#until they are canon IF they even go canon. get it through your fucking skull that its not fucking representation

[usercelestial]

a canon queer relationship will always and i mean always be more important and more revolutionary than a non-canon one. cope.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

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

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

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

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

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

It went something like this. 

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

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

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

The timing could have been more opportune.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, glancing at the door. 

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

“I don’t know his name—!”

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

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

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

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

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

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

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

“Coming to you.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was so quiet here. 

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

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

“No hello, then, Hart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

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

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

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

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

You are made of memories. 

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

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

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

Tall; formidable. 

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

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

“Join?”

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

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

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

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

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

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

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

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

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

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

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

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

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

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

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

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

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

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

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

There can be no failure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

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

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be seeing you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then so will I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

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

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

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

You loved each other. 

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

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

What should be. 

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

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

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be here.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wraith of lies and murder.

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

And now you have a positive ID.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

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

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

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

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

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

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

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

“Explain.”

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

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

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

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

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

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

Not you. 

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

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

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

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

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

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

Emmett was a snake. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

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

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

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

Where were you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

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

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

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

It’s nothing. 

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

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

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

You’ve gone through worse.

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

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

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

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was love—that was duty.

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

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

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

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

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

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

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

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

—

Day Three:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded like a choking fish.

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

Day five:

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

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

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

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

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

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

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

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

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

But this is something else. 

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

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

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

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

“Am I green, Laswell?”

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

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

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

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

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

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

Where was John?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

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

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

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

But the brain is a funny thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

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

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

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

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

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

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

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

Your chest is heavy. 

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

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

It’s a double-edged sword.

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

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

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

—

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

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

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

“Again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forget something, John?”

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

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

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

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

“Easy, Love.” 

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

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

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

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

Your eyes snap back.

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

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

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

“When do I get to go back?”

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

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

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

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

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

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

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

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

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

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

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

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

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

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

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

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

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

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

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

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

“I love you.” 

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

All that remained was the pesky words.

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

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

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

It’s there you had a revelation.

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

He’d always just been saying Heart.

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

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

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

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

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

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

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting , @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[killerpancakeburger]

Bluebeard's wife

SUMMARY: On a visit to your boyfriend, you end up having to deal with a creep on base, but Soap and Ghost's methods of resolving your problem are... far more drastic than yours.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader (and BFF!Ghost)

TAGS: Dark content, Badass!Reader, Established relationship, Dark! a bit yandere! Soap, Dark! a bit yandere! Ghost.

WARNINGS: Canon violence, blood mention, sexual harassment, insults. Soap and Ghost are acting creepy but not towards Reader.

WORDS COUNT: 1,1k words.

A/N: Was thinking about how high the risks of sexual assault are in the military for women + about how much the Task Force could get away with (Soap's mohawk is NOT standard issue lol), but it turned out kinda dark. Not my usual kind of content. This is my first time writting those characters, pls be indulgent.

Your elbow connects with the man’s nose with a satisfying crack.

Immediately he howls, pressing his broken nose with one hand, blood dripping between his fingers.

“FUCK! What the fuck! You broke my nose, you crazy bitch!”

This. This is why you didn’t want to meet the Task Force on base. There was always one brainless fucker who didn’t get the memo that, no, despite having breasts, you weren’t here as a comfort woman.

The private is glaring at you with a hatred as deep as it is sudden, one that screams murder.

The only good side of the situation is, with how loud he’s being, you won’t even need to call for help. Already most of the soldiers nearby are staring at you, muttering among themselves. Not that you can’t beat this guy up on your own, but the military tends to frown upon civilians roughing up their members, you learned it at your expense quite early. On the other hand, soldiers settling accounts between each other was… well, not exactly authorized, but it was way less trouble for you.

He grabs you by the collar, his rage only exacerbated by your composure. The action stains your clothing with his blood. You mentally grimace. You’re no stranger to blood, but the idea of this repulsive individual’s bodily fluids being anywhere on your person is disgusting. 

“Are you listening, you dumb bitch!? I’m gonna fucking kill-”

The venom-filled verbal onslaught stops dead as a hand takes hold of your assailant’s wrist.

“Now, now, at ease, soldier. Ya making a spectacle of yourself.”

The thickly accented voice of your boyfriend sends a wave of warmth in your chest. 

Your harasser hesitates a second too long, so Soap makes the decision for him, tightening his grasp until the soldier winces, and finally takes the hint, letting you go and taking a few steps backward. Johnny immediately positions himself between the two of you, shielding you.

