine concern he hears? Realizing how you might have sounded to a man who has probably dealt with far worse, you straighten up, clearing your throat as you did so and fluttering your eyes away from his forbidding gaze. Pushing away whatever emotions that managed to rile you up like that, you clear your throat once more. “So, looks like there’s a laceration, along the inferior portion of your neck here, proximal to your acromial region. But lucky for you, your brachial plexus is still intact. The bullet, or whatever the hell you've been hit by, narrowly missed your suprascapular artery and nerve. Though I will have to perform some sutures to reconstruct your trapezius muscle."

"English, for fucks sake." Ghost grumbles at your rapid speech involving words he finds incoherent. But you and I both know it’s only because he finds it to be a turn on. That's why he let you ramble on in the first place.

"What I meant was, good news is, your nerves and blood vessels are okay. Bad news is, your trapezius muscle, which is the muscle that runs along the curve of your neck here and a portion of your back has a slight gash here at the top. So you are going to need stitches. And a lot of rest afterwards of course, to make sure it's properly healed."

"Fuckin hell." Ghost mutters under his breath.

"Now if you'll let me-"

"Yeh yeh. Just make it quick."

What had been a short amount of time had instead felt like hours for the masked soldier, for Ghost, for the wounded Simon Riley beneath all those layers as he remained in his seat like a statue, ensuring that he stayed as still as possible while you worked on him. He had not uttered a single word during the whole duration, not even the slightest grunt. And if it hadn't been for his steady breathing, you would have presumed him to be dead. He had to be the quietest patient you have ever dealt with, not to mention the most stubborn, and you found yourself wishing he would say something, anything. But to expect such from a man such as him would be a fool's errand, a fruitless endeavor.

And even if he chose to speak, what the hell would he even talk about? His fucking trauma?The man wouldn't even look at you, his eyes wandering everywhere but your face. In spite of his grievances towards you, his reluctance to ever establish any form of association with you, he'd find himself slowly stealing glances in your direction from time to time when you weren't looking directly at him. He'd find himself studying your features as he once did the first time he met you. You were wearing that same perfume, that deep woodsy and floral perfume that reminded him of an old bookstore, of one of those metaphysical shops scattered with different fragrances of the smokey incense, the unmistakable scent of you that had been ingrained in his mind ever since.

"So, what kind of a name is Ghost anyways?"

".................."

"Right. I forget you don't speak."

Ghost gives you a quick and sharp glare before staring straight ahead. Damn that sharp tongue of yours.

"You seem tired." You remark, picking on him just a tad bit to make a reference to when he commented on your dark circles, but also because he actually did genuinely seem tired.

"............."

A cock-up, no thanks to you, Ghost thinks to himself, knowing damn well the only reason he could not sleep was because of you, though he senses the only reason you said that was because he had mentioned to you how you looked tired.

More minutes pass, and he has yet to even snide at you. You'd almost prefer a huff of irritation directed at you over nothing.

"You know," you utter, "I went to medical school with an incredibly ambitious guy who was obsessed with collecting skulls. He'd do anything to get a head."

You what? Ghost looks at you just the slightest with a single blink. What the bloody fuck are you talking about? Oh wait.

“What is a sleeping brain’s favorite rock band?”

“……………….”

Oh no. It looks like Soap’s habit has taken hold of you.

“REM.”

“……………….”

Okay maybe that was a bad idea. The look that Ghost just gave you makes you want to never say another joke again. He actually thinks the first one wasn't too bad.

“You know, you’re lucky the bullet grazed you where it did.” You lean in a bit closer as you suture his wound. “Any more to the left and you would’ve have been in some serious shit.”

Your little movement manages to catch Ghost’s attention, and if you weren’t shoving a needle through his flesh he would have moved away. Instead he glances just the slightest over in your direction, his breath hitching in his throat at the close proximity between you both. His eyes trace over the details of your face as if he were studying a map, going over every one of the little characteristics that make you you. If only you could see the way he looked at you, you would have been able to see the subtlest change, the tiniest, sliver of a crack in the hardened shell that surrounded Simon Riley, of that shell that is Ghost.

There is a moment when your thigh brushes against the side of his as you turn away to move on to the next step after stitching his wound, a moment that goes by unnoticed to you, but not to him. The small contact, though brief, had managed to send a jolt of warmth through the soldier’s body, a feeling that is completely foreign to him, prompting him to tense up and bury whatever it is that has him reacting this way. It isn’t until you sense him shift beside you that you turn back to him, gauze and ointment in hand just as you catch him transfer his line of focus somewhere else. The faint alter of movement had you raising your brow, knowing well what you saw but unsure of the motive behind it.

While you went over to him, studying whatever you could gather from his body language and just his eyes due to the obstruction of his face, you noticed that his eyes were quite expressive for a man known for lacking any basic human emotion. While dressing his wound, you picked out the way his blonde lashes fluttered against his deep mahogany irises as they focused on anything but you, the black color smeared around the exposed area of his balaclava accentuating the blondes of his hairs. This had to be the first time you had actually taken a good look at him.

You would have complimented him on his eyes and lashes, but you thought against it, not wanting to embarrass yourself, or more importantly, the last thing you needed was to dig yourself deeper on his bad side and end up as a dusty file to be brushed under the rug. Speaking of. Now that you mention it, the stuff he wore around his eyes looked awfully similar to the stuff you found on your candy tray. Couldn’t be him could it? No, it can’t possibly be. The man avoids you way too much to even think about taking something that is even associated with you. Maybe you’re just overthinking like you always do and what you found was just from your own eyeshadow palette. After all, this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve accidentally smeared remnants of eyeshadow from your fingers to other things. If only you could ask him, but this man hates you enough as it is. You could casually bring it up one day, although now definitely isn’t the time.

When you were finally finished tending to him, getting up to gather some pain relievers, antibiotics, and some ointment for him to take with him, Ghost had noticed something that he had not spotted before, a small pitted and circular mark that sat at the left side of your neck. As he stared at it, trying to decipher just what it could be, it looked to be a scar of some sort, though a bit faded with time, it’s shade slightly darker than your skin tone. Where had he seen a mark like that before? And then it hit him.

“There you go.” You came back around to hand him his treatments in a brown paper bag, your voice causing him to quickly avert his gaze. “You’re all set.”

Taking the brown paper bag from your hands, Ghost couldn’t stop thinking about what it is that he saw marking the skin of your neck. Something in the back of his mind knew just exactly what that scar belonged to, what it meant. But Ghost, or Simon Riley, knew better than to delve into something that wasn’t his business, knowing well the cost. He could just be over-analyzing it all, mistaking it for something completely different. But why was he even bothering to do so in the first place. He had better things to do, duties that were assigned specifically to him, and trying to figure out that mark on your neck wasn’t one of them.

Ghost is quick to get up from his seat as he ushers you a quick thanks, the hardened wall once again building up to the masked soldier who had dared to even let it down just the slightest around you.

“Ghost wait.” You call out to him as he walks away, watching him stop in his tracks. “……before you go………next time you’re injured………promise you’ll at least come to me.”

“….I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Look,” you sigh, “I get it if you think I’m annoying……..or if you hate my guts, whatever, I don’t care. Just….at least let me help you.”

“Don' bother.” Ghost tightens his jaw as he tilts his head towards you, the brusque in his deep voice evident before he regains his steps, disappearing from your line of sight.

“What an asshole.” You breathe out with a shake of your head. You swear this man has you testing your Hippocratic Oath. You don’t know what it is that makes him despise you. Maybe it’s just him and that’s just the way he is, something you might have to ask the others about. Usually words like that would have you lying in bed awake thinking what you did wrong, but you are much too tired for that.

As Ghost went back to his room, shutting the door behind him, he opened up the paper bag you had given him, spilling out the pill bottles and ointment tube onto the table until he heard something roll off the edge of the table and fall onto the floor. Furrowing his brows, the soldier looked at the ground at his feet to where the mysterious item had fallen only to see a single Dum-Dum lollipop, sour apple flavor. Bloody fuckin hell.

Part 4

Tag List: @swissy23 @sualocin @kristalhi @deakyspuff @sometimes-i-write-good @hamilfanyu @princessranch @ig-you-idiot @obitoshotaf @cavern-creature @at0mschutzbunker @eddiesbixch696 @souls-rain @euovennia @i-wish-we-could-stay @depressedacidtest @gh0stm3g @thequeenofbigmacs @k1llerch4n @abbiesxox @feraltiddies @wand-erer5 @1redheaded3dragon @anisa269 @jocecymoo @mango-corner @classickook @trueee33 @sockertop @lupskelly @chxbits @kuwizo @sluxm3ozt @tobybestupid @anarchygoose @lez-zuha @thatoneautor0123 @aloudplace @ella-error505 @awkward-0 @ariessux @kermitdefroghere @urloverx @alldaysdreamers @rat-elbows @watersquirtpewpewboomm @izzyisstuff @notabotiswear @thecraziestcrayon @lilwingedwolfy @sprkthere @shyyxzi @bookmark-anon @simplecole18 @itsourkisses-blog @here4thespice @sunndust @josephquinnswhore @spooniscute @xghostyx666 @nikolai-m-s @he4rtbloss0m @classifiedtoe @killergoddessmm @sm8th0p @lunarayx @iwannabeazoldyck @butterflypillows @lobeliaaaaaa @mxtokko

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bad268 · 2 months

Note

I love you work oh my lord !!! Can you do another Pezzy x reader I adore them and no one seems to request them much !! Something fluffy !! ( established relationship if possible !)

Confess or Drink Pt. 2 (Pezzy X Reader)

Fandom: RPF/Miscellaneous

Requested: Clearly (I also combinded this with @strawberrycheesecake3 's request of Confess or Drink pt. 2. Hope y'all don't mind <3)

Warnings: language, jokes of domestic violence (trust it's light-hearted)

POV: First Person (I/me)

W.C. 1283

Summary: The day after the infamous Truth or Drink stream.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

<- Part 1

~~(^Pinterest)

The ride to the nearest iHop wasn’t bad. I had ridden with Pezzy before, and it wasn’t any different than the hundred other times I rode with him. When we pulled up to the iHop, Pezzy shut off the bike and held out his hand to help me off.

“Well, thank you, kind sir,” I joked in a posh accent as I stepped off the bike and pulled my helmet off.

“Oh of course,” He joked back, taking his helmet off as well before standing up and gesturing toward the door. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” I took his hand as he led us inside. There weren’t many people, so we got seated pretty quickly. We got to our table, ordered coffees, and sat quietly as we looked over the menus as if we both didn’t already know what we were getting.

“So,” I trailed off as I put my menus down and took a slow drink of my coffee. “Do we wanna talk about last night?”

“Let me just say this first,” Pezzy rushed as he put his menus down too. “I just need to know if it was a bit for the stream.”

“No…? What made you think it would have been a bit?” I asked confused. Everybody knows that alcohol brings out the truth in people, and I was certain he felt the same. At least, that’s what Grizzy told me, so I left loose for the stream. I decided before I started drinking that if I said anything, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“It’s just,” Pezzy hesitated, looking anywhere but at me. “With our job, we like to exaggerate things, and I don’t know if that’s one of the things.”

“Max,” I stated, and his attention snapped to me. In all the years I had known him, I never used his name unless I was being serious. He was always Pezzy or Pez to me. Always has been. “I wouldn’t fuck with you like that. What I said, I meant. You don’t understand how long I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you, and when y'all invited me for the truth or drink stream, I thought I would just go with the flow. If I confessed, I confessed and we would figure it out later. We’ve always been a team, and I couldn’t stop myself from falling. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want.”

“I never said I didn’t want you,” Pezzy said quietly as he reached across the table to hold my hand. “I have waited years for my dream to come true, I’m just a coward and never took the first step. I would have rather been your friend than risk losing you altogether. Your confession was the best thing ever.” He stopped for a second and looked expectantly at me.

“This makes sense,” I laughed, leaning my head down to rest on the table for a second before looking back up at him, resting my head against my open palm. “Our whole friendship has been flirty because we were harboring feelings for each other. It’s no wonder the fans thought we were dating the first day I joined your stream.”

“No way the fans clocked us first,” Pezzy groaned as he smacked his face into his hand. Just then the waiter showed up to place our orders. We both ordered our breakfasts/lunches, and the waiter took off to put the orders in. That’s when Pezzy turned his attention back to me,” So where does this leave us?”

“Where do you want us to go from here?” I teased, taking a small sip of my coffee as I eyed Pezzy over the rim of the mug.

“I’d like to take you out,” Pezzy replied confidently as he also took a sip from his coffee, looking at me the same way I looked at him.

“I really hope you mean on a date,” I chuckled, causing Pezzy to choke on the hot liquid.

“Well, what the hell else would I mean?” He hissed as he leaned closer, confused.

“Take me out like,” I pause as I make a gesture of slicing my neck. Pezzy’s expression went from confusing to shock in seconds as I laughed. “I’m kidding just so you know.”

“I would hope so! I’d never take you out like that!” Pezzy gasped before smirking. “I’d use a gun.”

“Woah! Not even through our first date and you're talking about murdering me,” I said a little louder than the rest of our conversation as the few patrons looked over at us concerned. Pezzy frantically slapped at my arms to get me to quiet down. “Oh, and now you’re hitting me? This is domestic abuse!”

“No, no, no, stop,” He groaned with a small smile, knowing this was just how I liked to tease him. Everyone was still looking over at us, concerned, so Pezzy tried to remedy the situation. “It’s fine, we’re joking!”

“Um, your food,” The waiter said confused as he stood in front of our table with the food.

“Oh, thank you,” Pezzy said, uncomfortable with the amount of eyes on us.

“If we didn’t take the bike, I would suggest we take it to go,” I laughed as the waiter set our food down.

“We still could,” Pezzy offered. “I could drive slower than normal and we could head home. Or we could go to the park that’s like a block away.”

“I like that plan,” I smiled at Pezzy before turning my attention to the waiter. “Could we next boxes and the check please?”

Later that night Grizzy and Droid came back to the house, and we had Puffer over again. We didn’t plan on filming, but we were a group of friends who had nothing else better to do that night. We were all sitting in Grizzy’s recording room as the four of them played Mario Kart. I sat at Grizzy’s desk, so I could read chat.

“What happened after the stream? I need to know.” A lot of the chat had this or something similar, and part of me wanted to ignore it, but another part of me wanted to see what Pezzy felt.

“Hey guys,” I got their semi-attention because they were in the middle of a lap, “Chat wants to know what happened after the stream.”

“Pezzy got laid, that’s what,” Droid said immediately as all of the guys laughed minus Pezzy and myself. “Okay, not really. Grizzy and I stayed at Puffer’s place.”

“And we went to iHop,” Pezzy said just before cursing as he got hit by a red shell.

“Is that code for something?” Puffer whispered to Grizzy but their mics caught it clearly.

“No, it’s not code for anything,” I laughed at them. “We went to iHop, made a few questionable jokes about killing each other, and left to come home. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep! Pezzy never goes to iHop!” Grizzy pointed out as they all crossed the finish line with Puffer winning (shocker!). “He must really like you if you convinced him to go to iHop.”

“He took me there on his own accord,” I admitted as I put my hands up in mock surrender.

“Because I know you like it!” Pezzy defended himself, and silence fell around the room. All of us looked between each other before I slowly turned my attention back to the screens. I briefly looked directly into the camera before leaning into the microphone.

“Pezzy and I may or may not be together now, so that also happened,” I whispered into the mic before glancing back at the rest of the boys who were not shocked at all.