He’s been smiling the whole time, but it’s the kind of dangerous smile you wear when you’re about to give an asshole a righteous beating.

The private looks partially sheepish, but not defeated, indignation burning in his eyes. He lets loose a torrent of justifications and excuses, actively painting you as the villain, not caring if he contradicts himself in the process. You don’t pay attention to the details of his speech. It’s always the same “she was asking for it” kind of diatribe. The fact that he sincerely believes that there’s a chance that Soap will take his side instead of yours is laughable, but not surprising. 

You wonder how long this will go on, until the private notices something next to you, and all blood seems to desert his face as his voice deserts his vocal cords. 

You turn your head and, to no surprise to you, Ghost is there. He stands so close to you that your arms are almost touching. Clothed entirely in black, which brings out the white skull on his mask, his presence is as menacing as ever; all he needs to do is scowl at lesser soldiers to make them cower in fear. He doesn’t look back at you, but his support for you is so obvious through the rest of his behavior that he doesn’t need to.

Soap takes advantage of the newfound silence to turn to you.

“Ya good, yeah?” He asks, cradling your cheek tenderly, and stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. 

The question is futile - if you were hurt, he would have noticed right away. But it’s still cute to see.

“Yeah. Not a scratch.” you smile.

“That’s my girl”, he smiles back. “So, what the bloody hell happened here?”

You glance at the private behind him. He’s shaking, and the look he sends you back is begging for mercy. Remembering the first words he addressed to you earlier, you realize you’re all out of mercy for today. Thus, with a sadistic little smile, you recount the events.

“This man came to me complaining that I was unfairly privileging Sergeant Mctavish and that he wanted his turn. Then when I explained that I wasn’t some kind of free-for-all buffet, he took it the wrong way and put his hands on me. That’s when I exploded his nose.”

By the time you finish your explanation, Soap’s expression has darkened considerably.

“I see.” is all that leaves his mouth. Anyone familiar with him would know that for him to start talking by monosyllables like Ghost, something must be very wrong.

Pivoting again, he faces the private and, as the latter opens his mouth to plead for forgiveness, punches him right in the face. Blood gushes, drops of it landing on his face. You mentally count until three, one for every blow, and when Soap still doesn’t stop punching, you frown, disturbed and worried by his conduct. He’s never been one to remain impassive in the face of injustice, easily riled-up even in critical situations and despite his superiors’ orders, but you’ve never seen him go this far. 

You’re about to intervene when Ghost beats you to it, putting a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. That’s right. Ghost, the voice of reason, the paragon of self-control, their cold-hearted leader, will fix everything.

However when you hear the next words that leave his mouth, it’s like the world tilted on its axis.

“Not out in the open, Johnny.”

The words are whispered low enough that only Soap and you would have heard. They send a cold shiver down your spine. Rattled and unsettled in a way that they never made you feel before, you contemplate the situation in silent incredulity.

“Aye, L.T.”, replies Soap with an abnormally monotonous tone.

Before you can ask what the fuck is happening, he proceeds to punch the soldier so hard in the stomach that the latter collapses without a sound, except for the muffled noise of someone winded. The scene makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You feel like Bluebeard's newest wife, having stumbled upon the one room you were forbidden from entering, having witnessed something you weren't supposed to see, and now you can never go back to how things were before.

You counted on Soap and Ghost’s intervention, sure, but you expected them to put an end to the fight, maybe intimidate the guy a little, and ultimately end things here. You didn’t expect… whatever this is.

Staring in shock at the two Special Forces, you shake your head to get a grip and come closer.

“Alright guys, I think he’s had enough-”

Ghost interrupts you with a hand on your shoulder. The Ghost touching two people in less than five minutes? Yes, something’s seriously wrong. Looking at him, you try to convey urgency with your gaze…

“Simon, this isn’t-” 

…but his next words make you lose hope of winning this argument.

“Easy there, love. Johnny’s takin’ care of it, ya don’t need to worry ‘bout a thing.”

The next thing you know, he presses a hand against your lower back, making you leave the premises, completely ignoring the way you stare at him in utter disbelief… and growing apprehension. 

He had never called you “love” before.