“FUCKING FINALLY!”

~~~~~

#pezzy x reader #pezzy #pezzy x you #pezzy x y/n #big puffer #bigpuffer #elastic droid #elasticdroid #grizzy #youtuber oneshot #youtube #youtuber x reader #bad268 #ship268 #thing268 #part 2

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pretty-weird-ideas · 3 months

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This was literally the most harrowing piece of television I have watched in YEARS because it's just a lynching with no strings attached. And then I watched how white fans twisted themselves into knots to make the clear lynching seem like the evidence presented is actually punishable and entirely factual with no agenda attached.

The agenda is "How can we quickly lynch Claudia and Louis and make it a spectacle?", that's it, the information presented is all there to push the coven's agenda. If propaganda helicoptered itself on your face, you people still wouldn't get it.

"What they said about Louis is actually correct. He's unreliable as a narrator and we're finally getting his comeuppance." What about a lynch mob seems like a reliable source of information?

Quickly now! What about a clear metaphor for a lynching gives you the vibe of "unbiased information told to the audience that we should take to heart"? I'm genuinely scared of some of y'all because I'm getting the vibes that if someone told you a dude "whistled at a white woman" you would just go with it. Any bad-faith gum flapping about a black person would just be believed on the spot by some of you. The benefit of the doubt for Black people is nonexistent around here.

Question: Do you not take Fox News, Infowars, and alt-right media's depiction of POC seriously because you PERSONALLY can tell that it's racist and that the information is wrong? Or did society have to TELL you that it's racist and you know there's a social consequence to believing it? Do you hear racist language about real Black figures and you can tell that the source isn't trustworthy, or does someone have to come down from their ivory tower and regurgitate basic sense to you?

I'm starting to realize that this fandom doesn't understand racist agitprop... at all. They're only against racism when someone tells them it's racist and there are consequences to believing racist propaganda. Someone has to hold their hand and tell them that calling someone an "uppity violent Jezebel that should put out more" is racist. Someone has to tell them that racists who have an incentive to lie about Black people aren't reliable sources on Black people. And that is a level of incompetence that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Someone could literally list 30 antiblack stereotypes and someone would be like "What is wrong with calling a black person all of these at once?". People's cultural awareness is fucked.

And there's a learned incompetence as well here, a cycle. People refuse to understand that Black people are intentionally held under a harsher light and read in bad faith ways that consciously mimic stereotypes. "I only believe something is racist when others tell me that it's racist" and "I don't seek out people discussing racism so nobody is here to tell me what is racist" is a deadly fucking combo with this show.

Read literature, read about slavery, read about lynchings, read about Black Queer liberation, read about domestic violence, read about race and Monster theory. Like read SOMETHING. MY GOD.

The show is intentionally riffing off of historical and cultural subject matter, and white fans are purposefully not learning about it so that their lives aren't upended by the reality of current and past race relations and how it affects their own lives and fiction. You guys are lobotomizing yourselves so the show's basic principles aren't visible. Just because you do not understand racism or domestic violence doesn't mean that the show isn't talking about them and it's not just going over your head. Things going over the white audience's head does not mean it is not present.

Anyways... I keep saying that the people should collectively get my laptop taken away and it still hasn't happened so this post was penned. Take away my laptop or my posts will continue.

#iwtv #interview with the vampire #vampire chronicles #iwtv spoilers #louis de pointe du lac #black fandom

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gege-wondering-around · 21 days

Text

Summary:

They had always been this way.

Stiles was the only one to pull Derek ashore,

Guiding the sailor through the storm.

Derek was the only one Stiles looked for,

Searching for a boat to call his own.

So, what would happen if a ship was in need of an anchor all along?

(or Stiles makes his way through Derek, thick skin and scarred past)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

tags of people who made this possible: @jayjay55655 (the sweet reason we are here today) @dontcallpanic (you might not know it, but you did a lot) @aurymochi (my savior) @catniploverrrrrr (i wanna hear your thoughts on this so bad once its completed and thank you for your amazing support)

so! have a nice read and stick around to find out more (i'll post every 2 to 4 days) and thank y'all for the support i've already got from you even when this work wasn't even out yet. ( @seaweed-water @oldefashioned @hellameyers @fuji09 so many more that followed along or simply said something nice once). You made me sure enough to post this. thank you🫂✨

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #derek x stiles #stiles x derek #eternal sterek #teen wolf #fanfic writers #fanfiction #teen wolf fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #first time writer #first fanfic #derek and stiles #stiles and derek #derek hale deserves nice things #stiles stilinski x derek hale

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itsanerdlife · 23 days

Text

Wicked Intentions 8

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader // (Seriously close) Steve Rogers x Reader // Clint Barton x Reader // T’Challa x Reader.

Warning: Violence. Language. Bullying. Girl Fights. Name Calling. Degrading Comments. Angst. Degrade of Woman (to a point). Criminal Life. Illegal Shit. Fights. Alpha Males. Stalking.

Characters: Peter Stark. Howie Stark. Bucky Barnes. Steve Rogers. Clint Barton. TC (T’Challa). Ben Reilly. Cledus Kasady (CK). Brock Rumlow. Gwen Stacy. Wanda Maximoff. Becca Barnes. Amore Lorelei. Kitty Pryde. Frank Castle. George Barnes. Joe Rogers. Winni Barnes. Pepper Stark. Wade Wilson. Eddie Brock. Warner Strucker. Barney Barton. Bobbi Morse. Pietro Maximoff. Logan.

A/N: This is a Bully Romance. High School setting. Mafia Family Life. Woman are on a lower level than males in their world. Just a heads up. This is the third installment of the series. Bad Intentions, Cruel Intentions, and Wicked Intentions.

Credit: Huge shout out to @ml7010 for all the help, pushing, hyping up, putting up with my changes midway through. If it wasn't for this peach, y'all never would have gotten this series or nearly as far as I am now.

Glasses clink as we giggle, sipping orange juice. Breakfast before the wedding.

“How does Bucky feel about you not going home last night?” Gwen smirks at me.

Shrugging a shoulder. “Couldn’t tell you, I haven’t spoken to him.”

“Didn’t you tell him last time, to let him yell at you and kiss you, when he fucks up again?” Becca lifts a brow at me.

Sipping from my glass I shift to look at her. “Whose side are you on?” Squinting at her.

The other two giggle quietly. Becca rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you two stepping on your own agreement with your fiancé?” Becca sasses me.

“You ever been hit with a waffle?” I ask, both of us grin suddenly laughing.

“Not something I thought would come out of the mouth of the head of the table.” Pietro chuckles, taking the other open seat, at the head of the table.

The table falls silent. Each of us stare at him.

“Pietro.” Wanda whispers.

“Little sister.” He grins at her. His stark white hair, a shaggy length on him, but well maintained. His pretty blue eyes flicker with excitement and more than likely mischief. His facial hair, short and well kept, and new from when he was sentenced.

“You’re out.” I lift a brow at him.

He shrugs, settling back in his chair. “What was the point of escaping with only a few days to release.” He winks at me. I smirk, rolling my eyes at him.

“That wouldn’t stop you and we all know that.” Taking a bite of my waffles.

“Not all of us.” Pietro suddenly leans forward, his hand out, over my plate. “Hello,” he purrs.

“Don’t purr at her.” I gag. “She’s marrying Howie.” My eyes roll again.

“Rebecca. Pietro. Excuse him, he has no home training.” I sass.

Becca laughs, shaking Pietro’s hand. “Rebecca Barnes.” She introduces herself.

“Howard is a lucky man.” He nods, glancing over her.

“He’s an idiot. Let’s be real.” I snort.

The table chuckles, nodding.

“You’re glowing Gwen.” Pietro turns his attention.

“Thank you.” She lights up, glancing down at the belly, small but noticeable, she’d grown.

“Now,” Pietro leans back again “to my little sister on her big day.” He picks up a water glass, lifting it towards Wanda, before taking a drink.

Wanda sips slowly, eyes on her brother. “Do I want to know?” She finally speaks.

“Know what?” Pietro sets the water down.

“What does father have you up to now that you’re out.” Her tone getting annoyed.

Becca side eyes me.

Gwen quietly eats her French toast.

I’m the only one openly watching them.

“It’s your wedding day, no need for business, сестра.” Pietro hums with his accent.

Wanda glares hard at me.

“Pietro,” I sigh.

“I promise.” He laughs, holding his hands up. “No business today. You’re head of the table now; we can talk another day.” He nods.

“I knew it!” Wanda huffs loudly, trying to avoid a scene.

Pietro sighs.

“The wedding push, you getting out early. As she takes over the table!” She whisper shouts at him, thrusting a hand at me. “You and dad are using me again.” She snaps through her teeth at him.

“Red, it’s fine. Breathe.” I speak softly to her. “Anger and tension headaches do not go with a wedding.” Gwen rubs her hand down Wanda’s back, soothing her.

“Y/N,” she huffs, defeat in her eyes. I nod, understanding.

“Pietro,” I turn looking him straight on “do not fucking ruin this day for your sister, don’t breathe a word of your business, do not try to speak of table matters to me, on this day. You might have done time, but what I was doing here in the war, was far worse. Do not play with me, I have bodies on my hands, and I will not think twice of adding yours to them.” I warn him sweetly.

Pietro grins at me. “Yes, boss.”

Rolling my eyes at him, I turn back to the table.

“Going to talk to Bucky today?” Gwen grins at me.

“I hate you.” Glaring at her. It only earns laughs from the girls.

------

“You’re killing me, doll.” He hurries after her as she walks away from him. Down the hotel hall. “I gave you one night, that’s all you’re getting.” He huffs, taking long strides to keep up with her. She doesn’t reply or spare him a look.

“We made a deal, Y/N.” He warns her. She pauses, making him stop quickly.

She doesn’t reply but glares at him, a dark, dangerous, lethal stare.

“Jesus.” He takes a step back from her.

Deep brown eyes, filled with anger stare back at him, making him uncomfortable.

“You fucking promised James.” She speaks through her teeth.

“And you knew I would fuck up again! You said it!” He huffs, thrusting his hand out.

Her head tips, watching him. She shakes her head, walking away again. He groans, sighing.

“This isn’t over Y/N Stark.” He calls after her. “Act out again, and I’ll ruin your best friend’s wedding with a fight, don’t test me.” He grins,

when she pauses, she glances back at him. “I’ll kill someone in the middle of this wedding if you think about it, Chaos, try me.” Still grinning, shrugs, backing up. Turning slowly he walks away.

Clint’s holding the door to the hotel room open when he steps up.

“To normal people that’s really fucked up.” He chuckles.

“To chaos,” Steve shakes his head.

“It’s a declaration of love.” Peter laughs.

“You gotta match her fucked up.” Sam grins.

He chuckles, taking a seat in the hotel room. “And we all know I match that.”

“We knew that the day she walked into Saints and smirked at you.” Clint pushes open the hotel window, lighting up a smoke.

Steve sighs, kicked back in his chair. “When she laid out Quill, I knew we were fucked.”

Bucky smirks at them, shrugging. They weren’t wrong.

“She’s chaos.” Peter sighs.

“No shit.” The room chuckles softly together.

“Hey Bucky,” Sam glances over.

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t kill anyone during my wedding.” He grins.

Standing up, Bucky walks to the window, taking Clint’s smoke. “No promises.” He grins out the window.

“No wonder he’s marrying our sister, they’re both chaos.” Peter sighs, shaking his head.

-------- Everything Peaches 12/8/22 @mo320 @ml7010 @babizza @kmc1989 @joannie95 @coley0823 @rileyloves5 @sexyvixen7 @duckestylez @abschaffer2 @drayshadow @shirukitsune @xoxabs88xox @carostar2020 @rosalynshields @hookslove1592 @royal-sunflower @iwillbeinmynest @bellamy-barnes @geeksareunique @happydeanpotter @fanfic-n-tabulous @steel-blue-eyess @mariekoukie6661 @bless-my-demons @notyourtypicalrose @lets-talk-about-xyz @loving-life-my-way @shinycupcakebaker @also-fangirlinsweden @stupendous-science @daughterofthenight117 @dandelionsmarkthegrave @physically-a-cheesecake @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked

Bucky 'Fuck Me Up' Barnes: @nickyl316h @jbbarnesgirl @lets-roggerthat @this-is-mycrisis @kaylaphantomhive

Series tags: @sebastians-love @otterlycanadian

#Marvel #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Avengers #Bucky x Reader #Wicked Intentions #Marvel Fanfiction #Bucky Barnes Series #Avengers Fanfiction #Bucky AU Series #Intention Series #Ama's Idea

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daresplaining · 7 months

Text

Mattea Murdock, the Daredevil Drummer of Philly

In celebration of the forthcoming new Spider-Punk: Arms Race series (not to mention Hobie stealing scenes in "Across the Spider-Verse" last year), I wanted to finally write up my long-overdue overview post on Mattea Murdock! If you haven't read her introductory run yet, check it out here.

Mattea truly stands on her own in the wide canon of alternate universe DDs. She is a female Daredevil, she is Latina, and she somehow managed to escape Marvel's NYC gravity and base herself in Philadelphia, where she defends its citizens from violence and exploitation. Hobie and his self-styled Spider-Band encounter her in Spider-Punk (2022) #3, when they make a detour to fix the busted Spider-Van. They are all immediately-- and correctly-- impressed.

Mattea: "Yo, Kam!" Hobie: "Wait, you know each other?!" Kamala: "Duh! You think I wouldn't know the Daredevil Drummer of Philly?" Hobie: "You're a drummer too?" Mattea: "Best in town." Hobie: "Oh man, my friend Gwen is a pretty dope drummer too. I think y'all would definitely get along." Mattea: "Hope they're ready to get outplayed by a pretty, blind girl." Spider-Punk vol. 1 #3 by Cody Ziglar, Justin Mason, Jim Charalampidis, and Travis Lanham

I talked a little about her killer character/costume design when she was first introduced (I was a fool; of course she's blind), and my love for her look has only grown. It's badass, distinctive, and it slots her beautifully into Hobie's punk rock world while still evoking that trademark Daredevil image (red, sticks, pointy bits...). Her irises are red, which is a visual choice I enjoy in more heightened, fantastical DD stories/art styles, and I think it works for Mattea. Heck, I could even imagine them being colored contact lenses she's chosen to wear for the aesthetic. Also, one detail that wasn't in the previews is the fun little laughing devil face on the back of her jacket (I'm not punk rock enough to get the reference if it is one, but it reminds me of Darkdevil):

Of course, always a big priority for me is Daredevil's power-set, and Mattea provides a quick primer on her unique perspective, mostly focused on hearing and the radar sense:

Mattea: "What? You think just 'cause I'm a blind girl, I can't see? Echolocation, my abuelas used to call it. But it's more intimate. Instinctual. Can hear a kick drum from ten blocks away. Can see it too. If I think hard enough, I can even see what the garage it's being played in looks like." Hobie: "Yo, are you doing it right now?" Riri: "She's definitely doing it right now."

This is not my favorite description of Daredevil's powers, nor-- to be honest-- a particularly informative one. She can gather spatial information through walls...from ten blocks away? I also never love an overuse of visual language in any explanation of these powers, especially as it's implied that Mattea, like Matt, is completely blind. Surprisingly, no direct mention is made here of the hypersenses as a whole, beyond the reference to hearing a kick drum from ten blocks away. Even her hearing doesn't receive that much attention in the story overall, which feels like a missed opportunity for such a musical character. Her blindness, too, is pretty much irrelevant to the story, and never comes up again. But I do LOVE that she uses the term "echolocation", though is still very clearly the radar sense, in all its vague, undefined, semi-magic glory.

And visually? This is great. I'm always a fan of the cross-hatching visual, especially against a black background, and artist Justin Mason doesn't go too overboard on the detail, which is another preference of mine. And thematically, I love the ways in which Mattea's drummer identity is tied into her superheroics-- not just for laying a beatdown on bad guys, but also for channelling and enhancing her echolocation/radar sense. One of my favorite scenes in the comic is when she plays a drum solo on a roof edge to scope out the Kingpin's lair. I'm willing, in that moment, to ignore any gripes about radar sense irregularities out of respect for the coolness and thematic heft of the concept. I mean, this rocks:

Mattea: "Come on, show me the good stuff."

At the end of the day, though, this is not a Daredevil comic and Mattea is not the main character. Plus, it's only five issues long, and introduces a bunch of other new characters as well. There was only ever going to be room for the creative team to offer a cursory introduction, hopefully generating enough interest to prompt these characters to appear again in other comics. In that, I think they fully succeeded with Mattea; we get a cursory sense of her powers (or at least, enough to show that they're the normal DD set), her personality (delightfully cocky, playful, tough, fearless), a few hints of her backstory, and some truly kickass fight scenes. There's a bit of suspension of disbelief required to believe she can use drumsticks as a stand-in for billy clubs (unless her drumsticks are made of something really hefty-- and hey, maybe they are), but this is Spider-Punk. Hobie killed Norman Osborn with a guitar--twice. It's not about realism, it's about style.

Mattea: "Been waiting for this for a long time, Fisk. Real long time." Fisk: "I'm going to break you, li'l girl--AWGGH!" Mattea: "Big, strong man who sends out his band of wackos to push over people too weak to fight back." Fisk: "Wouldn't get too cocky, girlie...you're not the only one who's fast! I'm gonna hurt ya. A lot. Then I'm gonna kill ya. And I'm gonna love every second of it. You know, this is the same look you had when I had your old band clapped a few years back. I like it. Brings out your eyes--GAAAH!" Mattea: "There's something you need to understand about me, papi. I'm not the kinda girl who goes down without a fight."

I can't wait to see more of Mattea and learn more about her, her world, her friends, and her enemies. In particular, she seems to have a history (possibly romantic?) with this world's Kamala Khan, and I would love to see more of that relationship. While Mattea Murdock clearly has a lot in common with Matt Murdock, she also seems happy to be a team player, unlike Matt, and I really enjoy that. Though I guess it's not that surprising a distinction. After all, every drummer needs a band.

#Spider-Punk vol. 1 #Daredevil #Mattea Murdock #Spider-Punk #Hobie Brown #Spider-Band #Commentary #ID in alt text

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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 7 months

Text

Stuck in a damn bed.

What -- Daryl's bedbound and stuck that way recovering for longer than he wants. He's not a fan.

When -- after supper following the chapter That's it. In the show, it is in season 2 following the events of Chupacabra. Note that the Slowpoke Series is canon-compliant, but you'll notice a more realistic recovery time has been portrayed than was able to be shown the TV series.

Relationships -- slow burning Reader x Daryl, but Carol's season 2 crush is coming out.

TWs -- some language and unexpected familial abuse

Pronouns -- she/her

How long is it? -- there hasn't been a new chapter in over a month, y'all...

Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here

There's a part in the story with abuse by a family member (domestic violence). It's not reader being beaten in the way one might imagine abuse, but it's still abuse.

If you're being hurt by a loved one irl, they are doing something bad to you. Abuse is not earned or deserved. You are worthy of being safe and unhurt.

For help getting safe, you can call the Domestic Violence Hotline (USA) at 800-799-7233, chat online, or text START to 88788.

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

Day 1 of being stuck in a damn bed

later

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

Carol brought him supper. Eggs and field greens with crackers and beans. She’d brought breakfast and lunch to him, too. Stayed this time, though.

She ate mostly in silence with him but told him about the day. When she was done eating, she went back to mending a torn shirt she’d brought with.

Sophia wasn’t brought back today.

The whole truckload of these asshats that he’s been sticking with for way too long and for who-knows-why — couldn’t find that woman’s little girl after an entire day of searching the grid he slashed in half? Goddamned bullshit.

Yet, when two of those 'asshats,' Y/N and Patricia, came in to bring him a nighttime dose of painkillers and do another exam, he couldn’t find the words to ask Y/N anything about it. He didn’t feel all pissed and upset anymore, either.

Couldn’t make eye contact much with her just yet, granted. Still felt all stupid nervous.

Ain’t nothing he could do about it for now, his soul got stripped bare with Y/N’s yesterday. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t think of Y/N as stupid. Or Carol, that lady wasn’t stupid.

Hell, maybe no one in his group was, maybe it was just that he was heartbroke about that poor lost girl and in way too much pain.

Y/N was honest and spoke plainly about the situation, which was a welcome relief from how others were getting closed-lipped about it. “Today was so damned disappointing,” she muttered. “Twelve of us took turns goin’ out in teams, man, scoured the grid you narrowed down. Then we went beyond it when we still didn’t find…” After a few moments, she sat up straighter, adjusting the sling on her injured side. “Tomorrow’s the day, then.”

Well, since they’re changing up the search area tomorrow, maybe it’s true. And, maybe Daryl will stop complaining about others and will stop being a pussy and be able to actually get up and walk tomorrow, help out by his damned self and bring back their the girl.

Except that when he implied as much, Patricia shot it down. “We can’t force you, but—”

“Sure as shit can’t,” he yipped back.

At hearing Y/N’s huff, he turned just in time to catch her licking her teeth in annoyance. Her eyebrows were raised and her stare was enough to make his heart pound, loudly.

“You won’t make it far without needin’ to be helped back, if you can get up and walk around normally in the first place,” Patricia cautioned. “Give yourself a few days.”

Yeah, so, Sophia didn’t have a few days. “I’m fine.”

“We just want you to heal,” Carol quietly spoke.

Before he could finish yipping another comeback, Patricia sighed, then surprised him by saying, “Alright. We’ll leave the room so you can get dressed. Clothes are over there.”

Y/N frowned. “Ma’am?”

The lady gently held up a hand in response.

It was a test, plain as day. Which is why before them three had even left the room, Daryl had grit his teeth and held the bedsheets across his shoulder to keep himself covered as he pushed through the pain in order to sit upright all the way.

Courtesy of Y/N, his button-down shirt was tossed to him before she scooted out of the room, and Daryl was wincing and biting back groans as he worked it on for at least three minutes. He thanked his lucky stars it was a button-down and not a t-shirt, or he wouldn’t have been able to put it on.

He should’ve just thrown in the towel right then and accepted defeat, but he had too much to prove.

And when if he admitted it was too much for him…even if he didn't look like a Q-tip, wearing a damn pair of pants while it happened was the bare minimum that could make it bearable.

But he really should’ve thrown that towel in. It took accidentally hissing out a cuss when he tried to be tough as he swung his leg off the bed for him to start thinking he was being a jackass. It took him swallowing a whimper, chewing on his lip all the while, when he stood and had to untangle the bedsheets from his foot for him to doubt he could even get the pants on.

But being stubborn as a jackass had its perks: he gripped the bed frame to help him walk and got to his clothes without knocking anything over. He also worked out that sitting to put the pants on was better because he had to bend less if he was seated.

By the time he’d gotten them plus his socks and shoes on, he was sweaty and had the shakes, he’d also needed to sit awhile before he got the balls to stand up again and hobble his way to the door.

But he made it. Choking down his pride and his groans of discomfort, he made it to the door and pulled it open.

Patricia was waiting on the chair around the corner in the living room, quietly talking with Y/N while pointing at something in a giant, red book.

“Maybe I do need that few days,” he surrendered. Didn’t come out as tough as he’d intended.

Tell you what, though, that twangy blonde woman was one heck of a lady. “Let’s get you some fresh air while you’re up, does that sound good?” she offered. “The porch is only a few steps away.”

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

You

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

“Oh, Glenn.” You flop against the RV’s table and end up staring at the ding in the cabinet opposite you. You just left the front porch after Patricia helped Daryl walk there to get a breather, only to find out not 30 seconds after entering the RV that Glenn spilled the news about Lori to Dale.

Instead of Glenn, Dale responds, “Kiddo, my lips are sealed,” but you’re busy trying to sort out how to keep Shane from finding out for a little while longer if already the news is getting out, and not from Lori or you.

You love Glenn to death, but oh my gosh, he is not good at secrets. You didn’t even know he’d known, you only just now drew the conclusion when you made the connection; that that was the thing on Lori’s drugstore list that Glenn was being all secretive about, the pregnancy test.

Right now, you need to stomp down the fears leaping around your dumb little brain because you cannot make this seem dramatic, or it will point to there being a problem with Lori being pregnant — which there isn’t, a new baby is such happy news you could scream, it’s just that there’s the possibility of — with your brother and — ugh, you need to go on a walk or kick something! And Dale and Glenn won’t/can’t know why you’re so upset or it will be even worse.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you knew, or I would’ve talked about it with you instead of Dale so I wouldn’t explode! Secrets aren’t cool, dude.”