[tojisun]

I have a feeling gaz would sometimes, whilst face fucking you, hold your nose until tears pour down your face and he lets you go, you gasping for air head dizzy and hhhhhhh

I STARTED YELLING!!! OH MY GODDD!!!! absolutely. 100%. no lies detected; as far as i'm concerned (which is very because this is so personal to me) this is canon mhmm mhmm

he lets you start, his eyes crinkled in gentle delight when you slither between his legs, nosing over his crotch. you're already so whimper-y, breaths ragged as you stare up at him, pouting. kyle huffs a fond laugh and unbuckles his jeans for you.

you take his cock out with softness, your body thrumming with impatience—reeled in only by the fact that kyle's hand on top of your head is warm. heavy.

a warning.

you swallow him as far as you can, kitten-licks along his slit and over his veins, before choking when the bulbed head of his cock hits the back of your throat. with your gag reflex activated, you move to slip him out, only, you find that you can't.

it seemed that while you were lost in your euphoria, kyle's hand had slid from the top of your head to the base of it, cupping your skull with faux gentleness. mouth full, you stare up at him, the backs of your eyes prickling and your skin racked with goose bumps.

no—

kyle grins, dimples forming in his cheeks, then he pushes you down, forcing his cock into the passage of your throat. you squeak, mind blanking at the confusing tug of both pleasure and pain—"see? my pretty, masochist baby, y'are."—before tears finally trickle from the corners of your eyes.

"shh, love. shh," kyle croons, drumming his fingers against your scalp, his chest heaving with measured breaths. "y've got to learn how to hold me there, sweetheart. s'time f'r you to be good f'me, no?"

you can't even hear him from the sound of blood rushing into your ears, blocking everything of the world that isn't the weight of kyle's cock fucking into your throat, the organ pulsing with every of your choked-up swallow.

it's—

it's so good. so dizzying.

it's grounding, somehow.

you feel your body relaxing, your heaving chest finding its own beat as your breaths begin to pass through your nostrils with ease. your eyes, cloudy with tears, clear up and it is then that you see kyle gazing at you with such a reverent look, it makes you wriggle, shy. he smiles, gentle, and it fills you up with this creeping warmth until you're sagging onto him, comfortable. relaxed.

kyle chuckles, the rumbles of his laughter muffled. he pushes your hair away from your face, murmured coos passing through the fog in your mind, and you warble a response, unable to contain yourself at the weight of kyle's softness.

you want more. you want so much more. you want to show him that you can take whatever it is he'll give you; that you're ready for everything he asks of you. you want him to use you. to manhandle you. to fuck your throat until all you are is his toy. you want—

you want the pain.

kyle's eyes glint like he's got ahold of your dirty, twisted thoughts; gentle smile twisting into something mean. he doesn't even ask anymore, but he doesn't need to, and it makes you throb with such strong need when the hold he has on the back of your head gains strength.

he tugs you back from him, his cock easing out of your throat, leaving it so empty it feels wrong. the head slips until it lays on the flat of your tongue. you lick up, trying to get a taste of his pre, to savour it, but before you could kyle is already pushing your head back down again, smothering the ample amount of air in your lungs into nothingness as he fills you up again.

you squirm, choking, the gargled sounds of your words rumble from your chest, unable to actually be sounded out with how he has you stuffed. kyle huffs, overwhelmed himself as he repeats the action, chasing his orgasm from the press of your throat, his cock hitting depths that has you wailing, your eyes tearing up—

a heavy hand falls on your face, pinching your nose. instinctively, you try breathing in, mind overwhelmed at the sudden threat, but it only makes blood rush to your head, making you heady. making you feel more cornered than you really are.

no.

you’re thrashing, nails biting at his legs as you scramble for purchase. for air. for anything to save you.

you try to slack your jaw, stretching your lips until they go taut in hopes that it’d create a sliver passage way for oxygen, but it’s futile.

nonono—

you are sure hours passed before he removes his hand from your face, trilling praises that you couldn’t even digest. not even with his thumbs swiping just underneath your eyes, a mimicry of all of the times he’s done this to calm you down and comfort you.

but now, crying as you are while your trembling body is still poised for a threat, you see the way kyle is looking at you so adoringly. his eyes are narrowed in that way that lets you know how pleased he truly is, and you understand that this wasn’t a fluke nor a one-time thing.

“breathe, little star,” he murmurs, his palm sliding from your cheek to your throat. he rubs at the stretch of your skin softly, almost humming to himself as he feels the bulge of where his cock starts and where it disappears underneath your muscle and skin.

you sniffle.

“c’mon now,” kyle tuts. “i know you want this.”

you narrow your eyes at him. he just grins, so boyish all of a sudden.

“don’t worry,” he says, his hold around your neck tightening slightly. “i’ll be gentle.”

liar.

anon im staring at you with my mouth agape bc me next !!! (also im sorry its not written well 🥺 i was horny one moment [bc of this] n then angry n betrayed the next [bc of work]. im sorry if it was reflected on the work. i hope u still like this <33 mwah mwah thank u for gibing me it!! i adored it teehee)

[scekrex]

Hey I was wondering if you could do Adam x reader where reader is a sinner who literally just spawned in the middle of an extermination so not only are they panicked about one somehow being alive, two the fact that they're body is basically completely different, and three that weird winged people are killing others. Adam sees reader and after a second or two of thinking and deciding that yeah they're cute makes up his mind and helps them. I hope you have an amazing day/night!

Thanks for request hun! I swear it was great writing it bc it was tricky to keep Adam as character accurate while also making him sympathize with reader. Here ya go, hope you like it xoxo/p

I’ll shelter and adore you more than anything

pairing: Adam x male!reader

warnings: language, mentions of death, low-key canon typical violence

note: not beta read bc fuck you I don't have beta readers

First it had all been black for a moment, a silent void that your soul seemed to travel through. Then there was light, at first it had seemed reddish, then it turned gold, the golden light transitioned to white and then you found yourself standing on solid ground.

What?

You reached for your head, your hands roamed over your skull, there was soft hair there, no sticky red blood, so liquid that coated your hair and made it all greasy. There was also no sign of your skull being cracked open even though that was what had just happened before the world had faded and turned black.

Your eyes roamed over your surroundings and panic and anxiety fueled you alongside confusion on why you were still alive.

There were winged people, they were fighting other creatures, in the hair, on the ground, all around you. Your body screamed at you to run away, to go seek shelter somewhere, to not get killed again. Which was weird enough because you had just died so why the fuck were you here and where was here to begin with. But your body didn't move, it felt like you were glued to the spot, as if your feet had melted and were now one with the ground.

A thing you noticed quickly was that all of the winged people wore black and white only, their wings matched those colors. But there was one guy, way taller than the others, he wore a purple robe with white details and golden sleeves, his wings were also golden. You assumed he was their leader.

You wanted to hide, from him especially, because if you were right and he was their leader, you were easy prey for them. You didn't understand what was going on, nor did you know where you were. Your arms reached for your legs, you tried to move, to get out of their view, to make yourself as unnoticeable as physically possible. But your body still wasn't moving. So you stood there, body violently shaking from fear and panic, what would it be like to die a second time? Would it be just as painful? Would you come back yet again and live through it all again?

“Fucking run you stupid bastard,” someone yelled at you as they rushed past your frozen body. All you could do was to look at them. Then your legs gave out and you collapsed.

Curled up into a ball your body was still shaking, vibrating even, and you felt hot tears streaming down your cheeks. That's it, you were going to die again, maybe even more painful than before. But most importantly: this time you were going to die alone, no partner by your side.

In the corner of your eyes you saw a shadow that was casted over you, a gigantic shadow with wings that were spread out, the winged creature was basically shielding your body from the few of the other winged creatures.

You saw how he leaned in, how his face got closer to your body, a dead serious expression was meeting your unsteady one. Fuck, he was going to kill you, wasn't he?

His lange hand grabbed your shoulder roughly and forced you to lay on your back, he eyed your face carefully before greeting you with a relaxed, “Sup?” You were too stunned to speak. You had expected this creature to kill you, to tear you apart until all that's left of you were little shreds. But instead he greeted you with a simple ‘sup’? Your body tried to get away from his touch, everything inside of you screamed to get away from him, that he was bad news. But you stayed, mainly because his grip on you was painfully firm, but you stayed. “Y’know,” he continued as he raised an eyebrow at you, “It’s pretty fucking rude to not answer.”

A weak and quiet, “Hey,” was all you could get out and while clearly not the answer he had wanted - he made sure you knew that by sighing heavily - he picked you up bridal style. His golden wings were still spread, you supposed he held them up in pride, claiming you as his very own personal trophy. “Where are we going?” it was more of an instinct than actual knowledge you wanted, you were pretty sure you did not wanna know where the two of you were heading to. Most likely he was carrying you in your death. “Dunno, away from the fucking battle for now,” was his response as he walked away from said battle. Why was he being nice? Was he being nice or did he just carry you away to brutally murder you? But if that was his intention then why was he leaving the battlefield? Why not kill you then and there? “Why?” you simply asked, it was all that you could get out, you were too caught up in your thoughts to talk in proper sentences. He looked down at you and for a moment there was confusion written all over his face before he understood, a simple shrug was the answer. “You looked fucking lost,” the creature carrying you explained, “Fucking scared and alone.”