“Seein' as you didn't mention the pregnancy tests, I'd say secrets have their place,” you test.

“Not really. They make things complicated and people get hurt.”

You sneer while letting out a huff, and Dale puts his two cents in.

“I’m inclined to agree with Glenn here.” He’s apologetic when he calmly next points out, “Secrets are an omission of the truth.”

Here you are, gleefully sitting on the secret that Maggie admitted to you that she really likes Glenn. Not-so-gleefully sitting on the secret that the baby may biologically be your brother's, too. Ain't like you're about to spill or you'll burst.

In your mind, you take the simmering tea kettle off the burner so it won’t start to sing. “There are good secrets and bad secrets. And most people wait a few to tell others about pregnancies, y’all,” you state, and then make an executive decision to share something truthful that’s maybe not your place to do so, but you need to save face for Lori’s sake, now. “Lori’s had a few losses, it’s not wrong to imagine the new one might won’t make it long.”

Dale and Glenn both react similarly: they open their mouth and raise their heads slightly, then bow them. Good.

Scratching his neck, Glenn apologizes again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“If she loses this one, too, those who know will grieve with her, then, simple as.” You’re satisfied and confident that you’ve saved face for Lori and your brother and Rick.

Except for how Dale peers at you. It reminds you of the gentle way one might look at a preschooler who is nervously trying to cover up the fact that they peed their pants.

One hand on your shoulder, he stops peering all knowingly and strokes his beard. “Irma miscarried, too. Our only one, none came after that,” he shares. Slowly, he sits at the spot by the RV’s right window. “We usually told people we stopped trying, which isn’t not the truth, I suppose. She and I simply stopped being, uh, ‘intentional’ about trying to conceive,” he explains.

“I’m sorry they died,” you tell Dale quietly. “Did you give ’em a name? My Ma lost one after Shane, she named them.”

“Believe it or not,” he says, hesitating before breaking into a smile and chuckling. “We were thinking about ‘Glenn’ for both a boy and girl name.”

Glenn’s cheeks turn purply-red like a beet. “Wait, seriously?”

Dale shrugs and nods.

“Y/N, no wonder I’m his favorite!”

After you play-pout, you notice, “Hold up: ‘Glenn’ and ‘Dale.’ Both are—”

“— Yes,” Dale finishes, turning pink while he laughs to himself and rubs his fingers over his wedding band. “The word ‘dale’ is from the Old English for ‘valley.’ And ‘glen’ is from the, ah, Scottish, the Scots Gaelic for ‘a valley formed by a river.’ My Irma liked the wordplay.”

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

Day 2 of being stuck in a damn bed

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

“You must be bored as hell in here, man. Concussion protocol stinks.”

T-Dog had just knocked and brought in the boombox that had been used a few times back at the quarry camp. He’d placed it next to Daryl on the bed, said he was here to help, then told him, “You saved my life with those meds, Daryl. And Carl’s.”

Daryl laid there like an awkward slug, he still felt off. Patricia was right, he really did get a good whack to the head. And...whole body.

He also didn’t expect a declaration like that. Not that it was a bad thing. He’d grown to have a lot of respect for T-Dog. Real decent guy. Maybe they were friends, too? He hoped so, he wanted that. And Daryl understood that him and his brother had been…he knew they was wrong, about how they’d been to T-Dog.

“No TV allowed.” T-Dog started to go on, narrating to himself, “Ain’t like that’s a problem right now. But also no reading, no busywork,” he said louder, “no getting up and moving much for the first couple days — I don’t envy you, brother. But listening to music, that they usually let you do so long as it’s quiet. You know what’s funny, though? There’s a separate, what do you call it, uh— ‘school of thought’ out there that says concussed people should be getting theyselves back to normal right from the get-go.”

The front door to the house opened again. Instead of footsteps going down the hall, there was another knock at Daryl’s door.

Before Y/N could finish her long-ass knocking pattern, Daryl called, “Just open it, s’fine.”

The knob turned and there she was, holding out a cassette tape with a plug hanging off it. “Found it. I’d forgot we’d moved it from Carol’s car. Jimmy borrowed it on the way to gun practice yesterday, left it in his dad’s truck.”

“You went without it all last night? I would’ve borrowed it, Y/N,” T-Dog razzed, “It’s been near a week since I listened to music, gonna turn into a Puritan at this rate.”

She giggled. “I fell asleep around 7:30 yesterday, man, I was out.”

“Yeah, Dale was worried that your brother pushed you too hard at that little fighting lesson y’all did.”

Making a little huh?, she pressed her lips together in what looked like a confused pout. “He was going easy. Oh — if he sounded like an asshole, that’s his way. Usually when you gotta defend yourself, there’s chaos and a lot of, um, of emotion. So, he riles you up, keeps pushin’ your buttons, so that you’ll learn to separate from the emotion and focus. Specifically, he’s tryin’ to help me not react,” she slumped as she said, “angrily. Anger makes you stupid.”

“Whatever you say, little sister. Just don’t go overdoin’ it, hear? You tend to overdo.”

With a teeny huff, she twisted her mouth and nodded.

“Speaking of, how long will you need to have your upper arm tied to your torso there?” he questioned.

She shrugged. “A few more days.”

“Alright, I’ll stop naggin’ you. How about: can I please get dibs on the mp3 the first night this guy can get out of bed? Pretty please?”

Mouth still twisted, it turned into a lopsided grin. “Deal.”

“Thank you much. Now,” he rubbed his hands together. “I do gotta ask, what music did the farm boy leave it on?”

“Hmm…” Y/N pressed the button on the side of the little music player to turn it on. Click, click, click. “Ah, Mumford & Sons. Do you know them? They’re that new band who makes bouncy banjo songs, got the raspy-voiced singer?”

“‘Bouncy banjo songs with a raspy-voiced singer,’” T-Dog chuckled. “I know them. Alright, man,” he said, turning to Daryl. “The batteries in the boombox should have plenty of juice left. You got the mp3 player to hook up to it, just use the tape deck converter. There’s a handful of CDs, too, and some cassettes.” He then made a little ha, and said, “Look like one of these is a book on tape that Dale got from the library. Shit, this was due like a month before the outbreaks, look at the date on here!”

“That’s a lotta late fees.”

“Let’s hope they waive ’em.”

This back and forth between the two of them was serving as Daryl’s minor entertainment for the afternoon. What serves as entertainment when you're stuck in a damn bed...

“D’you wonder if it’s as bad as The Case of the Missing Man?” Y/N droned.

“Oh, did you finish it, Y/N?”

“No. I tried two nights ago when I camped out in here. Couldn’t get passed chapter 4.”

“Surprised you ain’t reading it to this guy,” he told her. “Seein’ as you’re spending all that time in here, anyway.”

This was when Daryl got annoyed and uncomfortable again, there was something about the way T-Dog said it.

He didn’t think he felt (therefore looked) all nervous around Y/N anymore, that was all done, just a one-off. So why did it sound like T-Dog was teasing?

“Daryl’s suffered enough,” Y/N answered, and Daryl didn’t have time to catch her expression before she continued, “Miss Patricia’s certain he’s got a broken rib and maybe clavicle. So there’s the concussion, the ripped side by his rib, the collarbone, the stiff neck, then all the bruises, the abrasions, and that bullet graze — oh, sh — I just broke HIPAA!” she blurted out. “Ain’t never done that before, just blabbed about—that’s so—oh my g—th-that’s—Daryl, I’m so sorry!”

All Daryl could do was snort and ignore the sudden tug in the middle of his chest toward her direction. “Gonna sue your ass,” he deadpanned. Such a square.

“For real, though,” T-Dog spoke. “I still can’t believe you made your way back alive after all you went through, man. Yesterday, I joined Rick, we went to where you fell — Daryl, you should be dead. The way I see it, God’s got plans for you, brother. Just let Him do His thing.”

Awkward about what to say or how to react, Daryl responded with what was on his mind for most of the day. “Any signs out there today?”

Neither of them answered at first, meaning they didn’t find shit.

“I thought Rick talked to you already,” Y/N mumbled.

T-Dog answered better. “We’re searching a new area tomorrow, branching out.”

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

later

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

Having music was saving him from going completely nuts. The little music player thing seemed to have something for just about everybody on it, and the CDs were fine, too. He even popped in the book on tape.

Sent him right to sleep.

Dale and Carol came visiting with supper. Carol had eaten every meal with him for the past two days. It made him a little nervous, to be plain. The way she paid attention seemed less like pity or friendship and more like something more, which he didn’t want and didn’t have to offer.

But he liked how Carol was quiet and gentle, thoughtful, and had a dry sense of humor every so often (when she let it out around him, that is).

The grub was eggs and field greens again, but this time there was also rice. Granted, no meat again, but someone must have found onion grass, because it smelled real tasty. If he cared, he would’ve considered to maybe not wolf it down as fast as he did, given that Carol and Dale were in there.

Then came his friend’s signature knocking again.

He was relieved to have felt nothing at Y/N's arrival; no nervousness, no warm cheeks. Everything was back to normal.

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

Day 3 of being stuck in a damn bed

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

“After Andy told her there was still a chance, she stopped her and said she didn’t really need to hear it anymore,” Y/N told him quietly. Arms crossed and hood up, she was resting back on the chair in the corner of the room, legs propped against the end of the bed. “I wanted you to hear it from me so if Carol said anything, it wouldn’t be knockin’ you out of left field.”

Y/N’d gone with her brother, Andrea, and Carol to check the spot on the highway where they’d set up a mini shelter for Sophia however many days ago all that shit went down. A few of the group had gone back every day, twice a day.

And now Carol was losing hope or just plain lost it.

For real, how was it that her kid was still goddamned missing?

He and Y/N found a sign at that house, then another at the other house, then he’d found her doll—how far would Sophia have fucking gone?

Her body ain’t been found yet, neither, which meant she had to be out there somewhere.

“Even Shane tried to be optimistic for her. After hearin’ her say to Andrea how she didn’t want to hear it no more, he tried to insist Sophia might could be fine, but she held out her hand so he’d stop.”

“Shane? Really?”

Shane wrote that little girl off as a goner, last Daryl knew. What changed?

Y/N gave a small, tired, very forced smile. “We had a good talk a few days ago. He knows he hasn’t been himself and he wants to do better.”

That’s good. The way her brother’s been acting has been driving screws through her, he knew that much.

“Still, your nine days to Sophia’s…” she trailed off, and when she did, he saw it in her face. Heard it in her voice when she finished her thought. “This is either her day 7 or 8 out there, I-I can’t think right now.”

Yup. She was also losing hope or plain lost it.

The feeling of helplessness jumpstarted and rammed him in the belly.

He swore. “C’mon, Y/N. You, too?”

“Dude,” she hesitated, “understanding the possibility she’s dead ain’t wrong.”

Shut up.

“It’s, it’s a high statistical likelihood,” was her next bullshit excuse. “From day one it’s been on the tabl—”

“—No wonder she ain’t been found yet,” he snarled, interrupting her. “None of y’all shitheads actually think that little girl’s out there!”

The pain from his broken rib seared like a hot poker when he raised his voice, but as he said it, he believed every word of it and liked how it struck home.

But only as he said it.

Because one look in his friend’s eyes afterward, wet and turning red, and he felt the invisible knee to the nards and stomach and knew he’d just been a massive asshole.

Y/N giving him the middle finger was what Patricia saw after she’d knocked on the door and come in.

“What’s goin’ on?” she asked the pair of them.

Y/N wiped an eye and told her honestly, “An argument about Sophia,” before laying this out to Daryl: “Not one of us doubts she’s out there.”

Regretful as he was for being an asshole, he still pushed back, “Yeah, all y’all just think she’s dead anyway, so why bother.”

“You mangy h—” she swallowed. Licked her teeth. “Stayin’ hopeful is one thing,” she started, pointing her finger at him while clear-as-day working to not raise her voice. “But can you honestly say to us that you wasn’t also prepared to find our girl dead every time you was out there?”

Patricia held up a hand and cleared her throat. “I’m here to check your bandages, Daryl. Y/N.”

Y/N apologized to Patricia and exited the room quietly.

Patricia did her thing.

And Daryl, stuck in a damn bed, same as he’d been for three days now, lay there feeling helpless, worthless, unwanted, and now like a massive asshole, and he was goddamned angry about it.

He really wanted to kick something, chug a beer, or cry. And have a smoke. Carol’d brought him his pack, he’d managed to get a good one in through the open window earlier.

“These should be able to come off in a few days,” Patricia murmured, re-wrapping his head. “And the graze is healing nicely. We still need to be cautious about your concussion and that side-wound of yours, hence you bein’ stuck in here for awhile yet.” The lady shifted her weight to her other leg and set her hand on her side. “How do the collarbone and ribs feel?”

“Fine.”

Arching one eyebrow at him, she took one arm and did some gentle movements, then the same with the other arm.

“Those areas are already better than they were the first day, so there’s something. And the rib fracture, unless it’s just a real nasty bruise, is likely hairline, which is light years better than the alternative. Remember to breathe deep through your belly to get full breaths in, don’t expand your lungs wide, do it through your belly. And keep up the good work avoidin’ laying on your left side like you have been. Once you’re up and out, you’ll have to keep things slow so they’ll heal good.”

“How slow?”

She exhaled through her nose and spoke his name. “I need to tell you, it’s by the skin of my teeth that I’ve been convincing Hersh that you and the little boy still need carin’ for. Please work with me on this. Agree to take it slow.”

Nope. He couldn’t just do nothing, Sophia was missing! Why did everybody keep forgetting that part? “He can kick me out all he wants, I don’t give a shit — that little girl ain’t gonna get found in one piece if I keep things slow.”

“There are 9 or 10 people searching for her on the regular, Daryl. You’re gonna heal badly, permanently, if you don’t go slow,” she warned. “You and your friend both need to learn to do what your bodies need.” She paused. Smirked for half a second before tucking it away. “That came out wrong. What I meant is that y’all need rest, and not aggravate what’s gone wrong and make it worse.”

Before leaving the room, she turned back toward him. “It’s that Hershel still wants y’all not just out, off his land. Clean off.” She held up a hand as if she didn’t know what to do next. “I don’t think that’s right, and I don’t want it. And I can see how many of your group want to stay, are helpin’ out. Y’all are good people. So please, mind your manners and that mouth around Hershel, Daryl. It’s you and Y/N’s brother that are causin’ him the most concern, and ultimately, it’s gonna be Hershel’s decision.”

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

later

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

Carol brought him supper, again. The meal was quiet, until small footsteps and a knock along with “Mr. Dixon?” sounded outside the door.

It was Carl, asking if he could eat dinner with him. “And I brought you one of my comic books. I figured I could show you the pictures and read to you the words. They’re saying you can’t read right now. That stinks. I get to read and walk around a little, at least, I just can’t move a lot.”

Daryl waved him and his folks in, felt a brief moment of pride that the antibiotics he’d supplied had saved the kid’s and T-Dog’s life, then he asked Carl when he’d be able to run around.

“Mr. Greene is hoping I can do stuff like normal soon. I still get really tired when I move. But I wanna be strong if Sophia needs me, so I’m doing what he says is best.”

Did Y/N or Patricia put him up to this?

“Do you still think she could be okay? I know that a lot of our people are losing hope, but I still think she could be okay. Dad does, too, and Mom, and Y/N.”

Daryl thought to himself how he’d go through everything he had gone through for Sophia again for that kid, gladly. “‘Course I think she’s okay. Prolly sleeping in a queen-sized bed wherever she’s stayin’.

Rick chatted to him in between bites of scrambled egg. “Based on how the search goes tomorrow, we’ll be altering the grid again.” He asked Daryl his opinion on where would be smartest to focus the search efforts in the new area. (It was upstream, obviously. And Daryl wasn’t used to his ideas being taken seriously, it was a nice change.)

He kept glancing at Carol as the conversation went on. She’d gotten all wet-eyed when Carl first spoke up about wanting to be strong for Sophia. Stayed quiet when Rick talked.

But by the end, she didn’t seem so lost anymore.

He watched from the side as she thumbed her cross necklace, kissed it—then caught him watching and gave him a tiny smile.

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

later

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

He’d hobbled to the window to have another smoke. Getting in and out of bed still hurt, ain’t that bull?

It was just about dark, there was only a blurry strip of orange left at the very bottom of the horizon.

Daryl looked out at the land. Saw the campfire, saw Andrea on top of the RV.

T-Dog noticed him from his spot by a cluster of trees where he was having a smoke, too, and he waved once to Daryl before turning around to resume his own cigarette break in privacy.

Midway through a particularly deep drag (a tricky thing to do when inhaling deeply hurts because you got a cracked rib), there was some giggling outside his door in the hall to the front.

The dread that he was gonna get caught and kicked out for smoking sent a jolt into his veins. Not sure why he cared so much all the sudden.

He’d already put out his cigarette against the outside of the windowsill when the familiar sound of her laughter registered in his ears, so his muscles stopped feeling so tense.

Leaning on the sill, he then watched her and Glenn just about torpedo down the porch stairs and toward a field as if they were rac—no, wait, they actually were racing. He definitely didn’t snort to himself about it then wince because snorting hurt. The short-haired chick, Baby Spice, and the farm boy spilled onto the porch to watch—nope, scratch that, they were joining in.

Where were they even g…okay, to some old tree stump.

Y/N’d mentioned how Daryl was only 6 or 7 years older than them, but sometimes it felt like a hell of a lot more. Her and Glenn together, especially, together they acted like they was 12-year-olds.

After Daryl saw what was maybe a tie take place, he felt creepy just, ahem, staring at them from the window. So, he shut the screen back down and gimped his sore-ass self to the bed again.

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

Day 4 of being stuck in a damn bed.

You

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

“Lore? How about you sit a minute?” She looks like she’s either going to pass our or throw up, so you don’t know whether to guide her to a seat or hold her hair back.

“It’s the, um—” she grabs a lock of her hair and folds it over her nose, breathing in slowly while walking in the opposite direction of the campfire. “What is that meat?”

“Rabbit.”

Through her nausea, she’s still encouraging enough to offer a genuine “Well done!” even as she tries to tamp down her gag reflex.

Yeah, Shane and you set up snares yesterday, and today one worked.

You point to the pine grove. “I finally set up my hammock over there. Let’s — it’s just, you look like you need to lay down.”

“I will, I just have to talk to Daryl first, he’s been, um—” she pauses again to exhale slowly. Her color is nonexistent right now. “He’s been smoking outside his window, and, and I’m worried that if Hershel sees—” She suddenly bursts into tears, and that makes her gag more.

The biggest problem right now is that Mr. Greene still wants your group off his land once Carl and Daryl aren’t bedbound.

That Daryl went through his awful accident is a blessing in disguise; it’s buying you all time.

Maggie is openly upset with her dad about it. Miss Patricia and her boy don’t agree, either.

You’re mad at the man, too, like — you get that your group is threatening simply by the fact that there are more of you and you’re armed — but what about your conduct here has been threatening? Minus the mishap with Andrea almost killing Daryl and how Shane has been a little dominant, you’re all helping out, keeping the campsite clean, staying quiet, respecting the property.

Like, yes, y’all killed a walker that had sprouted legit gills because he it was trapped in one of their wells, but the guy was dead. Quite literally a corpse, not even a "he" anymore; it, the corpse, was usurped by a virus. His soul had moved on.

Mr. Greene is a faithful dude, he’s supposed to be a man of God, so why would he kick…never mind, he’s scared for his family, you get it, you get it.

People have done atrocious things to each other since it all went down, no one can deny that.

Well, there’s still hope. He can and will change his mind. Carl, Lori, and new baby need a safe place.

Happily, the awkwardness of trying to sit side-by-side in the hammock makes both you and Lori crack up. You stop awfulizing in your head, and she seems calmer, too.

“What was it you were going to talk to Daryl about again?” you ask.

“He’s been smoking out of his window. I picked up the butts when I saw them. We can’t give Hershel any more reasons to not want us here. He’ll see it as disrespecting his home, his land…” Her voice goes up, and she’s back to crying. So far, you and Glenn (and Dale, just don’t tell Lori that Glenn told him!) are the only ones who know about the new one she’s got in there.

“Y/N, I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this — I can’t, I can’t…”

“You already are, mama,” you whisper softly. “Lore, I’ll do whatever it is you and baby need, Ricky will, too. Come hell or high water, Lori, we will do what it takes.”

“If it even lasts that long.” She wipes her eyes and turns her head away “How long will it last, you think? Truly? And if I don’t lose this one, too, how long until one of those things catches them, rips them apart?”

“You can’t think that way.”

“We have to think that way! My son was shot, he nearly died and he, he, he can’t even walk around for more than 10 minutes without getting exhausted. And Sophia?”

You close your eyes. You know; Carol’s been sharing your tent.

“—What are the chances Sophia is alive? Truly?” she challenges. You stay quiet.

Sophia is, most likely, not alive anymore. You’ll search until she’s found for as long as it takes, but it will likely be her body that is found.

“Carol understands it, too, honey, she told me yesterday, said it again today, and I cannot imagine she hasn’t told you, too, as she cries herself to sleep. And, and even if that sweet, innocent girl is still alive, what are the chances she wasn’t kidnapped and God knows what else?"

She's out of breath. "Our families, friends — they died or were killed, and are now dead. Almost everyone we knew, Y/N. So how can you honestly tell me she,” and Lori points to her stomach, “will have a happy life? That my baby will have any semblance of a normal, safe life! Or that, that, that she’ll even survive long enough to make it out of diapers when the only way she will be able to tell someone that something is wrong is by crying, and putting herself and everyone else at risk!”

When she finally stops, she lowers her head to her knees and pulls at her hair, sobbing.

There are ideas and viewpoints floating around your head as something to respond with or comfort with, but nothing is coming together enough yet. Having been raised with fosters, you know without doubt life is never predictable and safe, even with the best-laid plans. Most importantly, you learned that no one’s life, absolutely no one’s life, is ever worthless or meaningless.

But the major thing that keeps repeating in your head is how Lori very clearly just called the new one “she.”

Before you can put that to words, Lori stumbles out of the hammock, stumbles and few yards forward, kneels, and gets sick.

Wiping your own tears, you kneel beside her, hold her hair back, and lightly massage her neck.

She first apologizes, then quickly spirals into putting herself down and panicking about how-awful-she-is-but-she-can’t-but-she-can’t, so you figure it’s a good time to interrupt.

“So. You thinkin’ you’ve got a girl in there?”

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

Him

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

“Did he read you the one where Science Dog becomes real?”

Because Carl did happen to read him that comic book, Daryl knew what that sentence meant. “Yeah.”

“That’s a fun episode! Oh, um, ‘issue,’ whatever the word is,” Y/N self-corrected. “Ain’t it just so— ‘miracle’ barely describes how well Carl is doin’.” She shifted in her spot and used her good arm to massage her bad side. “Hey, did Ricky mentioned how Carol was today?”

He shook his head. Y/N grinned.

“She was out first thing, came back last. She was vocal, outspoken about the search and where to go. Probably why she was about to fall out when she got back.” A nod. “It was really good, she didn’t seem so broken today.”

Daryl grunted. “Good. Should be.” He shifted on the mattress and tried to get comfortable again. Ouch.

“Hey, was you—um, were you—smokin’ out your window last night?” She asked the second part under her breath as if it were a big secret.

“Maybe.” Is my square gonna preach about smoking?

She nodded slowly and went to take another bite of food, but paused and lowered her fork. “Lori asked me to ask you. She, um, would’ve come herself, but she’s a mite sick. When you have a smoke, please tuck the butt in a tissue? Lori cleaned ’em up earlier when she saw them outside your window.”

“Why? Is Hershel one of them super-Baptists?”

“Daryl,” she murmured. “Please. We all gotta be on our best behavior so we don’t get kicked out as soon as you and Carl are better. He already wants us gone, you two being injured has been our savin’ grace. If, if Mr. Greene’s sees smoke butts, it might will be seen as another strike. Even as someone who smokes, do you like seein’ butts on the ground?”

He chewed. Swallowed. Grunted, “I’ll put ’em in a tissue.” After piling in another forkful, he hummed in appreciation and asked, “Who bagged the rabbit?” Been about a week since any meat.

“A snare got one. We cracked open one of them Foxfire books and set some up.” Y/N was sad about the rabbit, Daryl could tell. “Shane remembered most of the steps from Boy Scouts,” she detailed.

“He clean it, too?”

“Mm.”

“Didn’t cook tonight, too, did he?”

Carol usually made meals, but she’d hit the sack early. He’d last seen her at lunchtime (and Carol probably would have known how to cook rabbit meat a little better)

Y/N answered him with her mouth full. “He actually did, Shane and me.”

“No wonder it’s nasty.”

She made a psht in response, and then right as Daryl was taking a particularly big bite, chirped, “Then starve.”

He snarfed.

It hurt, but he hadn’t burst into a laugh like that in a while.

And in truth, he was really enjoying the food.

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

later

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

Another dream that he didn’t want hit him from out of nowhere, the same way Andrea’s bullet had.

Except, he didn’t feel disappointed when he woke up, he felt freaked out.

In the dream this time, Carol was kneeling on his bed, crying and reading the comic book. He didn’t know what to do and he couldn’t move. Then Carol kissed his cheek and asked him “Is this the one where Sophia becomes real again?”

When he woke up, he clawed his way to the window to have another smoke.

It took a lot in him to not holler out with a loud-ass cuss when he stubbed his toes on the dresser. It accidentally hurt his broken ribs and collarbone while trying to not fall over as a result. Lots of hushed cusses.

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

Day...um…shit, right: Day 5 of being stuck in a damn bed

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

Day 5 for him. Meaning it was either day 9 or 10 for Sophia.

Day 9 was the day he’d been hoping to not get to. And if it was actually day 10 for her…

It didn't matter the date, what he’d said about Sophia was still true. She was a smart kid, there are just a hell of a lot of hiding places where she could be holed up in. Farmhouses with open doors or windows, barns, empty businesses and buildings, even cars. As for food and water, wasn’t like there weren’t a creek, orchards and overrun gardens for miles around.

Here he was, still stuck in a damned bed while the twangy blonde lady waved that stupid, skinny flashlight in his eyes for the twentieth damned time!

Patricia clicked her tongue. “I get that cabin fever can make anybody get short, but irritability is one of them things that can pop up or get worse after a concussion, Daryl, so I ain’t too sure whether or not this is a change for you.”

I’d be fine if Sophia was back! Everything would be, bitch! “I’d be better if I wasn’t stuck in here.”

She took a moment. “Let’s check your balance again, then.”

He exhaled through his teeth and was enraged to find himself suddenly about to cry.

“If you can walk without tilting, we’ll both know you’re good to go,” the lady continued. “My friend, I ain’t trying to humble you, I want to see if you’ve improved enough.”

So, Daryl held the blanket over himself as he got himself out of bed and slowly stepped down the hallway. He tried to walk normal, got a little dizzy doing it. Not too much, but…

He didn’t quite hold back the tears of frustration.

Patricia must’ve felt sorry for him again, because she walked him back to the room, had him put on long pants and a shirt, then escorted him out to the porch barefoot.

“We should ought’ve brought you out here more regularly these past few days. Fresh air and sunlight can do wonders. Sit here awhile, then we’ll try a around the house.”

Her using a ‘should ought’ve’ made him think of Y/N.

Within a minute, Dale in his little On Golden Pond fisherman hat and T-Dog with a towel over his forehead saw him from their perch on top of the RV, and raised hands to wave at Daryl.

From the far left, he heard Y/N’s laughter along with Glenn’s and what was probably Baby Spice and the short-haired chick Maggie and the farm boy Jimmy’s. He stood up and — damn it, still wobbly and sore — made his way to the side of the porch to see what they were doing.

They were kicking a ball around, squealing like schoolkids.

Carl was sitting on the same tree stump that the gaggle of them had raced to last night, cheering and razzing off and on.

Seeing just, like…innocent shit like this was nice.

But, standing up made Daryl tired, and he (again) felt creepy watching them, so he shuffled back to the little bench right as Patricia was coming back outside carrying two glasses of sweet tea.

“Your two friends and Maggie got back from their search, sad as you can get. Jimmy and Beth did their own check around the pastures and the perimeter again, too. Have every day since you took those falls.” She took a sip of her drink. “Seems this kickball or soccer match, whatever they’re doing, this was their way of cheerin’ themselves up. Looks like it’s working. So long as none of y’all get hurt again, I’m happy.”

When Patricia eventually suggested it was time to try a walk around the house, Daryl did his best.

His best was shit, he was still unstable on his feet and couldn't use his arms much or breathe too deeply without it smarting.

Patricia was upbeat about it. “You have maybe a day or two left with your bandages, anyhow, Daryl. Let’s get you back to a chair, you look like you’re fixing to topple over.”

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

later

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

A loud knock and a face he hadn’t seen since the first day he was laid out in there woke him from yet another nap. So many naps! He kept needing more sleep.

“Heard you was still in the hole another day or two. Figured you could use more music to keep you from goin’ too stir crazy.” Shane handed him a cassette with a homemade label.

“This one’s from back in the day when we needed to make our own tapes so we could listen to the good stuff. I know my sister’s mp3 got a ton on it, but this one’s special. No need to skip around or charge it or plug nothin’ in.” Shane offered a flick of his hand in goodbye. “Alright, man, take it easy. Rest up.”

“Wait, how was Carol today?” Daryl called to him before he left the room.

Shane turned. He still had a slight limp from when he hurt his ankle. “Hangin’ in there. Went a little hard today and yesterday, but she seems to be in a real good place, believe it or not. Ain’t lost all hope, but she’s accepting what happened, if you get me.”

Daryl was pretty sure he got him. “Accepting her kid is gone?”

Shane’s stare was hard and felt to Daryl like a challenge. “Yeah, man, accepting that her kid is gone. We’re still goin’ out every day in the hopes we’re wrong, don’t misjudge me. And I want to be wrong, Daryl, I really do.” He licked his teeth and brushed a hand over his buzz cut. “It ain’t rocket science. That little girl is, in all likelihood, dead. Has been for days, you get that, right?”

Daryl was good at glaring contests. “I get it.”

“Look. I’m not out to be the asshole. I just don’t want none of us gettin’ ourselves killed over this. You and my sister could’ve got bit doin’ what you did at that house one week back, and in the process, she ripped her side back open and injured her shoulder worse than it ever was. And you?” He shook his head. “You almost died, Daryl.”

“It was worth it, jackass,” is not what Daryl intended to say, but that’s what he said. Daryl wasn’t planning on saying anything, in fact, because he knew he’d likely blow his cool and risk Dr. Farmer hearing it, and apparently the old guy was ready to chuck them off his land ASAP.

Y/N’s brother bowed his head and rubbed his neck. Didn’t say nothing for a solid…he didn’t know, minute, maybe? Felt awkward as hell, tell you what.

“Listen, dude, I know we ain’t buddies and all that,” Shane told him. “To be real, I didn’t trust you at all, especially when Y/N started going off and learnin’ to hunt with you. I thought you were some white trash tweaker who’d try to feel her up or worse, so I tailed y’all, spied on y’all the first three times you took her out, ready with my shotgun.”

…What the hell was this?

“But I’ve grown to respect you, and what you just said right there told me all I need to know. You’re a decent guy, Daryl.” Another rub of his newly buzzed hair. “Tell you what, I’ll come by tomorrow after the search, tell you what we find and where we looked.”

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

Day 6 of being stuck in a damn bed.

You

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

“Dude, you told him how you spied on us?”

“I was moved, Y/N, you should be proud of me,” Shane drawled, winking. “Said I’d tell him about the daily searches, so, today I did. Hey, and his balance was better today, might should be good to go the day after tomorrow. Oh,” he adds. “I lent him my mix tape as a peace offering, too.”

“Aw, romantic.”

He groans, and you twist a corner of your mouth in a tiny grin. “I’m just shocked he didn’t grunt back to you all intimidating with somethin’ like ‘I knew you was there, you was louder than a’…eh, I got nothing.”

Shane keeps the bit going, and does it pretty good, if you say so yourself! “‘Yeah, I knew you was there. Couldna been more damn obvious.’”

His copying of Daryl’s voice and mannerisms is so spot on that you crack up and clap your hands in delight.

Shane looks pleased. “That was a pretty good impression, just then, wasn’t it?”

“Alls you needed was to make it a ’lil more throaty, like a, like a, a grumpy tomcat,” you laugh.

He smiles, opening his mouth to make a funny comeback, then laughing instead. “I’ll have to practice.”

“Speakin’ of practice, can we call it?”

“Yeah, we can call it. Good work.”

Coo, practice is over. You’ve been having self-defense lessons every day the past few days, sometimes twice. Shane’s been wanted to restart teaching you ever since the incident with Ed Peletier seven-ish weeks ago. You could’ve called the sessions quits whenever, obviously, but it feels more satisfying when one’s instructor is satisfied and ends the lesson, right?

Also, Shane kinda needs that control over something — which sounds iffy, you know, you know.

But he’s been so much more like himself since the lessons started! And him instructing you in fighting is doing him good not only because it’s stroking his ego a little and shutting him up about his terrible Fort Benning idea. The lessons are helping offer him a sense of control and assuredness that he’s keeping his sister safe by helping her defend herself. That’s always been a thing for him. Call it a side-effect of having a beater in the house for the first several years of his life, maybe.

It’s a very fruitful side-effect, all things considered — today, stitches and achy shoulder combined, you bested him!

The only catch is that it…kinda involved his balls.

You still feel bad about it. It wasn’t you using practice-strength to simply get the upper hand and then stop, like practice is supposed to be. It was adrenaline/angry-at-and-his-egging-you-on strength. You fought dirty.

“Sorry again about whackin’ you below-the-belt.”

“No way, Y/N, don’t be,” he brushes off. “Don’t feel bad for doin’ what you’re supposed to do. Especially if it’s a man you need to fight off, which is why we’re doing this — you need to fight dirty. So,” he clears his throat, “if you can go for the giblets, go for ’em.” (Grandma Jean referred to genitals as ‘giblets.’) “That’s how you got the drop on me — and that’s what I wanted! You did good, got that?”

“Just — check tomorrow and, and the day after in case you got bruised testes, okay?”

“Don’t call them ‘testes’… weirdo…” he trails off and makes a face. Then, he stands and helps you up. “My boys are fine, I’m sure. Ankle’s hanging in there, too. How are you holdin’ up? Didn’t overdo it, right?”

“Nope, I feel good! And I’m so happy about tomorrow.”

His smile is polite, but not quite reaching his eyes. “Ready to attend Sunday dinner in the house tomorrow night?”

You press your hands together and make a little skip as you walk. “Do you think it means Mr. Greene’s comin’ around, too?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Wet blanket, much? “Grumpy we didn’t risk our necks to visit the jarheads at Fort Benning?”

“Y/N.”

“That was mean, sorry.” Your choice of phrasing was rude, that is, not the sentiment. Shane hadn’t mentioned the military base in a few days, so you’d hoped he’d dropped it. Places with the military, feds, even FEMA, those places had turned out badly, especially if you were a civilian. And you along with your Mama were wary of places like even before what happened to Atlanta.

Miles and miles away from the city as you were when it happened had given you a front-row seat to when it happened, when it got firebombed. It was like watching the Twin Towers collapse over again, expect this time it wasn’t on a TV screen, and the sounds of it happening in real time had been loud enough to reach you. The pops, the rumbling. Then there’s the memory of Carl’s face when he saw it all clear as day before you finally reacted, covered his ears and blocked his view.

This place, this farm, this is the safest place right now. It has good people, shelter, protection, space, food. Probably would be the safest place around for a long time if your brother group didn’t mess things up. Carl needs it, Lori and the new baby need this place.

And with the fact that your brother had been planning to leave the group, you’re worried sick that he’ll change his mind, split and leave you behind, or worse, get you all thrown off the land. If Shane didn’t take the property by force OH my gosh, why the fuck did you just think that, bitch? How could you think that about him? Stupid, stupid idiot girl!

Looking at your brother, you see him staring across the lawn to where Otis’ memorial lays. His thousand-yard stare is back. Poor Shaney. You look away so as to not be, you know, staring at him, but when he breathes out heavily after a few long moments, you turn to look.

His nose twitches before he blinks rapidly and shakes his head a little, rubs his buzz cut, and puts his hands on his belt.

“I know you don’t like the idea, but Fort Benning the smart decision,” your brother declares, doing that thing where he looks in too many directions. “The military is equipped, at least, and they’re trained how to handle things. It’s smart to seek that out.”

Whether it’s because you’re amped after being victorious at practice or because you’re freaked out after thinking something so cruel about your own brother (that he’d take over this place by force??), as you make your statement in response, you imagine it as you pulling the pin from a grenade and chucking it.

“Is that why the powers at be did what they did to Atlanta? Because they were so trained?” The pause you make, as you watch the words connect in Shane’s mind, is the time delay before the grenade’s fuse ignites and explodes. “Or maybe killing civilians or even their own was always a possibility in their eyes. The ends, of course, justifyin’ the means.”

He licks his teeth before running a hand over his mouth. “You’re really goin’ there, Y/N? Do not go there.”

But this has been festering too long. He needs to hear it and understand it. You love him. And he’s gonna have a whole lot else to deal with once Lori’s news gets out — it’s going to be messy. So this Fort Benning stuff has to go.

“But Shane, that would’ve been us with not just Mama, but Carl, Lori, and maybe even a comatose Rick if, if what happened—” your voice rises at the memory. “If what w-went on hadn’t happened, made us wait.”

If your mother hadn’t been killed, you two wouldn’t have found her dead and walking, which had revealed that she must have caught the illness before she died. And if you two didn’t find her dead and walking, you and Shane wouldn’t have quarantined, instead would’ve gotten Rick out of the hospital a day earlier and gone together with your mother and the Grimes to the city. Which means that she would’ve started showing symptoms on the road, and that the rest of you would’ve not only possibly caught it but would have possibly spread it.

Shane knows all of this, he knows it, which is why you only voiced a small part of it.

But instead of Shane standing before you with his hands on his hips…you begin to see the man you don’t recognize again. The one that’s been showing up more and more, the one that’s scary and coldly pragmatic. The one that seems like he’s about to lose control, he’s back. He’s standing where your brother was, and he’s very, very angry.

“Y/N, now, you listen good.” The man’s finger points straight at you and he gets too close to your face. When you step backward, he’s right on you. “We would’ve still been stuck outside the city limits, the wait to get in was over a day long.” With his finger, he jabs at your sternum, hard, and does it again with every hissed question.

“You remember that part?” — “The reason we were stuck in that line of cars that went on for miles?” — “Remember that?” —

You can’t think. You can’t move. The best you can manage is a stuttered “Sh-Shane—” because inside your head is nothing but white noise.

A strong, rough, sustained pinch on your collarbone and his yell of “—I asked: do you understand?” is the only reason you remember to nod as you stare at the ground and steady yourself from tripping backward.

“What happened in Atlanta was a shit show, an absolute shit show and what happened there was a disgrace, hard stop.” He spits, “but you know what? It don’t mean it was like that everywhere else—is that fair for me to reckon, uppity bitch?”

The insult doesn’t have time to sink in because he starts gesturing at his head, then yours, then his again, banging his hand against his head, then clapping his hand against your temple, hard, and now you can' think, he's too close, he’s too close, why is he so close, why does he keep hurting m— “Does that make sense, Y/N? Does that make sense to you?”

It’s not until he tugs you by your shirt and slowly shouts in your ear, “Y/N, I asked you a question: Does that make sense?” that you remember to nod again.

Your throat seizes up, so you swallow and hold your breath.

“Don’t bring up what happened with our mother again,” he orders, letting you go with a slight shove. “She was sick, we didn’t catch it, and we’d have been stuck outside that city either way.”

The man then leaves. You just stand there.

There’s no feeling of relief that he’s left you alone. Your hands are tingly, but you’re otherwise uncertain how you feel other than stupid and sick to your stomach. No, really, you might lose your supper.

You begin to walk in whatever direction, step by step, wiping the tears as they fall and trying to ignore the loud refrain in your head of stupid, stupid girl that interplays with all the noise of what did you do and why didn’t you and why did he and why would he and how could he as well a louder WHO WAS THAT?

Because it sure as hell wasn’t Shane. It can’t have been Shane, Shane’s not that.

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

Him

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

The short-haired chick came into his room looking all rattled and asking if Y/N was in there. Woke him up from a nap (so many damn naps), too, what the hell?

He quietly croaked back,“Does it look like she’s in here?” and closed his eyes to try and get back to sleeping.

“I figured she…”

Whatever it was Maggie figured, she didn’t say nothing more, she mumbled “sorry,” and closed the door again.

Was…was everything okay?

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

You

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

Footsteps and light panting sound behind you, bringing you back down to earth.

Before dread can kick in at full blast, you recognize who’s behind you even before you hear his voice calling your name, and it is a relief to know he’s there. He’ll know how to fix this. He’ll know what to do.

But what if he saw? What if he’s not the only one?

A water cooler of shame gets dumped over your head like you’ve just failed big at something. Your throat tightens again.

You idiot. You stupid, stupid girl.

Not turning your head much because your eyes are probably red, you at least control the shake in your voice. “H-Hi, Mr. Horvath, what’s up?”

“Kiddo. What just happened?”

“What do you mean?” Might as well stall when you don’t know how to say it. Maybe Dale only saw Shane looking huffy, maybe he didn’t see or hear any of what just happened and maybe, just maybe, you’re being overly dramatic about what happened. He's your brother, siblings sometimes smack each other around a little, it's not like he punched you. See, that would've been bad...

And it’s just as well you don’t know what to say back, because after hearing a door clack open then shut, you peek to see not only Dale standing before you, but Margaret, jogging from the back of the house in your direction?

She calls your name — and is holding the book you’d lent to Jimmy! Thank God, honest fodder to stall from answering Dale.

“Did Jimmy finish it?” you ask lightly.

But Maggie looks unsettled. “I grabbed this on my way downstairs as an excuse when I saw what was happenin’.”

Oh, no. Y/N, you stupid, stupid girl.

“What did I just see your brother doing?”

Stupid, stupid girl.

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

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ruinandrue · 4 months

Text

Inkwarren Devlog #2: Welcome to Cairnadal!

The trees around your village are tall, and they are old. As you linger on the edge of the cobblestone path, you consider the forest beyond. You have heard of what lurks in the Deeper Wood- old beings, older than Inkwarren, and pale things that hate the things that lurk in the light. You look back to the flickering golden light of your village's tharian, admiring briefly the iron-wrought and rune-laden shape of the lamppost. The Abbey says tharians are shields against the deep and the dark, but doubt lingers at the back of your mind. What if they're wrong about the Wood?

Hello again, y'all! Sorry for a little while with no updates, it's been a crazy and long week in Matt World. I'm here for another update for Inkwarren, my in-development dark fantasy TTRPG of swashbuckling tactics and storybook intrigue, to talk about the game's setting: the ancient and magical woodland of Cairnadal.

Cairnadal

Cairnadal is a massive, realm-spanning woodland that encompasses all of the Known World. Ancient and beautiful, Cairnadal carries with it an odd and bewitching beauty. Woodlanders, the intelligent animal inhabitants of Cairnadal, most often live amongst the roots of the tall trees that make up the woodland around them. Sunlight comes in narrow beams that gracefully dance across the forest floor, and the soil is rich and fertile after centuries of greenery and other things that live amongst the woodland.

Woodlanders

Cairnadal is primarily inhabited by woodlanders, a society of intelligent animals that have built stone cities and little villages that dot much of Cairnadal's breadth. Woodlanders are small mammals, birds, amphibians, and reptiles, that form into societies and communities amongst each other where they create art, research knowledge, wage war, and consolidate power. There's good and bad in woodlanders, just as there is in us. The current society of the woodlanders is the vast and expansive kingdom of Inkwarren (oh look, the game's title!), which spans across five of Cairnadal's great six regions.

Beasts

Arthropods, fish, mollusks, and other animals are called beasts, and take the place that animals do in our world that we live in as humans. Woodlanders fish for food, ride stag beetles from city to city, send messages via trained dragonflies, and keep ladybugs and rollie-pollies as household pets. Wild beasts, like large hunting spiders or common crabs to be found on beaches, are approached with some measure of caution or respect for Cairnadal's many lifeforms.

Other Beings

Other beings inhabit the vast woodland of Cairnadal. Dead things return to life as lyches, animated by the weird magicks of the Deeper Wood, and massive, gentle stone giants with no name wander the wood, a remnants of the unknown civilization of That Which Came Before. Other animals, massive things known as the Old Masters of the Wood, can be found deep within the Deeper Wood. They have different languages, different gods, and different conceptions of the world than woodlanders do, and rumors are that they abound in a strange and ancient magick at their command.

Inkwarren

Inkwarren is the massive kingdom that spans most of Cairnadal, established over nine-hundred moons ago after a massive, woodland-spanning conflict known as the War of Red Flowers. Inkwarren is ruled by House Greyfell, a house of cats currently led by Alys II, who has served as King Crowned of Inkwarren for thirty-nine moons.

Inkwarren is made up of five major wards, each led by a powerful noble house called a High House. These wards are the Aerie, the Heartlands, the Yawning Roads, the Waterways, and Winterreach. Culture and language varies from region to region, and the High Houses often clash with each other while skirting the edges of violence.

Daily Life in Inkwarren

Every settlement in Inkwarren is protected by a magical lamppost called a tharian. Tharians glow with a light akin to faint sunlight, and ward away magicks and other beings that come from the Deeper Wood. The Abbey, the principle religious entity that dominates most of Inkwarren, professes that tharians are necessary for the peace and safety of Warrenish settlements, but there are those who would whisper and say otherwise. No one knows exactly where tharians came from, and the art of creating them has been lost to history.

Each settlement in Inkwarren is often governed by a noble house, represented by a reeve (which is somewhere between a mayor and a sheriff). It is common to have small chapels for the Abbey in many settlements, where the tharian lies at the center. Most woodlanders carry common professions such as smiths, scaleworkers, weavers, farmers, or messengers between settlements.

The Five Great Regions

Inkwarren is made up of five massive regions of Cairnadal, each governed by a High House, with their own languages, religions, and cultures.

The Aerie is a massive section of woodland where the towns and settlements are built from wooden platforms around the trunks of trees, with bridges or simple ropes connecting each platform-town. The tharians of the Aerie grow their wrought-iron poles around the trunks of trees, twisting into the platforms that settlements are built around. The Aerie is mostly inhabited by flying woodlanders, although climbing coats of woodlanders such as squirrels or possums have been known to make their home amongst the trees. The Aerie is ruled by House Ddur-Adain, a vulture house.

The Heartlands are the largest region of Cairnadal, built between the massive roots and tall trees that make up the woodland proper. The Heartlands is the home of Inkwarren's capital city, Gwydir, and is a center of commerce for the rest of Warrenish society. The Heartlands are the seat of House Greyfell, the cat house that rules all of Inkwarren.

The Waterways are river-laden hills and marshes where the trees of Cairnadal become fewer and farther between (but still cover most of the land). The Waterways are dotted with settlements populated with woodlanders that make their homes near water: ducks, otters, frogs, and snakes that hunt, fish, and forage for their daily living. The Waterways are ruled by House Wynne, an snake house.

Winterreach is a vast region of pine-covered mountains and snowy bluffs. Winterreach is scarcely populated, and its few settlements are made up of woodlanders comfortable with the cold and ice of that realm. Winterreach is ruled by House Castledown, a snowy owl house.