Adam sighed as he forced his eyes shut, you had reminded him of himself after Eve had left him. He was alone, scared even. And then he had crossed the pearly gates and the loneliness continued, he was less afraid but still as lonely, still as broken as he had been on earth. And while you had ended up in hell he couldn't just leave you there, not when you had been looking so much like him when he had died. Adam had died alone, no one should die alone. Especially not someone as gloriously holy looking as you. Because for a sinner, you looked too much like an angel. The wings were missing, obviously they were, no sinner would be reborn with angelic wings, but he could picture you with a pair and he hated himself for it. Because hell was forever and for the first time he didn't like the thought of that, because it included you. The first man didn't quite understand where the sympathy towards you came from, maybe it was just that he had seen himself in you, maybe it was because you seemed different than the others. Has God made a mistake? Adam shook his head, no. God makes no mistakes and neither do angels. But yet he questioned why you looked so holy, so angelic while being reborn a sinner.

The inner conflict Adam was fighting against himself was interrupted by two cannibals that were walking right towards you. Adam rolled his eyes, one hand let go of you and his wing came up to hold you up instead as he raised the hand that had been holding you only moments and a golden battle axe guitar appeared out of thin air. He twirled the shiny looking Instrumental weapon, then sliced their heads off smoothly, Adam's wing had covered your eyes so you weren't able to see it, but you heard it. Heard the blade slicing through flesh, heard their heads hitting the ground. And as surprisingly as the weapon had appeared, it was gone again.

One of the black and white dressed creatures flew towards you, seemingly targeting Adam. “Sir,” the female spoke with respect as she landed next to the guy that was carrying you. She eyed you, then looked at the tall man. “No fucking comment about it, Lute,” he warned with a low growl in his voice and the woman straightened her back with a nod, “We are done, we need to leave.” The masked man looked down at you, you looked so beautiful against his golden feathers, so holy, so untouchable. Yet you were a sinner and he couldn't bring a sinner with him to heaven. So he carefully let you down, the tip of his longest feather ghosted over your cheek, it wiped the tears away. “Promise me to stay fucking safe,” he mumbled as he stood in front of you. You looked up at him with curious eyes, “Where will you be going?” And it was just then and there that Adam realized that you knew nothing. Without him you would've died on the battlefield. “Heaven babes, me and those crazy bitches are going home,” he hummed and pointed to the woman next to him. “And we're currently in…?” Adam's face scrunched up and he bitterly spoke, “Hell.”

Oh. Oh.

So he was an angel? What did that make you? A demon? And yet he had protected you, shielded and saved you. Your eyes widened at that and the man in front of you chuckled. “If you ever see my ladies again,” he once again pointed to the woman next to him, “As for Adam, I'll let these cunts know about you babes ‘n’ they'll lead ya ass to me.” You repeated his name softly, deciding immediately that you liked the sound of it. “The one and only, it's not every day that you meet the fucking og dick,” a cocky grin was sent your way and it took you a moment to process his words. “The Adam? Like Adam and Eve?” That caused the first man's expression to sour immediately, Eve was seemingly a sensitive topic, you took a mental note. “Yeah. That one.”

Lute was once again the one to interrupt, “Sir we really need to go. The seraphims will question why we were gone longer than agreed.” Adam once again rolled his eyes and grabbed your shoulders again, more gentle this time, “Stay safe babes, we'll be back in six months.” And while you weren't entirely sure what he meant by that - because back for what? - you nodded.

[archangeldyke-all]

a request for butch tattoo artist sevika pls 🙇🏾‍♀️🙇🏾‍♀️

anon ur a genius!! i hope u like it <3

men and minors dni

in a modern au, i always filp flop on how to incorporate sevika's mechanical arm into her character. sometimes i think she has a prosthetic, but sadly prosthetics today can't move and function as well as her prosthetic in canon, so sometimes i think she just has severe nerve and tissue damage on her arm from a fire.

which is what we're gonna do for tattoo artist sev.

she starts getting into tattoos because of her arm. she struggles with its appearance, so she teaches herself how to do stick and pokes with household objects. she practices on oranges and bananas until she feels comfortable enough with it, then she starts tattooing her arm.

it starts with a few stars on her wrist, a lightening bolt on her pinky.

she likes it.

she likes it so much, that every time she feels especially depressed about her arm (about once a week) she adds a new tattoo. it always manages to cheer her up-- the ability to create something beautiful on something (she considers) mangled.

she starts sketching ideas for new tattoos-- skulls, flowers, various animals.

she starts practicing different fonts too.