The Yawning Roads are a massive network of caverns that spans under most of Inkwarren, where cities are carved out of rock and stone. Here, strange 'roots' of the tharians above light caverns and protect from things that lurk under the dirt. The Yawning Roads are inhabited mostly by burrowing woodlanders such as moles, voles, or rabbits, as well as bats, salamanders, and burrowing owls that are commonly found underground. The Yawning Roads are ruled by House Sare, a salamander house.

The Deeper Wood

The Deeper Wood is the section of untamed woodland of Cairnadal not dotted by Warrenish settlements or protected by tharians. Strange things are said to lurk within these woods, magical things that existed before Inkwarren existed as a kingdom. Both the Crown and the Abbey forbid travel into the Deeper Wood, but braver wanderers have been known to wander off the cobblestone path, and your mind lingers on what might be out there...

That's All For Now!

Thanks for reading! I'll be back soon with another devlog to talk about Battle and how Inkwarren approaches its philosophy to combat and violence. Thanks for reading!

#inkwarren #indie ttrpg #ttrpg community #ttrpg design #cairnadal

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redhead-batgal · 11 months

Note

I hope you do oh miss believer part 3 sometime soon! It’s ok if you’re not feeling that story anymore tho <3

Type: Fic

Part One: Here, Part Two: Here

Pairing: Fem! Vigilante! And Meta! Reader x Damian Wayne/ Robin

Content: Violence, language, flash backs, depressive thoughts, angst, and aged up Damian/reader to 16/17 yrs old

Word Count: 2,573

(P.S: Soooo I can try to write a reaction of the bat fam to the end of part one, or I can write the next part of this one next time. Let me know what y'all want in the comments please! also get ready for some fun angsty angsty times)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are many things in this world that seem unnatural. Paradoxes or impossibilities. People tend to fear the unnatural, to ostracize it and even harm it. Regardless of whether or not said impossible and unnatural thing is living- regardless of if it's human.

To humanity, unnatural things were to be feared and destroyed. They were threats, in a way, to the "peaceful" society that had been created through blood shed and inequality. A society that has classes and impoverished people that kept growing and growing; saw things they deemed unnatural not worthy of life. Why is that? Why does such a society fear so greatly the unnatural, the unknown and impossible?

It seemed to you that they feared the unnatural because the power of mystery gave it. Because what they do not know, they cannot control. And if they can't control something, it cannot be a part of society. Which unfortunately meant you were left on your own; fighting to survive against an environment that deemed you a danger. Even more unfortunately, for society at least, you had bad habit of becoming everything everyone feared you'd be.

An unnatural danger, set on destroy the society that cast it out.

How very, very natural, right?

You could still remember the very first time someone deemed you unnatural- unworthy of comfort in this shitty shitty world.

You must have been no older then six, out scrounging on the streets for pity coin you could use to help your parents out. A rattied hat made from old newspaper by your side as you made your misty and small illusions appear. Desperate for anyone to take an interest. Unsurprisingly, the person who did was anything but kind and far from merciful.

The small boy had shouted at you, laughed, sneered and beaten you to a bloodied pulp. Stealing all of the meager change you had managed to earn as he called you a witch over his shoulder bolting away.

While this was your first actual encounter with such people, you were not surprised. Your mother had warned you of such people.

"Vicious monsters," She had said beginning to explain why you had to be careful in the world, "they like to prey upon those they deem weaker, those who they think are unnatural and strange."

She shook her head as she continued to knit, though somewhat sloppily, "They don't like people who they can't control, they don't like that you're different."

You looked up at her with wide eyes as you tilted your head and she paused. She let out a soft sigh before setting down her knitting and pulling you into her arms.

"My sweet little miss believer, this world is going to be cruel to you simply because you exist. There's nothing your father or I can do to stop it other then pulling you in close like this and letting you know they are wrong."

She rested your head against her chest as she began to rock slightly squeezing you in her arms as she softly began to hum.

"They are wrong because you are a darling gem. A wise and wonderful girl who should not let the world push you down."

Cupping your face in her hands she smiled, tears lining her eyes, "You are my little miss believer, you know many things and have such faith. Do not allow these people to cause you to lose that faith. Faith in your father and I, faith in humanity, faith in your own skills or just merely faith in yourself."

Her words rang far too deep into the truth. Scars, both physical and emotions covered your body the older you got. But you still had your mother and father there, to nurse your spirit back to its brightness... until you didn't anymore.

The night was dark and growing colder and colder by the minute. Your father had disappeared merely a week before and you did not plan on letting him stay gone without answers.

Lurking around the usual street corners you heard the crackling of thunder and through the dense musty smell of Gotham's streets, you could smell rain. Sweet and clear, dancing in the clouds yearning to be released. Pulling your jacket in closer, you slipped down an alleyway, hoping to find answers and remain unseen. After all you had a reputation for causing trouble amongst the rouges and criminals, and tonight was the last night you needed trouble to catch you once again.

Though you had not heard of any rogues causing any chaos, you knew better then to trust the night would remain silent. It's current silence sent shivers down your spine. Silence was a deadly tool, used to confused and trick the naive into false senses of security. It was a tool you yourself had used and yet- something about tonight's silence made you on edge.

Looking around you almost sensed danger as the hairs on your arms stood on edge. Your heart racing as the silence screamed into your mind. Just as you had settled with yourself to finally venture home, a hand clamped down on your shoulder.

A shriek of sorts almost escaped you and you turned to find your fuming mother.

"Y/n! I thought I told you to be home before eleven?"

Though startled you merely blinked, allowing your mother to drag you back down the alleyway, towards the way home. Your heart hammered in your chest. Regardless of all your broken promises to come home on time, your mother had never- ever come out looking for you.

"Mom," You said, finally finding your voice, "what are you doing out here?!"

Your mother froze tilting her head a scowl of sorts on her face with dropped almost instantly. She let go of your hand and slowed to a stop, looking you over she sighed, taking a moment to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"I was worried, I heard that one of the nastier rouges was out tonight and I didn't want you to be out."

At first a wave of warmth washed over you. It, however, turned icy cold as you processed the rest of your mother's sentence.

'One of the nastier rouges'

Your heart skipped a beat and you grasped onto your mother's hand. Swallowing you met her gaze and forced a slow breath out.

"Mom, which one did you hear was out?"

It took her a moment to reply, as her brow furrowed, and she squeezed your hand.

"The Joker."

Your heart actually stopped, you struggled to breath as news reports and alley whispers raced over your mind.

"I heard that the bats pissed joker off so he's shooting for a big one this time."

"I heard that he lost Batman's attention and wants it back."

"Well, I heard that he's finally sick of his cat and mouse game and plans on taking as many civilians as possible with him when he goes."

Finally breathing again, you pulled your mother forward. Heart racing as your mind screamed to run. Your legs began to pump, your mother stumbling to keep up behind you her soft protests barely catching your ears.

"Shit- oh shit, mom we've gotta go."

You had just come up on a corner, knowing once you went down the alley just by here, you'd be two blocks from your complex. It didn't help though, your heart hammered to quickly you could hear your own heartbeat without even thinking about it.

"What? Honey," Your mom began shaking her head and causing you to stop, "it's fine we're almost home and-"

Your mouth began moving before you could stop yourself and you began pulling her again, finally rounding the corner, "No mom you don't understand this guy has been amping up his attacks recently and-"

Just as you did you came face to face with a goon in white makeup and a sinister red smile. He raised something strange, and time seemed to slow as you heard him pressing on a trigger.

"Y/N!" Your mother's shout echoed in your ears as she shoved you to the side.

You tumbled towards the ground screams ripping from you as you watched a fine mist encompass her entire face, "MOM NO!"

The mist faded as a blurry figure slammed the goon into the ground. Your mother slumped slightly as you darted to her side, her body shook, and you looked her over trying to find any damage only to hear a bone chilling sound.

"Ha-ha-ha."

You trembled as your mother raised her head, a large sinisterly familiar smile on her face.

"Mommy? Mommy, no. Please, no. NO!"

A jolt of sorts raced through you as you opened your eyes. A bright light slamming straight into them and sending spots racing across your vision.

"Aw, look," A mocking voice began, "our little Houdini's finally awake."

A piercing ache began at the base of your skull as you forced yourself to sit up. Faintly recalling your last moments, as rain poured down and you made the choice to finally let go.

Blinking you pressed a hand to your face, a sloshing of sorts following you as you found yourself immersed in a small pool of greenish water. Wincing you tried to look around the room- to understand where you were and what was going on.

Your eyes slowly adjusted, revealing that you were in a small cavern of sorts. A woman in a strange outfit stood nearby as a man in a dark clothing loomed over you. You watched as the woman motioned at someone just beyond your view muttering things you could not here.

"Hello there little one," the man began capturing your attention, "I am glad to see you're awake."

You swallowed feeling the headache fade slightly as you shifted. These people and this place did not seem familiar. You too a slow breath looking down to see your own hands and body before looking back up.

"Who are you?" You whispered, your voice cracking, throat dry and aching.

The man smiled, but something about it made you uneasy. He merely stared at you, replying, "A doctor of sorts."

You paused furrowing your brow, "So I'm not dead?"

The man- doctor- whatever he was laughed as he took a step back. Making temporary eye contact with the woman behind him. She had an odd look about her and you could have sworn you spotted a cat like mask before the man captured your attention again.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," You replied wincing again as you stepped out of the pool rising to your feet, "is that normal?"

He tilted his head, "In a sense yes."

His short responses had your mind racing, he was being so vague and something- something about all of this just seemed off.

"Uh okay. Then is fine to assume I'll get better right?"

The man nodded as the woman smiled at you. You narrowed still not entirely understanding what was going on or what had happened. You were sure that the fall would have kill you and- and you could still remember the impact.

"Wha-" You began as a wave of defenseness washed over you, "what is going on?"

"Whatever do you mean little Houdini?" The woman asked her eyes glinting.

"Who are you? Where am I? How am I still alive? And what the fuck happened?"

Your demand echoed in the cave like chamber causing the woman to smile even more. She even began to laugh and the man stepped in-between the two of you.

"Just please calm yourself, Y/N L/N. All will be explained soon."

You locked your jaw, a buzzing of sorts climbing up your chest as you began to grind your teeth. Tingles raced across your hand, a tell tale sign your body yearned to release some engery. To produce the false images and twist the illusions into exsistance.

"When?"

The man paused before the sound of footsteps approached. He went still and so did the woman behind him. A wave of fury rose up in your chest, were you such a fuck up you even fucked up dying? Was it possible that something else was going on? Regardless of your current internal turmoil you needed answers.

"Would someone please answer my fucking questions?!"

Just as your frustrated shout escaped a new woman walked into the room. she breezed past the first and stopped right in front of you. Allowing you to get a good look of her and a better grasp of the situation. She was dressed in a green and gold trimmed dress, her dark brown hair spilling around her face, dark skin and sharp bone structure that screamed Arabic descent. And her eyes, her bright- familiar green eyes stared at you with a curious gaze.

"I would be happy to, Y/N."

Something about her- whether be her eyes, her voice or face- something seemed familiar- so familiar you let your guard down.

"Where am I?"

The woman smiled, "Safe in my home."

It wasn't entirely a bad answer, but once again a vague one. And despite your concerns on where you were at you had to know one thing.

"How did I survive that fall? I just can't wrap my head around it."

The woman went still before she softly laughed moving a bit closer to you, "You didn't."

You froze as you answer caused your breath to stop, "What?"

"You didn't survive. In fact, that fall killed you, you died."

"But- wha- how? Am, am I dead?"

"Not anymore, but you were."

"I was- what do you mean I was dead? How can that be possible?"

The woman's smile deepened, and she took a step even closer, "You're not asking the right questions."

Grinding your teeth, you met her gaze and raised your chin frustration and desperation climbing up your throat, "Fine, who are you then?"

"Much better, I am Talia."

Something about that name set off warning bells in your head and your stiffened, allowing your guard to rise as you eyed the woman.

"Where am I? I want specifics."

"The league."

Your blood went cold as a realization began to dawn on you, "The league?"

"Yes, the league; assassins, shadows, what have you. You, are at one of the bases for the League."

"And- and-"

"I am Talia Al Ghul, and I brought you back to life."

You went still as everything began to click into place. The green water, the man and woman nearby, the vagueness- how you are alive, and you looked at Talia swallowing. The familiarity. This was Damian's mother, the person who you died trying to run from.

"You brought me back with the pit?" You whispered your voice trembling and cracking.

"Unbeknown to my beloved, son and the rest of his rabble, yes... so any more questions?"

You swallowed as your world began to scream and burn as it crashed down. They- they thought- no they knew you had died and- and no one would come save you this time. You were on your own you were alone.

You shook your head, refusing to let your voice tremble, "No."

"Good, because I have a lot of work for you..." Talia paused looking over her shoulder to the other woman, "what did cheshire call you? Ah, yes. Little Houdini."

Digging your nails into your palm you tried to calm your breathing as Talia tucked your hair behind your ear smiling.

"Let's get to work my Little Houdini."

Tag List:

@andromedaj2003 @thomasbeloved @instabull @zvtanna @daemonnix96 @krswrites @thefallingstarlights @masset-fotia @rrowwii @ssak-i @legendarylearner18

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penvisions · 7 months

Text

of beskar and kyber {chapter 13}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: Shadows and light play across your mind and feelings as you reveal more about your past to Din. Propositions made and discussions about what to do next as things back on Nevarro spiral as a result of Din's defiance of an organization he took part in for years prompt you both to evaluate everything you've become to each other.

Word Count: 12.6k (!!!)

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, language, mentions of past trauma, mentions of past sa trauma (non-descriptive), anxiety, confessions, illusions to the pull of the force, allusions to past violent tendencies of both reader and din, brief mentions of death, allusions to order 66, reader has a lot on internal monologues in this one, nightmares, bad dreams, anxiety, outbursts, emotional turmoil, readers shares more of her violent past with din, sexual content, sexual intimacy, body worship, fingering, sexual themes, argumentative language

A/N: returning to this fic with a beast of a chapter that traverses so much. it's the longest one i've written yet and i am so excited to share it with y'all. i sincerely hope y'all like everything i poured into this. please let me know what you think?

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

Water gently splashed against the side of the tub, bubbles sticking to the porcelain, small waves created by the movement of Din’s hand as it trailed down your navel. Fingers eliciting tingles of pleasure as they smoothed over soft skin slick with the oils added to the water not even a few moments ago. You gasped, head thudding back against his broad, bare shoulder as the tips of them brushed over course hair before slipping between your folds.

Your nails dug into the skin of his thighs, mindful of the healing wound there, his bronze knees bent up and cresting over the water, caging in your wriggling form nestled back into him. Your hips bucked as his fingertips ghosted over that exciting bundle of nerves to stroke down toward your fluttering entrance. Water sloshing at the sudden disturbance. He groaned, deep and gravely right into your ear, the helmet hiding little of his arousal as he carefully rubbed around it. You clenched, body feeling how close he was and needing to be satisfied.

His index finger hovered over you, a silent question and you whined out a needy sound. Not caring if it was desperate, your fingers gripped him tight, and you bucked your hips to get him closer. He circled your entrance, once, twice, three times. Pleasure rocked through you, a fire blooming to life in your core.

“Din, please,” You panted, unable to catch your breath between the heat of his body, the heat of the water and steam surrounding you both, the heat he was stoking in your very nerves. A hand shot out of the water and scrabbled at the back of his helmet; fingers slippery with bubbles.

His thick finger slid in easily, between the water and the slick that was surely tainting the water you were both partially submerged in. The hand he had curled around your middle was reaching up to cup a breast covered only in sweet, scented bubbles and you moaned. Low and guttural, the stretch so unlike anything you felt before. Almost sweet in a way that it had never felt before.

He crooked his finger, nudging it deeper inside and grazed against a soft spot that had white sparking across your vision. A keening whine sprouted from you, loud in the marbled room. He stilled for a second, reveling in the way you felt around him, clenching him tightly. There was no discomfort, with you feeling so completely safe and protected.

“That’s a good sound, mesh’la.” His raspy voice was close, the bottom of his helmet hooked over your shoulder. He carefully pumped his finger into you, trying to go slow in case it was a stretch that overwhelmed you. But you huffed as you moved against him, the palm of his wide palm rubbing at you in a way that stoked the fire licking at your nerves.

“M-more, please. Linibar or'atu, copad at aalar or'atu be gar.”

Need more, want to feel more of you.

Your words were a quiet plea on shaking breath, a heavy exhale as he gave you what you wanted, slipping a second finger in alongside the first on his next plunge into the silky, wet heat of your core.

Back arching, pressing you impossibly closer to him, feeling the hot line of him as it nudged at you from behind. You whined out as his fingers stilted and he flexed them, stretching you out to see what felt good, what lit you up even more. They crooked inside of you and brushed against something that had you crying out, that same spot from earlier, he rubbed at it deliberately. Stomach lurching, the flames that had been slowly smoldering sparked across the entire expanse of your body.

“Ha-ah, Din, gedet'ye vaabir ibac tug'yc!”

Please do that again!

Your hips bucked into his hand, urging him desperately as you felt a tightening form low in your stomach. He remained still save for the crooking of his fingers once more and you moved against him. The water licking up the sides of the tub at your rushed movements, bubbles inching higher up both your overheated bodies.

His fingertips hit that spot on each thrust as he pumped his fingers in a steady rhythm, arms muscles tensing as he wrapped himself around you completely. The fire crackled and you cried out as pleasure tingled all the way to the tips of your fingers, heart beating hard in your chest. Your vision was blanketed in white sparks, and you clenched them shut and tried to catch your breath. Din’s hand worked you through the aftershocks, his palm hot against your skin where it brushed against you.

“Clenched so tight around me, mesh’la.” He rumbled into your ear, his hand gently moving away from you. He rested it low on your stomach, taking in the way your muscles jumped underneath his touch as your fingers around the back of his helmet pulled him closer. Your lips pressed to the column of his neck, tongue darting out to taste the exposed skin there.

He moaned a guttural sound at the feel of you marking him for your own, the hot swipe of your tongue giving way to a gentle nip of teeth. You felt him twitch against your backside and you shimmied back to press against him, loving the velvet softness of the hot line he made against your skin.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” He said softly, despite the thrumming in his own body, the sinful sounds falling from your lips, because of him, for him, having worked him up.

“Need to touch you now, it’s your turn.” You slipped away from him with a hush of the water, turning in his grip. The tub was only so big and you nudged at his knees, still cresting up over the water’s surface to lay flat where your body had just been. You held tight to the curve of his shoulders, moving to straddle the width of his hips. You could hear the crackling of him sucking in a deep breath through the modulator as you settled over him, hovering.

“San…”

“I know I don’t have to, cyar’ika.” You leaned your naked chest to his, the soft hair decorating his chest tingling against your hardened nipples and you tossed your head back. Chin jutted up, it exposed your throat to the man so close, his hands loose around your waist tightening and pulling you flush against him. A strangled noise fell from your open mouth as his cock bobbed up and nudged at your core hovering so close to him.

“Din,” You panted, fingers splayed on his neck, reaching up towards the bottom of the helmet. He paused, his fingers so tight around your hips, and you realized how he read that. The desperate plea of his name coated by the velvet caress of your voice. The sultry glaze to your eyes as you stared directly into the dark visor that covered his own.

“I don’t want you to remove it, just..just want to feel, but…but I understand if that’s a line you need to draw. I respect you, I respect your Creed. I’ll keep my hands to myself if you aren’t comfortable.”

His hands snapped up to grip yours tightly, bringing them up to the underside of his helmet, the seal deactivating as he moved a thumb to press something along the space beneath his chin. A hiss filled the air and your fingers twitched in his as he guided them to press against the skin just below the cool beskar. Your fingers reached toward his jaw, where the stubble of his facial hair was peeking out from underneath. It was rougher than the hair on his chest, similar to the coarse hair that was a dark shadow beneath the water. You settled over him fully just as your fingers splayed over his jaw, feeling both patches at the same time and letting out a low whine as the silken skin of his cock settled against your slippery folds.

You felt the groan that fell from him in your bones, so close to you, impossibly close.

“Dank ferrick, mesh’la.” Din growled as he slumped back into the wall of the tub, his hips bucking up suddenly. You had no fear of him breaching your comfortability, of crossing a line that had been talked over. You trusted him, you felt so safe with him. And it felt like nothing you’d ever known before, so enraptured by someone and comforted in their presence. It felt like the ocean inside you that had been choppy for as long as you could remember was beginning to settle.

Din’s hands were tight around your hips, helping you to move against him, guiding your motions as he thrusted up to slide against you. Your soft, slick folds nestled over the length of him, creating a channel of friction that was too much for the man. His breathing hitching as he chases his own high, another one flaring quickly in your middle to match him.

He didn’t last long, the drawn out groan of his peak rumbling through you, the modulator no longer hiding the deep baritone of his voice in a veil of mechanics, but unfiltered for only your ears to hear. He bucked up, body twitching as you felt him throb between your legs. The water turning murky from his spend around you both. As he canted his hips to keep you close, you felt the head of his cock nudge at your fluttering entrance and pleasure ripped through you. Keening, the waves crested in a delicious feeling that took over your body.

It was a few moments before you came back to yourself, body limp as you leaned all of your weight against the temptation of Din below you. Forehead nuzzled into his heaving chest. Letting your body move along with the way his own moved as he came down from his own pleasure. His arms were now wrapped around your back, holding you to him, his head knocked back against the tile lined around the tub.

All you could whimper was his name, a small sound more breath than voice.

“I’ve got you, mesh’la,” He spoke softly, voice back to that modulated mockery of what you knew his deep, velvety voice actually sounded like now. “Fuck, mesh’la, you did so good for me.”

“W-wanted to.” You placed a kiss to where you could feel how fast his heart was beating. A delirious giggle sprouting from deep within you.

The room was soft, from the carpet plush at your feet to the bedding atop the large bed, to the blanket thrown over the back of the couch and the one in the crib that had been delivered to the room right before your arrival. It was quiet, the faint neon lights of the city blurred behind drawn curtains in the middle of the night.

Din was asleep beside you, safe inside the covers while you struggled to catch your breath as you had been jarred into consciousness from a bad dream. Silently, you slipped from the bed, leaving the warmth of him behind. Silent tears were cascading down your face, the fear and loss of the dream too much for you to handle and your mind had decided to pluck you from the pain of it just as the figure of your guardian had fallen in front of you once again.

Feeling raw and exposed, you slipped on your cloak that had been draped over the back of the couch in the living room. The door to the bedroom left cracked behind you as you walked over to the crib to find ad’ika staring up at you with big eyes. He quietly cooed as he reached out for you, his little claws gripping you tight as you lifted him up and cradled him close to your chest.

Settling into a corner of the couch, you dragged a blanket over both you and just sat there, not bothering to turn on a light lest it wake the resting man who was snoring slightly. You hadn’t seen him so relaxed since meeting him, something about the comforts of the booked room easing his anxieties and paranoia of always having to look over his back, always be on alert. Even if the reason you insisted on getting the room was to throw off a tail. You wondered when the last time he slept so soundly had been, when the last time you had been before your mind decided to remind you of why it was such a rare occurrence.

A small hiccup sounded and you looked down to see ad’ika clutching to you tightly, his own little mind playing tricks on him and bringing up things from the past. You let him curl a claw around a few of your fingers and brought it up to place a gentle kiss atop it. Emotions and energy flowed between you both, flashes of harsh light and the echoes of blaster bolts and the hum of swinging lightsabers sounding in your mind. He had been just a child too, when it all happened. When the only life you both had known had been ripped out from underneath you.

You thought back to the way Akiz would hold you in a similar way, to help ease your mind when nightmares plagued you. And for all the bad that occurred in your life, for all the things you had to endure, you were glad to be here in this moment to mirror his behavior for the small being cradled close to your chest. His other claw was laid flat on your chest, over where your heart was hurting. Trying to calm your breathing, you tightened the crossing of your legs beneath you both and closed your eyes.

“It’s okay, ad’ika. I’ve got you, I swear it.” You whispered to him as you tried to concentrate, meditating second nature. After a few moments, he looked up at you, his own breathing had calmed to copy yours, feeling the deep inhales and exhales of your body he pressed up to. He seemed to work himself up again, thoughts plaguing him, pushing memories of his own into your mind that were coated in fear, hitching your breath as they hit you at full force. The faint images in your mind’s eye as he had experienced the very same thing you had, a new perspective to the traumatic occurrence. Little brow furrowed and deep wrinkles in the green skin there, you chuckled lightly as you tried to smooth them out. “We’re safe, we got out. We made it out, ad’ika.”

He cried out softly, tensing in your hold. Trying to gather yourself enough for him through the haze of emotions and memories he was flooding you with, you gently rocked him. Hushing him quietly to ease his worries. His breathing evened out from the fast staccato it had taken on and the clenching of his eyes relaxed as you focused on sharing the feeling of warm water, the soft noise of cresting waves, the feeling of gliding through water on a board that you had crafted with our own small hands so long ago. Good memories from your childhood, the things you missed from it that felt like another lifetime.

A coo pressed into your neck and then a small giggle as you shared with him a memory of feeling so completely free, swiftly moving through a tunneling wave. The colors of the water illuminated by a blinding sun dulled to emulate the lights that surrounded the ship during hyperspace travel. All soft blues, tinged greens, soft white.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” You whispered, trying to keep the calm murmuring low as he relaxed under your attention. You nuzzled your forehead against his smaller one, letting him feel the calming thoughts you were pushing through the connection, hoping it was doing more good than just blanketing the harsh reality of your lives. “Let’s breath and focus, okay? We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

You didn’t hear the soft steps that moved across the plush carpet of the room or catch the glint of the dulled city lights reflected in the beskar that peeked through the opening of the door behind you.

“Mesh’la, I’ve drawn a bath for you.” Din’s voice was low, baritone close to you and you startled from where you were still cuddled into the corner of the couch. Slumber dissipated like a leak from your mind as your thoughts got staticky with anxiety at being caught unaware as you sucked in a deep breath through your nose. Ad’ika was asleep in your arms, eyes cracking open at the sound of the armored man’s voice. He jostled with the force of your jumping nerves as you flew from the couch, skin alight with the instinct to push up and away until you realized that you weren’t in any actual danger.

“Kriff!” You settled the small form in your arms down on the couch, still wrapped up tight in his blanket.

Leaning down to do so, you could feel the pull of your back muscles for your choice in sleeping arrangements. Din has stepped back calmly, not showing the fast beating of his heart or the guilt he felt at scaring you. You dotted on ad’ika, making sure he was okay and not at all alarmed by the rather abrupt awakening you both just had. Din’s hands came to grip your own, his gloves gone.

“I’ve got him, you’ve been up with him all night. I set fresh caf and one of the books from your bag out for you.”

Moments later, you were submerged in a perfect imitation of the bath you had drawn the night before.

Thoughts swirling like the cream you had poured into the cup of caf resting on a board spanning over the tub, securely nestled around the lips of it. Taking a sip, you leaned back onto the waterproof cushion fastened to the end of the tub, back muscles relaxing as the liquid warmed you from the inside out while steam wafted up from the hot water surrounding you. True to his word, Din didn’t disturb you, giving you a moment to yourself.

Warm arousal sparking through you as your body recalled the sensations from the night before. The feel of his strong body pressed against yours. The way he had curled his arms around you, the way he had thrusted up against you, dragging his hard cock through your folds, head stroking that bundle of nerves, pulling a second release from your worked up body while he chased his own. Hands recalling the feel of his thick curls tight in your fingers as you pulled on them, the feel of his jaw underneath them, the softest brushing against his lips before he had softly asked you to stop.

Guilt flared up at the pushing of his boundaries, at the closeness you both shared between bare bodies, but the recollection of how soundly you had both slept right after, curled into each other far outweighed it and you found peace within yourself. It hadn’t been uncomfortable, it had been…it had been euphoric to feel so safe with him in that way.

You hummed into the ceramic of the mug, taking another delicious sip. Leaning forward you placed the drink back on the board and took the moment for what it was. An easy morning with the two beings who meant so much to you in the other room, setting up breakfast before the day started.

The ship was silent as Din guided it through the space around the planet, preparing to jump into hyperspace. A relatively small planet he had picked out for the next stop, unsure of an overreaching plan but knowing that it was best to move. Especially now, having gained a tail in the marketplace. You had both spent a good amount of time going over the interior and exterior of the ship to ensure that no tracking beacons had been fastened to the aircraft. Even if the display on the man’s cuff hadn’t told him of the doors opening while away.

Just to be safe, to be cautious.

On alert and on guard for a majority of both your lives coalescing into an easy routine of ensuring complete safety when returning to where it was deemed home for the time being. Because that’s what the ship was to the man seated in front of you, his broad form filling out the pilot’s chair. And it was quickly developing into that for you as well, the bond between you both allowing for you to feel like you could share in his sentiments even more concretely.

The toggle he switched didn’t yield any change on the screen and you could hear the resounding sigh from the man but it didn’t sound as an alert for a message popped up. You prepared to leave the control room, knowing that some aspects of Din’s life were still unknown to you, not wanting to breach his privacy even if it was a simple message sent to his ship. But it was intended for him and him alone. It could be personal, it could be professional, but either way: you wanted to show respect for him in any way you could.

He must’ve clocked your movement, because his shoulders stilled from maneuvering his hands over the control panel and he turned in the chair to glance at you.

You offered him a tired smile, picking up the bundle that was a fast asleep ad’ika in some blankets in the third chair. The marketplace stop for supplies before returning to the ship had tired him out after his sporadic sleep the night before.

“Going to lay him down in my bed, let him sprawl out and he’ll wake to the lights.”

“Messages to me are messages to you. Unless they contain information on where the covert has relocated. But even then, I believe you’re entitled to that should you want to know. You have history and a connection with the Mandalorian culture and people.”

“But I am not Mandalorian myself, Din.” You reached out a hand to rest over the pauldron atop his shoulder. “It’s not a problem, I’ll leave you to it. Going to organize and see what supplies we have and make a list.”

You were about to cross the threshold when the voice of a man Din had last encountered back on Nevarro. The very one that had run him off world with the concentrated efforts of the entire Guild he had once been employed by. His helmet lifted slowly from where he was focused on the panel in front of him toward the hologram message as it displayed itself from another panel.

“My friend, if you are receiving this transmission, that means you are alive.”

Anger and frustration boiled in your stomach, filling you with negative and ill intentions as you turned on your heel in the threshold of the door. The figure of the man who had shot at you, who had wounded you, who had caused such a huge fight to erupt in the face of a personal vendetta he held against Din’s actions to save ad’ika formed to play the transmission. People had died, people had fled, the city had taken damage and destruction not only physically and so many individuals had been affected by the very man’s choice to move against Din in an orchestrated attack.

“You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive too. I guess we could call it even.”

You couldn’t help the snarl of your lips as you took in the smug way the man’s displayed form settled his hands over his hips, seemingly unnerved by the way he had fired at you. Nearly taken your life and gotten Din caught. Nearly caused all three of you to be taken captive.

“A lot has happened since we last saw each other. The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown. They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild.”

“He should’ve thought of that before he even let them set foot there.” You growled, voice low and threatening as you felt your emotions spike. Din’s visor turned to you fully, taking in the way the ends of your loose strands had begun to float, harnessed by the lack of control you were exhibiting in your worked up state. The visage you created, standing there in the semi-darkness of his control room with a bundled up child in your grip and a hard look decorating your features was formidable. Someone he would have to track and observe before moving against. Someone who would fight until they couldn’t anymore, until someone was dead and the conflict was no more. Your eyes flashed with the brightness of the transmission playing out, making him pause as he thought he caught something else in your eyes for the barest hint of a second. He turned back to view the transmission your eyes were glued on.

“We consider him an enemy, but we cannot get close enough to take him out.”

“He’s going to ask for your help.” You strutted forward and pushed the pause button on the panel without asking. The displayed figure frozen in a stance with his arms crossed and a hard look about his own features. “He’s going to ask you to risk yourself after attacking you and causing the covert to lose members and relocate.”

“He can do whatever he wants. That doesn’t mean-“

“You’re going to help him, I know you. I know you feel at fault for what happened, feel the need to right the wrongs that have sprung up because of your decisions. You worked with him, with the Guild for years, you feel an obligation to help them. Especially if they ask for it.”

“You don’t think I should.”

“No.” That same glint shone in your eyes despite the transmission no longer playing and it made the man seated beside you pause. Your entire demeanor so unlike your normal one. He had seen you be harsh in fleeting instances, more in response to something he had harshly said or done when first meeting you, in the way you had interacted with Xi’an and Mayfeld. The way in which you had cut down that thug back of Sorgan, the scratches you had left on Callican’s neck. Hints of an attitude and allusions to violence you were capable of that he had yet to see fully unleashed. It didn’t worry him, nor make him afraid, but it did make him pause. Cara had been right when she had seen your weapon for the first time: you were strong. Capable of doing so much damage with a simple twitch of your wrist. The ability to harness such a power as the Force and wield a weapon that could cut through anything made you dangerous. Even if he knew you wouldn’t use it against him or ad’ika.

“I’ve lived my life hiding and running, because taking them on and truly eradicating the threat was too much of a challenge.”

All he could do was nod, letting you know that he heard you and would take your words into account before he allowed the rest of the transmission to play out.

“If you would consider one last commission, I will very much make it worth your while. You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, but they will not stop until they have their prize. Both of their prizes.”

You roughly pushed the pause button again, heart thudding in your chest.

“Din…” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, only guessing at what the man on display was about to reveal. Something you weren’t ready for anyone to know, a part of your past you tried to forget and shove down to never be thought of again. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, feel the black visor trained on you so directly that it nearly branded your skin. “He has my file, he has the ability to find out anything and everything about me if he’s the leader of the Guild. He- he knows who I really am.”

“And who are you?” His voice didn’t hold any accusations of malice, it was even in tone, telling you he was willing to listen to what you had to say. That he wanted to hear what you were willing to share with him.

“Someone who had trained with their top forces in order to infiltrate their ranks and get intimate details of how they operated until they were found out.” You exhaled heavily, aware of how tightly you were holding onto the blankets that were swaddled around ad’ika’s form. Your fingers going numb with the force of your desperate attempt at keeping your mood from spiking anymore. “Someone who did it to save the only person who ever looked out for them.”

“Akiz.”

“He had been injured beyond general medical procedures at the time, but the Empire…they had the means and equipment that could save him. I was offered an ultimatum, and I took it. I did it for him, I turned to them for him, bid my time and learned everything I could while he recovered.”

“You said he died protecting you.” Not an argument but a statement, a recollection of what you had told him of your beloved guardian through teary eyes.

“He did.”

A moment passed with no response before Din pressed play on the control panel, giving you both a moment to grapple with the truths you just revealed.

“You are in possession of one of the most sought-after bounties they’ve commissioned for. And a person of their ranks who betrayed them and destroyed an entire fleet of ships in her attempts to flee found alongside it. I had no idea when I handed you that last puck, commissioned by her mother. The officials here found it and her name was given to me to say to you, the truth about her revealed to me to allow me to understand the severity of the issue here. Return to Nevarro. Bring the child and woman as bait. I will arrange an exchange and provide loyal Guild members as protection.”

You watched the stoic expression of the man as he delved out the information and his idea of a plan so plainly.

“Once we get near the client, you kill him, and we both get what we want. If you succeed, you keep the child and the woman. I will have your name cleared with the Guild, for a man of honor should not be forced to live in exile. I await your arrival with optimism.”

A heavy silence followed the end of the transmission, Din’s visor trained on you holding the child tight in your grip. It followed you as you finally made an exit to lay ad’ika down in bed, roving over your back in a way that made you feel utterly and completely exposed.

You were in the hammock that was strung up in the hold space, the remainder of the day spent traveling somewhere that Din had chosen to guide the ship towards. He had left you and ad’ika to your own devices, opting to stay secluded in the cockpit for the day. No doubt going over everything from the transmission and dissecting your admission. You hadn’t eaten but had made sure the small being in your care had been fed and washed before laying him down for the night.

Din would come down eventually and you didn’t want to impose yourself on him. You should’ve told him before, but he had assured you to take your time with sharing things about yourself. Understanding all too well that certain parts of both of your pasts were harder to share than some. Not borne from unwillingness but of shame and fear of how it would reflect the decisions each made once upon a time.

His steps were nearly silent, but you could hear the hush of his cape as he moved about. Your breath puffed out as you turned in the hammock, facing the wall and adjusted the blanket over you to cover you completely. A possible interaction lighting up your body with an anxious hum. He had been so quiet after your confession. You knew what the Empire did to his people, how they manipulated the very trajectory of his life. How, years later, they did the exact same thing again. Endless attacks on innocent people and powerful cultures alike in their path to controlling the galaxy how they saw fit. And to find out that you had served them? That had to have hurt him.

It had hurt you to admit it. To reveal that part about yourself that brought you nothing but shame and regret, even if it was done with good intentions to save the life of someone important to you. And they had lost their life in the end regardless. A mistake that would haunt you every time your emotions flared, and the pull of the Force took hold of you.

Din’s presence was close, having descended the ladder. You could feel the way he moved about the space busying himself with making a meal before bed. The domestic sounds lulling you into a half- conscious state.

A hand encompassed your own with a gentle tug, but you only mumbled out something incoherent.

“Mesh’la, let’s go to bed.”

“’M comfy.” Was your rather muffled reply as your face was pressed heavily into the pillow beneath you.

The silence allowed for you to slip deeper into your slumber, the figure of Din not disturbing you in the slightest. But he must’ve felt differently, his mind heavy as he tried to decide what to do, what would be the best course of action. His words were quiet, though his tone held an honest admission.

“I don’t fault you or judge you for the things you did. For the choices you made…I wanted to thank you for telling me.”

“Wanted to.” You mumbled back, brain moving slow.

A squeeze to your hand was the last touch of him before he retired to his quarters, letting you sleep where you lay.

Sorgan was a beautiful sight once again as Din directed the ship toward the planet. Telling you of his plans to pick up Cara in hopes of her wanting to and being able to help with the ask from the transmission. It had been a long conversation in the early morning, you waking to the darkness of the hold and moving to the cot alongside the resting man. He had told you of his plan, of his worries about the task. But it was a mutual agreement to take it on.

He had assured you that you would remain unharmed and by his side. That he was doing it to ensure a safer future for you and ad’ika. You brought up the argument that this may not be the only surviving ranks that still operated, but that it was likely ad’ika’s life was known about only by those that sought after him. But it was the move to make, you had agreed with him on that. Promising him that you would make sure they were both safe, that they would be your top priority in the face of conflict.

You hadn’t gone into town with Din, opting to stay behind and stick close to the ship. A trek in the trees to help keep your head level and your emotions in check. Basking in the plush atmosphere and abundance of greenery that you loved so much, had always loved so much. Ever since your first time seeing such a landscape when you were younger and on the cusp of beginning your journey to who you were now.

The pull of your lips was a genuine one as you recalled the memory of a wider smile, a gloved hand holding yours and leading you off of a ship, murmured words of comfort from a man who you trusted with your life. One who trusted you enough to take back to his home planet and show you the ways of his people once yours had been threatened and attacked. It had been a difficult conversation for you, him telling you that it was dangerous to return to your own planet. Serenity flowed through your veins as you felt close to the man who had saved you in countless ways, even when you couldn’t save yourself.

The feeling and memories of him in the trees you brushed your hand out to feel the leaves against your palms. Comforted by the way they all felt the same even if they were scattered on different planets, a part of you that you sought after even after banished yourself to a desert planet as a punishment for the things you had done, the choices you had made.

“Well, hey there, cyar’ika.” Cara’s voice greeted you as you left the protection of the trees and walked into the clearing where Din had landed the ship. She was beside Din, ad’ika choosing to move toward you while they both waited for the ramp to open and settle to board the ship. Her smile was dazzling as she took in the easy way you moved about, no longer worried about upsetting or triggering Din’s instincts to chase. No longer closed in on yourself and only a shadow of a person. You walked as his true equal now and it was a world of difference. “Don’t you look well rested.”

“Hello to you too,” You returned her greeting with a nod of your head and leaned down to scoop of adi’ka, his grabby hands too much of a cute display to ignore his silent request to be picked up. He must be tired from the walk, his legs so much smaller than Din’s, his gait less of a strut and more of a waddle. You nuzzled your nose against his tiny one in greeting. Aware of her eyes watching you, taking in the simple outfit of form fitting pants to the cape you wore over your shoulders, hair braided and pulled back out of your face as it looped behind your head and was pinned securely in place.

“Did burc’ya make you walk the whole way there and back?” You cooed, relishing in images he was pushing into your mind of his visit into town. Proud of him for picking up the skill you had been sharing with him, to make it easier to understand the things happening about him and for you to know what he was asking after less of a guessing game. You laughed as he pushed the feeling of excitement he had felt at watching Cara fight with another patron in what had to be a bet. “He’s a big ole meanie, isn’t he?”

“Don’t listen to whatever he’s telling you, he wanted to walk the whole way. Fussed when I tried to pick him up.” Din defended, though there was no harsh tinge to his words. If you could guess, you would say the man was smirking beneath his helmet, enjoying in the teasing banter.

“Is that right, wanted to show Cara here that you were big and strong, huh?”

You sidled up beside them both, following them up the ramp and into the ship.

Cara’s voice carried down from the control room to the hold, where you were tidying things up and ensuring that nothing was out of place to make the ship feel cramped with more than two average sized people aboard. You did leave out the current piece of chainmail you were working on though, not wanting to disrupt the pattern you had decided to try your hand at.

“He alright up there alone?” The woman asked as she followed Din as he made his way down the ladder, the cabinet that he stored his weapons in opening with the press of a button on his vambrace. His easy answer had you shaking your head, knowing he was about to eat his words. Ad’ika was anything if not mischievous, finding things to get into at a moment notice.

“Pick one.” Din instructed her, wanting the woman to be as prepared as you and him both for the upcoming conflict.

“Do you trust the contact?” She picked up and weighed the feel of a few pieces, her eyes finding your own at the table where you were working on hammering rings of metal together with concentration.

“Not particularly. He and I had a run-in last time I was there on some Guild business.”

“Not too fond of how he fired an actual bullet at me.” You muttered as you leaned in close to make sure the closures were secure before moving onto the next line of your work. The memories of that injury stirring in your body, phantom aches sprouting forth. It had been harsh, the recovery from such a wound, but if it hadn’t been for Din, you wouldn’t even have made it up from the floor of the ship. You felt the weight of Din’s visor on you and looked up to share a look with him. A silent confirmation that you were still okay with the decision to face the threat head on, with following his lead.

“So then why are we going?”

“I don’t have a choice.” You wanted to interject, but let the man speak plainly. Knowing why he was choosing to do what he thought was necessary. What was for the best, should it all play out according to plan. “You saw what happened on Sorgan. We had a tail on the last planet before we came to you. They’ll keep sending hunters. The kid will never be safe until the Imp is dead.”

“And you’re okay with bringing him back there?”

“Not really.” His voice lilted, his emotions obvious as he revealed how hesitant he was to take both you and ad’ika so close to danger, too close to those who were actively hunting after you. “That’s why I’m bringing you.”

Anymore of the conversation was cut short as the ship began to roughly jostle. Alarms sounding from the cockpit where they had left ad’ika alone. You easily looped the last ring on the row you had begun a few moments ago and set it in the crate designated for your work and tools. Clasping it shut from your seated position didn’t work as your hands couldn’t find a steady hold. Your hands scrabbled against it as the ship continued to warble in its course, no doubt the culprit of ad’ika messing with the steering.

“We need someone to help watch that thing.” Cara’s voice was stern, worry evident.

“San tries her best, but he is a handful. Especially if we’re going into enemy territory.”

“You got anyone you can trust?”