eventually, when she's got about a quarter of her arm covered up in simple line art stick and pokes, she gives in and buys herself a tattoo gun.

within a year, she's got a full sleeve-- all done by herself.

her friends start asking her for tattoos, which leads to friends of friends asking for tattoos in exchange for money, which leads to silco finding her and offering her an apprenticeship at his tattoo and piercings shop.

she says yes without hesitation.

it's the first job she's ever had that she actually loves. once she's finished with her apprenticeship, she specializes in tattoos that cover scars-- whether they're from injuries, surgeries, or self harm.

seeing her clients cry in the mirror at the sight of their new art-- something beautiful drawn over a painful memory-- never fails to get her a little misty eyed herself.

she always wears wife-pleasers to show off her ink. even in the winter-- she'll bundle up under sweaters and coats until she gets to the shop where she strips down until her arms are bare.

she's not too fussy about her clothes-- prefers comfort over fashion. cargo pants, jeans, and sweatpants are her go-to's. she keeps her hair slicked back with gel, out of her face and behind her ears.

the first time you meet-- you almost pass out at the sight of her.

you'd come in for a piercing on your nostril. it had gone smoothly, silco instructing you to breathe in, then out as he shoved the needle through your skin. he shoved the stud in, and helped you stand when sevika walked in from her lunch break.

silco helped you sit back down, explaining that sometimes people get shaky from the shock and adrenaline. you nodded along, not wanting to tell him you were actually weak in the knees because of the woman standing before you.

sevika didn't notice you until you were checking out at the front desk. she nearly fucked up her client's leg tattoo she was so busy gawking at you. you caught her staring and smiled shyly, waving at her. she grinned.

sevika's silco's best artist-- which is why he doesn't give her any shit when she puts her gun down and tells her client "one second," before dashing out the store to follow you down the street.

"'scuse me!" she calls out. you whip around, shocked to see the handsome woman jogging after you. "i, um..." she gets choked up standing in front of you, nervous and cursing herself for being crazy enough to chase after a complete stranger.

"i like your tattoos." you say to fill the awkward silence as sevika tries to find her voice. a bashful smile creeps up her lips.

"yeah?"

"yeah." you say. "'specially this one." you say, pointing to the 'DYKE' knuckle tattoos on her left fingers.

sevika sputters and blushes, it takes her a solid minute to reply to you.

"do you... ever think about getting some of your own?" she asks eventually. you raise an eyebrow.

"who says i don't already have some?" you ask. she blinks, her eyes quickly scanning up and down your body like she's trying to figure out where, exactly, you were hiding your ink. she has to clear her throat and shake her head to stop the dirty thoughts from clouding her mind.

"well... if you ever want some more..." she says, nervously scratching the back of her neck. you giggle.

"i dunno. tattoos are pretty expensive, it'll be a while 'til i can save up for another." she deflates in front of you and you grin. "but, you know, dinner for two is much less expensive." you suggest. sevika's jaw drops.

you exchange names and numbers, sevika reluctantly returns to her work, only to be interrupted by a ping on her cellphone twenty minutes later.

sevika opens the message and grins when she sees a message from you. she opens it, and nearly falls out of her rolling stool when she sees a picture of your tits barely concealed by your lacy bra, a tattoo peeking out between them. you'd captioned the message: "sneak peek."

it's then that she realizes that she's found her soulmate.

[everythingelseisextra]

My Body Is Here

Part Five: Give Yourself A Reason

Part Seven: Lingering in Doorways

Description: A brutal accident leads to a revealing conversation. Warnings: Mention of trafficking, mention of guns and shooting, references to being drugged and withdrawal, skull being cracked (like in canon), references to sexual assault, panic attack, language, use of the word Gypsy for Roma people Word Count: ~3000 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @zablife @weaponizedvirtue @ttaechi @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @princesssterek @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul Author's Note: This is unedited. I have a headache and don't have the energy to go through and fix it. Hope it's not terrible.

You walk out of your house at two in the morning on Friday. You try to separate your thoughts, move through your work as though nothing unusual is happening. In the dark, you exercise the horses, and in the dawn, you return to eat and dress and make yourself presentable. Dressed to impress, with clean jodhpurs and a white collared shirt, you sit to wait for Tommy to appear.

The horses eat their hay, silent in the warm morning air, and birds sing faintly in the few trees that dot this barren countryside. Time trudges past, and you glance at the clock, brow furrowing. He’s usually early like you, greeting the day before it even fully awakens. At eight, you stand and start to pace, worry rushing through you. You haven’t heard from him since the call, and your mind jumps to the worst. You know how pain can feel like pleasure when the blade is sharp enough, and you know how exhilarating the finger on the trigger can be. You pause, take a breath, and try to convince yourself that you’re catastrophizing. 