You were just entering the cock pit to let them know you were going to lay down for a moment, when you spied the coordinates Din was punching in.

“Arvala-7?” You turned from the control panel displaying the route of travel that Din had programmed into the system. There was a never-ending replacement of the plush, rich landscape that brought you so much comfort with that of harsh winds and gritty sand that spanned for miles and miles. So unforgiving in the way that the land simply was, no thought for nourishment or refuge to visitors. A far cry from where you felt you belonged but always found yourself returning to. A darkness shadowing over every beam of sunlight that you tried to bathe yourself in.

“Yes, but…”

“No.”

“You won’t have to disembark.”

“Burc’ya n-no, please don’t take me back there.”

“I’m not taking you back, I made sure that compound was destroyed. We’re just going to see if he’ll be willing to help.”

Ad’ika was whining, uncomfortable with the heightened emotions in the small room. He could pick them up from you and Din both, the confusion of Cara making the scene into something he didn’t like.

“I don’t- what’s going on?” Cara seemed surprised to see you openly upset, still getting used to you speaking unprompted, of moving about as comfortably as you did about the ship. She had spied the room behind the cockpit, done up with a cot and a trunk for storage of personal possessions. Your bag set atop it along with a pile of neatly folded clothing. Though the bed was made and untouched save for a smaller blanket thrown over the top. Suspiciously the perfect size for ad’ika’s little form.

The touch of your presence was noticeable all over the ship, from the hammock in the corner of the hold, to two pillows atop the second cot nestled into a small space that was undoubtedly Din’s personal quarters, to the open crate of metal working tools and pieces of chain mail in variant states of completion. You had folded yourself into the space, his space, and the two of you seemed to be on equal terms compared to when she last interacted with you both.

It could be noted that you both didn’t stray too far from each other, you from either him or the small creature of the child. A soft-spoken name for one and a comfortable, easy-going rapport with the other.

“The person who helped me last with him is on the same planet I found San.” Din spared a glance over as Cara, not willing to take his eyes off of you completely, you were so tense he worried for the soreness that would follow if he could get you to relax.

“We need him, you know this. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“What’s a bunch of sand and red rock gonna do to you, cyar’ika? C’mon, you got me and Mando to watch out for you, no one is going to take you. I’m pretty sure the tin can over there would fire on someone if they so much as looked at you.”

“Would you want to go back to the place where you were drugged, tortured and taken advantage of? Used as a plaything for anyone and everyone?” You couldn’t help but snap, emotions jumbled and intertwined so tightly underneath your skin. Too overwhelming and difficult to separate in order to think properly. The mess of them prompting you to reveal in plain words what you normally would only allude to when asked. Din’s motions of going through the contents behind a panel below the controls halted, a crackling sounding from the modulator as your words settled in the air. Cara, similarly, dropped into your normal perch behind the pilot’s chair. At a loss for words, knowing whatever they chose to say would be the wrong thing.

You didn’t wait for their attempts at a response, instead crossing the small space and entered your quarters. Overly sensitive in the wake of memories of your past guardian found in the soothing embrace of the forest.

This was a bad idea, this was a monumentally bad idea. It didn’t matter how much faith and confidence you had in everyone’s abilities. Going back to the place that you had experienced such negative emotions was potentially triggering. You could already feel the pull of the Force when just seeing Greef Karga again, and that had only been a hologram transmission. Not even the real, physical form of the man who had shot you and nearly killed you for not reason other than simply being abord the Razor Crest.

Fear overriding everything else, self-preservation in the most selfish of ways rooted deep in your very being since you had last run from the very same people commanded you to be handed over now. You would apologize later, for your harsh words, but right now you needed to be alone. You needed to meditate and concentrate, push back the pull you felt so strongly inside of you.

Faint sounds of the pair of them could be heard as they moved about, Din rustling in the crate of errant machinery and parts he kept aboard the ship. You wondered what he was looking for, what he was doing but you felt too raw to face either of them. Their voices a soft murmur as you sit in the middle of the small space and try to focus on the push and pull of the Force all around you.

“So…”

“Don’t start.” Was Din’s simple response, knowing he was about to get an earful from the smirking woman sat across from him at the makeshift table. He had a spare bin placed atop most of the surface, tools and other parts surrounding it while he worked on a making a crude impression of the pod that ad’ika had been found in. While he knew you had only been teasing, you had been right In your observation of the small child being tired from his trip into town to fetch Cara. He was too small to be without transportation aid and the protection it would allow him.

“She seems like a completely different person. It looks good on her.” Cara lifted the mug in her hands to take a sip of the steaming caf she had made. The set up looking extremely well kept and stocked, everything neatly labeled in clean script. She hadn’t been able to read any of the words, Mandalorian, but had known that Din wouldn’t choose to spend his time with such a small thing as organization. It had to have been you who took the time to do it. “You did the right thing, not finishing her job.”

“She’s an admirable travel companion.”

“Is that all she is?”

The armored man didn’t respond, knowing what the ship looked like, what is allowed for other people to read into. He had no shame about the nature of his relationship with you, but he wasn’t sure if you would take kindly to him speaking about it plainly with the woman across from him. While he was comfortable in her presence and they were more than acquaintances at this point, he had firsthand experience with seeing how you interacted with people who seemed to know more about you than you cared for them to. He wasn’t about to break your trust, just as he wished for you to not break his own with you.

“Now I know why that lovely widow wasn’t an option.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder to where the door to his quarters was open a crack, allowing her a view of the two pillows atop the cot only big enough for one person.

“Cara.”

“San is a gorgeous woman, Mando.” Din’t hands froze as he recalled the way your face bloomed when overwhelmed with pleasure. He shifted his hips, feigning reaching for a tool just out of his immediate grasp, adjusting himself as he felt a jolt of heat between his legs. “It looks like she’s really adjusted to life here on the ship. With you. Takes care of things.”

“She fights and does her far share of the hard labor, though she doesn’t know a kriffing thing about flying or anything beyond basic mechanics.”

“And you find that endearing, don’t you?”

“She has other skills.” He stated, a slight defensive. It was easy for people to take a glance at you and see only what you allowed them to, he had done so himself when first meeting you, taking you as a quarry all those weeks ago. But Cara had seen you fight, for a moment, surely she hadn’t forgotten that so easily. He did know why he felt the need to remind her that you were more. Perhaps it was a protective manner, to rekindle the knowledge that you were skilled, that you should be treated with respect, though he knew logically that the woman across from him did and you were both on good terms with each other.

“I’m sure she does, it takes a lot to survive on your own. Especially if she was on the run for as long as her puck had described. Her own trauma would’ve been enough to take a normal person down, but she’s strong. And the way she took down that raider? It was as easy and breathing for her, even in recovery. She makes armor too?” A hand reached out to inspect the contents of your haphazardly shut crate. A nearly finished piece of chainmail in the form of a shirt was folded over the lip of it and she carefully extracted it. An impressed hum fell from her lips as she took in the care and attention your gave to the piece, the rings closely knit and fastened tightly together. “Good quality armor.”

“Family business, it’s how she’s been helping to contribute. Sold a few pieces for a few thousand each.”

Cara let out a low whistle, eliciting a giggle from ad’ika as he swung in the hammock in the corner.

Placing the piece back into the crate, she spied the open notebook you used to scribble in. The pages were folded and bent, most likely as a result of it not being clasped and she could make out the drawing you had done of a masculine figure. Keeping quiet so as to not garner Din’s attention, she reached for it and took in the broad frame that took up the page entirely. Notes and measurements in a language that wasn’t Basic nor the Mandalorian she was beginning to recognize.

“Any idea what she’s written down here next to what is obviously a drawing of you?” She turned the notebook in her hands to face Din, the black of the visor whipping up as he realized what she held in her hands.

“Put that away, I don’t think she knows it’s out here.”

“I wonder how she knows what you look like underneath all that armor.” A knowing smirk lifted the corners of her lips as he turned the book back toward her. It wasn’t a graphic sketch, by any means. Din’s form clothed in light attire, though he was without his armor in it. Ruffling through the pages, she discovered it was more of a workbook than anything else. More notations and sketches for pieces you had worked on or wished to create. She closed the notebook with a snap, winding the string around it to secure it closed and placed it back into the crate. Contemplative in her silence.

“She’s worried about the Imps.”

“It’s not my information to share.”

“We’ve all had run ins with them, even after they were ‘defeated’,” She used air quotes around the word, knowing full well that there were pockets of them still operating as if nothing had changed. Case and point with what was happening on Nevarro. Such an expansive and all powerful crusade didn’t just fizzle out, too many factions and people of power who knew how to lay low and bide their time to show their hands. “But she seems…extra cautious.”

“You’ll have to talk with her.” Din continued to work on the project laid out before him.

True to his word, Din hadn’t pushed you to disembark from the ship when they landed on the barren, desert planet. A simple announcement to let you know that they were going to close the ramp after themselves that you hadn’t responded to. They were gone for a long while, no doubt laying out the situation to Kuiil and allowing him time to ask questions and make his decision with as much information as they could provide to him.

When the ramp lowered, hours later, you emerged from your quarters. There was a lot of stuff set out at the bottom of the ramp, supplies and a very still Din. Cara was the first to begin moving items aboard and you looked around the general landscape that was visible to you before you moved to help her. A nod shared with Din was all you could manage, though you were sure it was obvious you had been crying.

“You’ve grown, flourished into something admirable.” Kuiil’s voice called to you as he fastened a harness around a few of the blurrgs he had corralled into a small pen. He looked over to the armored man, an unreadable expression that prompted you to follow his gaze. “You didn’t turn her in, you made space aboard your ship for her to live her life. As an equal.”

“I did.” Like it hadn’t been one of the most life changing things could provide for you. Heat bloomed in your chest as you slowly made your way down the ramp. A deep breath in and heavy exhale before your boot settled in the sand beyond the metal.

“Do you have experience with such creatures?”

“No. sir, but other herd species that have been domesticated in much the same way.” You reached out a hand for one of the blurrgs to inspect. The breath hot on the exposed skin of your fingers, the force of it ruffling the cape that covered your body.

“It took this one a few days to learn how to mount, do you know how to ride?” Kuiil nodded over toward Din, a soft smile adorning your lips as you tried to picture the easily annoyed man try to tame the creatures enough to allow him permission to mount. He must’ve been thrown off a few times, creatures like them picking up on emotions as easily as breathing.

“Yes.”

“We will be using them for travel, we should see if they are easier for you.”

“Do they have names?”

“They do not, but they are all very understanding in nature if you aren’t hiding from them.”

“Hmm, will be you a good girl and let me try?” You cooed at the creature, willing to try but not wanting to be thrown off in much the same fashion you were imagining they had done with Din. Carefully entering the pen, with the Ugnaught close on your heels, you approached the creature with steady hands.

It took a few moments of the creature backing away from you and then coming back before they allowed for you to grip a hand around their harness. Once you did, you pulled yourself up and planted your backside firmly in the seat atop their back. She quickly took off, racing around the pen with jumps and hops that you weren’t sure was an attempt to buck you off but to see how well you could handle riding.

Keeping your balance was easy, despite the creature’s efforts to truly test a new rider, your grip tight on the reigns in your hand. Focused on allowing your body to roll with their movements, cape billowing out with every move. After a good while, the creature deemed you okay and began to simple trot around the enclosure.

With a wide smile, you clicked your tongue and guided them back to the post where Kuiil fastened her back up. Your heart stuttered as you realized Din had leaned up against one of the posts with his arms crossed over his broad chest to watch, the glint of the setting suns playing off of his beautiful armor.

Kuiil remained close by the creatures, offering them soft murmurs of comfort as the ship traveled. Surely, they hadn’t ever been aboard such a craft if their anxious rustling was any indication. But they were behaving for the most part, taking to it well with the help of their beloved handler.

Taking over the entire makeshift table, Din and Cara were interlocked in a game of arm wrestling, a cheeky comment from the former shock trooper resulting in the challenge. They were in a stalemate, small grunts of exertion puffing from both of them the longer they tried to overpower the other.

“I got you, Mando.”

“Care to double the bet?”

Suddenly, Cara was gasping, soft grunts waning out as she could no longer seem to take in a breath. Your head shot up, looking over to where ad’ika was secure in a newly constructed replacement for his pod. A small claw lifted up and his eyes clenched shut in concentration was all you needed to know as you quickly pushed up from your seat and moved toward him.

“Nayc, ad’ika! Nayc!”

He didn’t seem to hear you, as Cara let go of the hold she had on Din and her fingers scrambled at her throat. Din’s attention shifted from her, mind recalling the similar way that you had done something similar with Xi’an, to the child. He jumped up, closer to him than you were. He lifted him up from within his makeshift pod, words quick.

“No! No, no! Stop!” Concentration broken, the child gladly accepted Din’s hold and fastened his claws around the man’s arms. “We’re friends, we’re friends. Cara is my friend!”

“That is not okay!”

“I’m so sorry, cyar’ika! He must’ve been trying to imitate me, I didn’t know he was able to concentrate in order to do that!” You were crouched beside her, hands gently caressing her arms as she sucked in deep breaths and tried to fight off the dizziness that had taken over.

“Very curious.” The Ugnaught approached the child with a stoic face, taking in the events with reverence.

“Curious? It almost killed me!” Cara shouted out, understandably upset and worked up.

“He doesn’t realize how strong he is, he’s still learning how to wield it.” You tried to placate her, knowing it wasn’t much.

“The story you told me of the mudhorn now makes more sense. Though what it is, I don’t know. But what it does, what you both do. This…this I’ve heard rumors of.”

“What? When you worked for the Empire?” The accusation was harsh as it flew through the air.

“When I was sold to the Empire, in indentured servitude.”

“Yet somehow you walk free.”

“Hey! We all need to calm down. Yes, he walks free and so do I. Working with the Empire doesn’t make us horrible people.” Items in the cabin began to float, the panels on the walls shaking with the emotions you were feeling, crates jostling in their secure holds against the walls. The agitation of immediate judgement from someone who had been wronged just as much as you had by the very people you had been forced to submit to. She had only been so lucky they didn’t have anything to hold over her and force her to turn to them. Loss was loss, but manipulation was easy for those who had obvious weaknesses to exploit. All of it cruel, no comparison worse than the other, only more heartbreaking.

Silence fell at your loud words; voice elevated to try and take control over the situation. Both Cara and Kuiil turned to you with shock playing across their features, your words revealing more about yourself than you cared to admit. But in order to corral the situation, you had decided to defend the Ugnaught by voicing your own similar experience. Letting him know that he wasn’t alone in the suffering he had endured.

Cara tore her arm out of your light hold, though you had stood up when she had in the heat of the moment. It stung, her rejection in wake of your words, but you understood and moved to give her some space.

“I bought my freedom through the skill of my hands and the labor of three of your human lifetimes.” As he spoke, voice strict and leaving no room for argument, IG-!! Approached from where the droid had been standing guard by the creatures secured in the back of the space. “Do not cast doubt upon that of what I am nor whom I shall serve.”

Breathe held, you worried for another round of accusations to fly, but Din took control of the situation, not wanting the conflict on his ship among people he recruited for a job that required working smoothly alongside each other.

“Tell you what. I could really use your craft work right now.” Din settled ad’ika back into his makeshift pod, admitting that he had thrown it together quickly, that it wasn’t the best work but what he could manage with what supplies and parts were available. The child cooed and gurgled, seemingly unaware of the tension he had caused with his protective move against Cara. “Can you pad this container so the child can sleep better?”

“I shall fabricate a better one.” Kuiil turned to point an accusing finger toward a still seething Cara across the space. “Then perhaps this Dropper can see how one can win their freedom with the skill of one’s hands.”

The moment passed, tension easing a bit as the Ugnaught began to move about the space to collect things for a new pod. You opted to stay down in the hold with him and ad’ika, giving Cara some space after everything.

“I didn’t know they had taken you prisoner.” Cara’s voice was soft, almost hesitant as she approached where you were seated at the makeshift table with one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, the other reaching into the new pod where the child gripped it tight with his tiny claw. “You only mentioned your mother holding you.”

“It’s not something I generally broadcast.”

“I didn’t mean to yell so loudly, it’s just that- that power really unnerves me.” She sighed as she settled into the same chair she had been in earlier, before everything had become complicated and personalities had clashed.

“It unnerves me too, the only surviving rumors and stories are all steeped in the shadow of the Empire. I know the truth of those powers, the origin stories and the people who used to wield them for the good of the galaxy. I’m one of the very few alive, even now after so long. But none of that matters when they’ve been wiped out and their stories erased in favor of those to instill fear. It doesn’t matter that the Empire has been eliminated down to sparse bases of operations and high ranks clinging to the echoes of power they once had themselves. They destroyed so much, they still do.

I was given an ultimatum, much like Kuiil. And I don’t regret taking the easier road, even it if did land me in the midst of the very people who took everything from me before they fell.” You wiggled your hand from ad’ik’a, his grip loose in his sleeping state.

She whispered your name, unsure of what else to say in wake of such an admission.

“But it’s okay, because it got to me where I am now. Aboard this ship as a free woman. With this little guy to look after so the same things don’t befall him. With…with ner kar’ta.”

You both sat in a comfortable silence, the conflict of earlier not forgotten but mended over. Sharing stories of what had happened during your time apart over a simple meal. IG-11 helping you to prepare enough for everyone and ensuring you they would clean up afterwords while everyone indulged. She had offered to take Kuill a plate while you took one up to Din. Both of you reaching out to bring everyone back together in the effortless way that food was capable of.

Hours later, you retired for the night. The day having been a long one. Another of travel ahead. You had offered Cara your own quarters, should she wish for a bit of privacy to rest. She had taken up your offer with a smug look tossed over to Din as he made his way to his own, though she didn’t make a comment other than to thank you for your kindness.

“Thank you.” You mumbled into the crook of his neck, nose pressing into the warmth of his skin. He was fully dressed but he had removed the cowl about his neck to rest easier atop the bed. Hesitant to undress further with two other passengers aboard the ship, despite his trust in them. Similarly, you had stayed in your outfit, only removing your boots and gloves in order to lay down for the last bit of travel toward Nevarro. “I was…afraid earlier. There are some things that- trigger me in a way and I would rather not face those things if I can help it.”

“Triggering.” One of his arms rested over you, bringing you flush against him. The armor wasn’t the most comfortable to rest against, but the feeling of him breathing beneath it helped to ease your mind all the same.

“Din, my sabers, they’re white.” You whispered into the shared darkness.

“Mesh’la, I’m trying to follow you, but I don’t – I don’t know much about your culture whereas you know so much about mine.”

“I’ve only heard of one other person who carries white sabers.” You took a deep breath, your heart thudding as you tried to calm yourself. He needed to know, you needed to share with him something to help him understand what exactly was at stake with this conflict. “White sabers have been purified. It means that the person who wielded them went to great lengths to find balance within themselves.”

“Because they were not always so.”

“Exactly…”

He didn’t ask you what color they used to be.

And you didn’t tell him that they used to glow as red as the ones in your nightmares.

Gearing up and getting the blurrgs ready for when the ship landed took a collected effort. Between you, Kuiil, Cara, and the IG unit, it was easier but still took some time. The four blurrgs aboard the ship were ready to stretch their legs, restless after having been cramped up for nearly three days of travel through hyperspace. You had calibrated your vambrace to connect with Kuiil’s handheld comm link. The pod he constructed for ad’ika complete and able to be controlled with either yours or Din’s cuffs.

The blurrgs steps clanged as the creatures made their way down the ramp, lining up in a loose formation in front of the man who had reached out to ask for aid.

Greef Karga was a tall man, his clothing neat and put together. Save for the damage done by Din’s blaster over the left breast of his leather coat. You held a hand to your lowest rib on the left side of your own body, feeling the phantom pain of a since healed injury at the man’s hand. There were three Guild members collected behind him, all sporting their own preparations.

“Sorry for the remote rendezvous, Mando. But things have gotten complicated since you were last here.”

“It appears that introductions are in order.” The man looked over the line the blurrgs created in front of them. Cara and Din flanking the closed and secured pod. Kuill beside the armored man and you on to the right of him. “It seems we’ve both provided a security detail.”

The man’s eyes roved over you all, taking in the way you were simply listening and letting him ramble on in his greeting.

“I recommend the shock trooper guards the ship. These lava fields are lousy with Jawas.”

“She’s coming with me.”

“But the town is now run by ex-Empire.” Karga made an imposing figure with his hands rested on his hips. “If a Rebel Dropper is with us, they’ll all get their hackles up.”

“She’s coming.” Din insisted simply.

“At least cover your tattoo. No need to flaunt it.” He acquiesced. His attention turned to you, the gazes of those behind him following as well. “I see you’ve brought this lovely lady back here, you are looking wonderful in your healed state. That was a nasty business the last time we met, I can only offer my apologies for firing upon you.”

“Apologies not accepted.” You frowned, not liking how he was talking with such disregard for the seriousness of the situation. As if it was all some game or show he was fronting for, not truly concerned with. He balked at your dismissal, his own frown marring his features.

“Surely you must understand that I was merely doing my job as leader of the Guild, Mando here was running off with a quarry he had already handed over. Possibly two, because we both know he had no true intentions of handing you over either. You were simply in the vicinity of such a misguided act.”

“Surely you must understand that not everyone buys into your overly straightforward and charismatic act. It’s simply something that people have the right to be cautious of.” You head crooked to one side, words falling and hitting the man right in his chest. Your eyes locked with his. Behind him, the other bounty hunters reached for their weapons, hands hovering over them as they looked you over. Not outwardly threatening but your words hinting at more than a pretty face or simple quarry sought after by her mother. You had no doubts that Karga had either told them of your involvement with the Empire so they were to keep an eye on you or he hadn’t and kept it simple to avoid any complications with the plan.

“Ooh, Mando, I do like her. Not afraid to speak her mind now that she’s got you to protect her, huh?”

“I’d be more wary of what she’s capable of, I’ll shoot but she’ll make sure you aren’t breathing.” Din spoke up, wanting to hurry this along. But he knew the man standing before him, how he liked to draw things out. Read what he could from long interactions with people. Choosing to ignore the rather heated comments from you both, the man opened his arms in exasperation.

“Now, where is the little one?”