At nine, you pick up the phone and call him. The line rings, and you stand in trepidation, heart in your throat. Just when you think no one will pick up, the ringing stops, and a female voice speaks. 

“Hello?”

“Hi.” You release a breath. “Is this— who is this?”

“This is Ada Shelby.” 

A spike of relief jolts through you and you speak a little too fast. “Tommy was supposed to meet me this morning. Is everything okay?”

“Who is this?” Ada grows suspicious, her voice losing the warmth it had when she first picked up. “One of Tommy’s women?”

“No— I mean— I guess, technically— but it’s not— we’re not—” You sigh, frustrated. “I’m a friend. That’s all. We were going to go look at horses.”

“You’re the one who sprayed him with a hose.” She softens, and you hear a weak smile in her words. “Right, okay. Well, he was certainly looking forward to it.”

“What happened?” 

“He got in a fight and his skull got cracked.” She sighs. “Poor Tom. Used cocaine to get him through the day.” 

“What?” Your blood goes cold, your eyes widen, and you feel yourself step back from yourself, an observer of your own reactions. Numbness flows, and you sigh, closing your eyes and tensing your muscles for a moment, working yourself back into your body. Something like panic shoots through you, simultaneously hot like fire and frozen like ice. You wrap your arm around yourself and take a shaky breath. 

“Scared the shit out of me. He could barely keep his head up.”  

“Is he okay?” Your voice shakes. Your hand clenches around the handset.

“Any longer and he would’ve died, but the doctors say he’ll make it through. Just had surgery on him yesterday. I’m taking care of Charles at the moment.”

“Who’s Charles?” Your mind latches onto the least awful thing, trying to sort through all the information you’ve just been given. 

“He’s Tommy’s son.”

“He has a son?” You shake your head. “Sorry. Sorry, but— Jesus Christ, he cracked his skull and made it through a day after?”

“Yeah, well, you know Tom. If he’s made his mind…” 

“Fuck.” You exhale the word, trying to remind yourself how to breathe, how to make yourself calm. “Fuck. Okay. Will they let people visit him?” 

“No, not until later. He wouldn’t even know who you were if you came now.” 

You run a hand through your hair, trying to sort out the next step, some way to move forward knowing this. You can’t go to the track without him. You can’t.

“Okay. Okay, I— I don’t live in town. I need— how can I get to him? What hospital? I can’t ride there, not to a hospital, not now.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I don’t have a car.”

“And you’re… his friend.” She says the word like she’s never heard it in this context before, like it’s completely new to her. “Just his friend.”

“Yes. Just his friend.”

“You can take a cab into Warwickshire and I’ll meet you there with Arthur and John.” 

“I don’t have…” To Warwickshire is several hours of driving, and you don’t have the money to pay for it.

“What? What don’t you have?”

Shame bubbles up in your throat, but you swallow it down and speak up. “I don’t have the money for that.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure Tom won’t mind if we cover it.”

“I don’t want to be indebted to you.” You shake your head. “I guess I can—”

“No, you won’t be. To be honest, love, I don’t think he cares about that amount.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

She’s quiet for a second, then, quietly; “His house has a name, if that gives you any idea.”

“You’re kidding.” You rub your forehead, completely nonplussed.

“Come to Warwickshire. He’ll need a friendly face when he comes out of it, and he’s not too keen on us at the moment.” 

“Um— okay.” You nod to yourself. “Okay. If he wakes before I get there, tell him I’m coming. Please.”

“I will.” She clears her throat. “See you in a bit.”

“See you.”

The hospital is a cold, concrete building, built more like a prison than anything else. Cave-like hallways flicker with uneven light, and your footsteps echo through them with each step. Around you, the sobs of patients and the creaking of cots consume the frigid air. The faint smell of rubbing alcohol burns your nostrils, and you close your eyes as the nurse leads you down the hall of thick, unforgiving doors. 

John and Arthur and Ada had all gone in before you. They came out thin-lipped and quiet, heads bowed as if at church, like something holy had sent them off. Ada murmured to you not to expect much, and you nodded, sharp anxiety pressing into your chest. Now, the nurse knocks sharply on the door, then opens it.

Her voice echoes around the square, freezing room. “Here she is, Mr. Shelby.”