Everyone watched as Din controlled the pod to move out of the line, up toward Karga. As it opened, revealing ad’ika inside and wide awake, your hands twitched around the reigns in your grip just as Din moved a hand to hover over the blaster holstered to his thigh.

“So this little bogwing is what all the fuss was about.” You watched with untethered focus for any signs of discomfort or ill intent as Karga lifted ad’ika with gentle hands from within the pod. “What a precious little creature. I can see why you didn’t want to harm a hair on its wrinkled little head.”

He gently placed the child back into the pod, but your grip remained tight on the reigns, tension taut in your body. You didn’t trust him, you didn’t trust the men behind him, you didn’t trust this entire situation. But it was Din’s call and you would follow his lead.

“Well, I’m glad this matter will be put to rest once and for all.”

With the pod safely between Din and Cara once again, you exhaled a heavy breath.

“The sun drops fast on Nevarro. We can walk for a spell, camp out at the riverbank, then make our way into town at first light.”

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a-edgar-allan-hoe · 1 year

Text

Fade Into You

ResidentEvil4Remake!Leon Kennedy x FemScientist/Pathologist/!Reader

Resident Evil x The Last of Us crossover

A/N: Just a little idea I had lying around. The timelines are a bit jumbled up since the Last of Us and Resident Evil take place in different eras so I made this story takes place in modern time so bear with me here. I hope y'all like it and let me know what you think! 💜

Summary: Imagine being a scientist set with the task of finding a cure for everything that has happened, assigned to return the world to how it once was only to become an assignment for someone else, an agent named Leon S. Kennedy tasked with making sure you are transported safely to your destination.

Warnings: language, some potential suggestive content, blood and gore and violence.

Notes: angst, some comfort and fluff and Leon’s terrible dad jokes and some trauma sprinkled in there.

Time. Time is a strange thing. Nonphysical and always there, always changing, from beginning to end. At the same time, it comes in cycles, repetitions and patterns. A metaphysical figment of creation, a concept constructed and molded to the understanding of the human species. An entity bigger than ourselves, spanning across millions of galaxies, and yet can fit within the palm of our hands. What is time, other than of what we know of it. Often times you found yourself wondering the same thing.

You don't know how long it has been since the outbreak, since the virus that started to plague the earth was first heard on the news, since well..........everything. So much has happened since, you had trouble remembering a lot of it, or any of it for that matter.

You used to work for the CDC, you still do, or what’s left of it, before you were taken against your will................there's not much left of anything anymore. Back then, you were the leading scientist in the department of Cancer Prevention and Control. 'New and upcoming young scientist leads the fight against cancer', titled the articles that were written about you, some of them far too promising and others harshly criticizing and objectifying. You're pretty sure you still have those articles stashed away somewhere, the good, the bad, and the ugly. What for? You’re not sure. Motivation perhaps, if there was any still left in you.

You were the best at your field, nearing a breakthrough for finding the ultimate cure for cancer that targeted the cells at the earliest and even latest stage, diminishing the illness completely as if it had never even existed in the host. You had even been featured on the cover of Life Magazine and the Smithsonian magazine for your work, the photos taken of you wearing your lab coat and standing over your microscope or interacting with your team and your patients. Boy was your father proud, his little girl on the verge of revolutionizing the medical world, he almost always had a hard time believing it, still picturing the day he held you bundled in his arms when you were first born. You were still ever his little girl to him. You could still remember the look on his face, the way he beamed when he found out, buying a copy of both those magazines just to frame it up on the wall as if there wasn’t already enough pictures of you and your little sister throughout your years.

You almost accomplished your mission, almost. You were close, so close. And then the virus took over, the Plagas and then the Cordyceps brain infection. Cancer became the least of worries.

Since the epidemic, you tried to save as much of your family photos as you could. After all, they were the only things left as a reminder of the past, of how things were. It's been so long the pictures almost don't seem real, like something created out of the mind of a delusionist, taken from of the pages of a science fiction novel, an imitation of an alternate reality. Never in you right mind did you think all those flesh-eating zombie movies you snuck out to watch with your sister at the local theater as a teen would feel more true to life than the actual past, the history of the human race.

Every night before you went to sleep, you'd pull out the storage box from under your bed, the one containing your family's photo albums, flipping through each page and staring at the photos of your parents and little sister as a way of forcing your brain to remember them. You believed this was your way of keeping them in your memory, recollecting the moment behind when each photograph was taken as if they were pieces of a broken vase meant to hold all that was you, pieces that sliced at you whenever you tried to put them back together. Truth was, you were afraid, desperate to cling on to the echo of their existence. And so you looked at those photos in a ritualistic manner, each and every night before bed. Truth is, you were starting to forget their faces, their voices, and you knew it.

In the beginning there were many; scientists, doctors, or pathologists or whatever you wanna call them, working on the task that was given to you by the government, each and every one of them fighting for a life of their own and the lives of many. Now they were just names on the diplomas that hung in their offices, names printed under an achievement of the institution they attended, just pieces of paper left to gather dust and be forgotten. Sometimes you wondered if you were the only one left; in your state, your country, the world? Who knows. In the building you worked, there used to be seven, then there were six, then five, then four…………….now there was only you.

Time seems to be nonexistent to you. The clocks on your walls meant nothing, nothing more than some numbers and a bunch of little gears that turn the hands to display the hour. A symbol of endless nothingness. The white walls of the building you worked in were just a place that they happened to hang on. And god you hated those white walls. You’ve lost count of the days you spent locked up within them, with nothing to keep you company except for the lab rats and your own thoughts. It's a wonder you didn't lose your sanity. A time came when you’d question if you’d ever see another human again. It seems as if your prayers were answered.

You were currently sat on the makeshift bed of a small base hideout, staring ahead at the fabric of the military tent that blew slightly against the wind, the makeshift tent that you stayed in after you were rescued, if you would call it that. Being the only woman at a base full of military men had its own fears, and you'd almost rather be out with the infected than here. You don’t know what it’s like anymore, being free I mean, you only remember being held hostage, held in one place to work for the government only to be taken away to work for another before being taken again for your so-called expertise, like an almost endless cycle, as if you were some goods that needed to be traded off and transported from one destination to another until you could no longer be of use.

You couldn't remember much after you were taken by the cult in an attempt to bring back Umbrella Corp or whatever they wished to call themselves, the memory of it all was still as fuzzy as when you first arrived under their "management". Now what would you even call your current circumstance? A formal and civil hostage situation under the label of U.S. personnel? You were only being held for the time being before being sent back to the states to work for whatever was left of the government. And as much as you wanted to go back home, or what's left of it if we're being honest, you've only heard of how worse it has gotten since you left.

“Y/l/n.” One of the soldiers called for you as he opened the flap entrance to your tent, his form casting a shadow across the floor in front of you. “It’s time.”

You gave the soldier a quick nod, grabbing your backpack from the floor and the small pocket knife that you kept under your pillow, stuffing the folded blade in the back pocket of your jeans as you got up and walked out of your tent. You followed the soldier as he led you through the open area where other soldiers were gathered, some of them standing guard, some eating their meals and others standing around leisurely as they conversed with each other. You could feel their eyes on you, watching you tag behind the soldier that was in front of you as he led you to the bigger tent on the other side of the field, the tent where the officers and higher ups held their meetings to discuss important matters.

You heard some voices coming out from inside the tent, two to be exact, discussing something important apparently. It’s all they ever did around here. And as you stepped in after the soldier, you saw the colonel speaking to a man you had never seen before. Tall, blond hair, wearing civilian yet practical clothes with tactical gear over it, unlike everyone else here who donned the military uniforms. He's definitely not military-

“Sir-“ the soldier that led you spoke, alerting the colonel of your presence.

“Ah. There you are.” The colonel turned towards you with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling from his old age as he gestured you over to where he stood at the table that was stationed dead center of the larger tent. “Was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

You looked between the two men across from you in the tent once the soldier that was by you had left, allowing you a better view as you only watched with slight uncertainty before approaching the officer. The man whom you did not recognize had looked your way as well, his face not showing a single shift in emotion upon your arrival, but you had managed to notice the slight curious quirk of his brow at seeing you. Who the hell was he?

“Say hello to your assignment,” the colonel gestured towards you as he spoke to the blond man. God you hated being called that, assignment. “Dr. y/n y/l/n."

“Leon S. Kennedy.” The man outstretched his hand, to which you stared at with the blankest look possible.

"............Pleasure." You gave the man a short smile, completely disregarding his offer for a handshake before turning to the older officer and pulling him aside as if the young man wasn’t even present in the first place, watching from the side of your eye as he awkwardly pulled his hand back, a look of hidden puzzlement on his face. You didn't want to seem rude but this was not what you had signed up for, being alone for who knows how long with a man you absolutely did not know.

“Agent Kennedy here is to ensure that you are transported and arrived safely to your destination.” The colonel answered after seeing the silent but scrutinizing look on your face.

So an agent huh. He’s probably as stuck up as the rest of those shit heads you've had to come across. Agent or not, who's to say he isn't like the others.

“What does that have to do with me?"

"Well he's been hired as your bodyguard."

You tried your best not to laugh. "What, some washed up reject of the Backstreet Boys?” You lowered your voice, knowing damn well the agent a few feet away from you could hear everything.

Leon couldn’t help but cock his head back with a slight scoff, not sure if he should be offended by your insult or impressed by the creativity behind it.

“Agent Kennedy is the best in his field. And our job is to make sure you end up safe back in America. I’m afraid you’re much too valuable to be left to wander back on your own.”

You let out a small huff, crossing your arms over your chest with a stern look of contemplation as you eyed the ground beneath your feet before finally folding. He had a point there, it was dangerous out there. But who's to say you should trust him? You had trouble trusting anyone for that matter. "Do you trust the guy?" You looked up at the colonel, knowing better than to trust a man's word but who else was there. There wasn't really anyone here to protect you but yourself.

"Agent Kennedy is a good man, reliable, I assure you."

You don't know that. "............then I suppose I have no choice but to take your word then." You sighed, knowing there wasn't really a way out of this.

“Good. Go easy on him alright.” The colonel straightened up, placing his hand on the back of your shoulder as he led you back to where the other man stood.

"Agent Kennedy, I trust you'll keep Miss y/l/n here safe."

"Yes sir." Leon nodded his head, attempting to send you a kind smile as if to say you were in good hands but you only stared off into the distance, still unhappy with the decision made. As long as it meant you went back home. Home. Jesus. You don't even know what was awaiting you there.

"She can be quite stubborn at times but you'll get used to it." The older officer added with a chuckle to which you shot back with a quick glare.

"Well that's fine by me." Leon smiled. "I'm a patient man." If only he knew how much you were going to drive him up the wall.

"Well here is the location where she needs to be dropped off." The officer handed Leon a piece of paper. If you have any questions, you know who to call."

"Copy that."

"Can I have a handgun-"

"No." The colonel was quick to interrupt your question. "That won't be necessary."

"Fine." You mumble to yourself. "Guess I'll just use my butter knife then."

Leon quietly watched the interaction between the two of you, slowly getting a clue about the personality of who he was going to be spending the upcoming days with, and he wasn't quite sure how to feel about it. He too would have opted for the same response as the colonel since you didn't look like the type to have ever fired a gun, much less used any weapon at all. And what exactly did you mean by butter knife? Should he be worried?

"Well you'd better get going, you don't want to be traveling at night, not with what's out there."

"Yes sir." Leon nodded his head at the colonel before heading out of the tent.

You turned to follow the tall blond but were stopped by the officer who held his hand up. "Not just yet. I have something here for ya."

You watched as the colonel pulled out a large black case, clicking open the clasps before opening it to reveal a hunting rifle nestled safely inside.

"I thought you said I couldn't have a gun."

"No, I said you couldn't have a handgun."

The colonel stepped aside, allowing you room to take a step closer to examine the rifle better. Was that? You'd recognize that wooden stock anywhere.

"My dad's rifle. How?"

"Had someone retrieve it from your old place. I'm guessing you know how to use it, judging from the way you recognized it so quickly."

"I-Thank you....sir."

"Just make sure you get your ass back to the lab in one piece." The colonel pulled the rifle out from the case before handing it to you, along with a box of some ammo.

"Of course." You sent the colonel a short smile, putting the box of ammo into your backpack before taking the rifle from his hands, feeling the weight of the thing within your grasp, recognizing each scuff mark and scratch that lined the wooden body, the little signs of wear and tear caused by your own clumsiness, each of them reminding you of the times spent with your father at the range when he taught you how to use the thing. It even smelled of him, after all this time. If you weren’t in a public setting you would have curled up into a ball and cried, holding the rifle close to your frame as if it were the remnants of your father, the man who raised and protected you for the majority of your life. And in a way, it was.

"Stay safe out there kid."

“Sure thing.” You gave a nod, slinging the strap of the rifle over your shoulder as you pushed the memories and emotions away, heading over to the entrance of the tent until the colonel called out again.

“Hey kid.”

“Yeah?” You turned back to face the older gentleman. It wasn’t long, the time that you’ve known him, but he seemed to be the only one that looked out for you, the only one that stood up for you when the other soldiers harassed you and uttered vulgar things in your direction.

“Try not to get separated from Agent Kennedy.”

“Can’t promise that.” You turned back around, raising your hand to send him a wave goodbye before pushing aside the flap of the entrance and stepping out into the sunlight. Well, this is it. Another day, another journey.

You were met outside of the tent with Agent Kennedy, who seemed to have been waiting outside the whole time, hopefully not eavesdropping, not that there was anything important or personal said back there but you just didn’t like people listening in on your conversations.

Straightening up, Leon gave a quick glance over your form before eyeing the rifle on your back. That definitely was not there before. “Where the hell did you get that thing?"

Christ this man talks too damn much and you just met him.

Rolling your eyes, you ignored his question, or rather his whole presence as you headed towards the truck that was set out for you. As much as you didn't want to be rude, you were anxious to get the hell out of this place and return to a place that you at least knew.

“Never mind I guess.” Leon muttered to himself before trying to catch up with you ahead. Jesus you walked with purpose.

Opening up the passenger door of the truck, you threw your backpack and rifle in the backseat before seating yourself in the passenger seat, putting on your seatbelt as you watched Leon walk up to the truck, still a couple feet away.

“Can this dude be any slower?” You muttered under your breath with a roll of your eyes, propping your elbow up on the door window as you stared out of it.

“Someone’s eager to get out of here.” Leon chuckled at the way you had situated yourself so quickly along with the obvious impatient expression that sat on your face as he opened the driver door before getting in himself, putting the keys into the ignition to start the car.

“So uh..........” Leon adjusted the rear view mirror before placing a hand on the back of your seat as a way to back the car out of the parking spot while you only studied his movements from the corner of your eye before glancing out the widow again. Why did you have a gut feeling this guy wasn’t the best driver. “where to huh? My place or yours?” Leon cracked a smug grin, hoping to lighten the mood judging from the unease you must have felt to be left with a complete stranger but quickly changing his mind after seeing the absolute foul, confidence-shattering side-eye that you just threw him.

If this man doesn't shut up-

"Right-" Leon cleared his throat, his expression changing back to his usual resting one as he looked back ahead, changing the gear to reverse as he backed out of the parking spot. Not even a minute with you and he could already tell you were going to be a blast to be around. You were the complete opposite of Ashley. And as much as he preferred a quiet atmosphere, he'd rather take his chances with Ashley all over again.

Some silence had passed between the two of you once you hit the road and left the base behind, the only sounds being the humming of the car and the wind outside. The drive was scenic in a way, if it were not for the situation at hand. But watching the trees and landscape blur by through the car window almost reminded you of the drives you went on with your father and sister, transporting you back to the road trips where the three of you would listen to the radio while fighting over who's turn it was to play the next song.

You missed your father softly singing along to his music that you at one time used to be annoyed by, your sister and you referring to his taste in music as the "Ancient Ballads of Babylon". And oh how he used to get defensive over it, calling it the "good stuff unlike todays junk", though he was never able to hide back the smile from your little slanders. What you would do to listen to his music again, to be in his truck sitting in the passenger seat reading a book before crawling to the backseat to take a nap with your sister, her head resting on your lap while your rested yours against the window.

Due to how quiet you were, Leon couldn't help but to glance over in your direction to make sure you were still alive, noticing the way you had become lost in thought, your gaze seeming to reach miles away. His eyes traced down to the subtle movement of your hands, watching how your fingers toyed with the dainty beaded bracelet that sat at your right wrist. There were a couple white beads situated together, printed with small black letters that formed a word, or rather a name, but before he could have a chance at reading what it was, you had noticed him looking, causing you to swiftly pull the sleeve of your loose sweater over your wrist. The sudden movement from you had caused Leon to clear his throat as he snapped his head back to the road, as if embarrassed at being caught before clearing his throat. "So uh, are you some bigwig's daughter? The president had requested you specifically."

The president? There was still a president? Well shit.

"Look. I'm just trying to know what I'm dealing with here." Leon put his hand up in defense after the annoyed expression you gave him.

You shook your head lightly at his behavior, heaving out a released breath as you propped your arm up once more, resting your head against your hand and discretely wiping away the tear that was starting to fall down the corner of your eye.

"Doctor huh. What are you, UCLA grad? You strike me as a LA city kind of girl-"

"Harvard." You interrupted.

"So you do speak." Leon shot you a quick smirk, surprised at your sudden input before staring back at the road. "Thought it was just me but....looks like I struck a nerve here. Sooo......Harvard huh? You must be pretty brainy then, surviving a med school like that."

"............" Dear god please.

"You know, you look a little young to be a doctor."

Geez, if that isn't the first time you've heard that one. You wished the man would just shut up and focus on the road. You swore that if he somehow ended up sending the car off a cliff you were going to personally strangle the blond yourself. Actually, come to think of it, if he talked any more you just might take the wheel and drive off a cliff yourself.

"I take it you're not much of a talker." Leon commented on the way you so obviously tried to ignore him. Jesus, did he rub you the wrong way or what. Or was it just the Ivy League attitude? He had heard the talk amongst his old colleagues back at the station about the Ivy League folk that would sometimes come through the town. Overly-educated and stuck up, some of the officers would call them.....if you consider calling someone overly-educated an insult. Perhaps this was what they meant? Seems like you didn't want to even be associated within the same proximity as him.

Rolling your eyes, you twisted around in your seat to reach for your bag, pulling it onto your lap and opening up the zipper before digging into the contents inside.

Leon watched you with curiosity, opening his mouth to ask just what it was you were up to before seeing you pull out a pair of headphones and a portable CD player that looked like you stole right out of the 90s. Keeping the backpack on your lap, you slipped the headphones onto your head, pressing play on the device before pulling your feet up onto the seat and turning towards the window so that your back faced the man in the driver seat.

Leon couldn't help but to shake his head with a light chuckle, taking this as a sign to shut the hell up and let you be in your own little bubble. Maybe you’re just shy. Or maybe you just don’t like him. Or maybe you’ve been through a lot. Who knows.

You watched the trees once more, listening to the song that played through the speakers of your headphones, Fade Into You by Mazzy Star, letting the soft tunes soothe your nerves. And as much as you tried to force yourself to stay awake in order to stay alert for your own safety, you couldn’t help the drowsiness that took over you. The music playing through your headphones, the blur of the trees out the window, and the subtle vibration of the moving car only added to that effect. And slowly, you let yourself slip, your eyelids growing heavy as you finally shut your eyes.

The drive had felt like hours for Leon, but he didn't mind as much. In fact, this was sort of relaxing, just driving, listening to music he enjoyed as it played softly from the radio, the volume lowered as means to not disturb you. This mission was turning out to be less stressful than the others. Or maybe he shouldn't speak too soon.

The young agent would occasionally find himself glancing over in your direction, perhaps to make sure you were okay and weren't dead. He had a bad habit of making sure the people under his care were alive and well and not breathing their last breath….if you would call that a bad habit. As much as this man hides it behind his cold exterior, I am positive he is just as panicky as the rest of us.

Your lack of movement had started to worry the blond, seeing that you have stayed in that position for a couple hours now as he began to wonder just what the hell you could have been doing the whole time in order to stay in the same exact position. (He has his himbo moments.) But the slow shifting of your form had relieved the young man as he watched you turn over on your other side to now face him, getting a glimpse of your closed lids behind the strands of your loose hair that almost covered the look of calm on your face, hearing the small moan that came from your chest in your state of sleep as you shifted around while your brows furrowed together at the center in a look that he could only describe as discomfort from your curled up position on the passenger seat.

One thing he had noticed though, if he listened close enough, he could hear the slight and faint whistle of the air rushing through your nostrils each time you breathed, a sign that usually meant a deviated septum. He didn’t know why, but that tiny detail had somehow set his mind at ease…something so insignificant…so barely noticeable unless you really paid attention to it…almost as if it had made you more human. And the thought of it was comforting to him.

As he looked over your sleeping form, he couldn’t help but to take note of the details that made you: of your hair that looked as if it had not been brushed through, or the dark circles under your eyes, or the little bump on your nose at the bridge, or the faint signs of hyperpigmentation and small little acne scars that lined certain areas of your face, or the light dust of freckles on your nose that were barely visible unless you really took a closer look. Even down to your wardrobe, your oversized navy blue v-neck sweater and the white tee you wore underneath, and your loose-fitted jeans, and your worn in black doc martens. Leon did not know how to describe it, but there was something comforting about you, something that made him feel…at ease. And maybe…just maybe, this mission might not be as bad as he once thought.

Part 2?

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