She nods to you, then turns and walks off, hard-soled shoes clattering on the stone floor. You stand in the doorway, heart in your throat. He’s lying on a cot, and, at the angle, you can see the stitched wound in his skull from the surgery. His head turns slowly, and hazy blue eyes stare over at you, then look away again. 

He speaks to the rest of the room, apparently unable to shift his head for too long, letting his words echo over to you. “Don’t stare.”

“Sorry.” You blink out of your horrified spell and step inside, closing the door behind you. As quietly as you can, you walk over to sit down on a wooden chair next to him. His eyes are surrounded by pale purple, his skin pale and pallid. 

Inexplicably, you want to reach out and touch him, give him some sort of comfort in this cold, all consuming room. He’s talented at communicating in silence, and, right now, you simply don’t have the words to put your thoughts into, don’t have the ability to explain everything you’re feeling. When you were younger, when everything was twisted and terrible, you never knew if you were real unless you were touched. You never knew if you existed to other people until they put their hands on you. 

So, in silence, you reach out and place your hand on his. His skin is cold, calloused in places but fragile in others, and, for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll respond in kind. His fingers twitch under yours, and then, slowly, he turns his hand and laces his fingers into yours. 

You stay like that, two specks of warmth in a cold, dark place, and you watch his bare chest rise and fall, watch his eyes close. There’s a half-full bottle of morphine on the bedside table, a spoon laying next to it. In this moment, neither of you are whole. You do not complete each other. You are separate, but syncopated, two notes that harmonize. And, for the first time today, you feel calm. 

“Will you come back?” His voice is gravelly as always, but slightly slurred, no longer sharp and commanding. 

“I’ll try. I have the horses, but… I’ll try.” You gently squeeze his hand. “Don’t need you going crazy in this jail cell.”

He squeezes back, weak, his only response. You lean back and close your eyes. Your mind swirls absently, flickering with memories you can’t place your finger on. Moments of intimacy with other people that you never knew the names of. The touch of another that you trust, gentle, loving, a comfort against the world’s atrocities. His hand warms in yours, the touch of skin against skin battling against the frigidity. 

“Thought I would die,” he says quietly. “Thought I would die and the last thing I’d see is that priest’s fucking face.”

“I’m sure your siblings have said this to you, but, if I could, I would kill him myself.” 

“No. Don’t get mixed up in all this.” His eyes remain closed. “Fucks with your head.”

“You think it’d be the first time?” You smile faintly. 

This gets his attention. His eyes open and flick over to you, waiting for an explanation. 

“It wouldn’t. I know what it does to a person.” 

“If you’re smart, you’ll stay away from me.”

“Tommy, you just asked me to come back and see you.” You shift forward in your chair to meet his eyes. “I’m not staying away from you. We’re past that.”

He blinks, and when his eyes open, he’s looking away from you. “I want you to stay.” 

It must be hard for him to admit that, when he desperately wants to keep you at arm’s length. When his instincts say to separate and protect and avoid, but he truly needs something else, something different.

“I can’t. The horses need feeding. I can come back, though. I can probably even stay the night and leave in the morning, if you want.” 

He pulls his hand away from yours and nods. “Go take care of your horses, then.”

You stand, the echo of his hand in yours tingling faintly. “I’ll see you, okay? And, once you’ve recovered, we’ll go get that racehorse.”

His eyes slide closed and he nods faintly. You turn and leave the room, stepping lightly to avoid announcing yourself to every patient in the entire building, and walk back down the long hallway. 

“You have a son.”

At night, the hospital room seems to freeze over. You curl into yourself on your wooden chair, trying to preserve your warmth and keep yourself from shivering. Pale moonlight shines in from the high windows, impossible to open but insistent on allowing in the cold air. 

“Yes. I have a son.” 

“You never mentioned him.” 

He shrugs. He sits up in bed, arms crossed over his bare chest, and he looks down at the blankets covering his lower half, not at you. 

“You also didn’t mention that you have more money than most people know how to do with. You came and looked at my little house and thought— what? What did you think?” 

“I thought nothing. Your money is spent elsewhere.” 

“How could you think nothing? Is that why you wanted to buy Draco? I’m not a charity case, Tommy.”  

He’s quiet.

Irritation heats up in your chest. “I asked you a question.”

“I grew up a gypsy boy with too many brothers and not enough to care for them.” His words are quiet, more refined than a few days ago. “Saw a man beating a horse and went after him with a stick. That man had friends. So, they said, ‘Go away to the war and come back with something.’ Came back with nothing. Built my way up from there. I don’t give a fuck about your earnings.” 

It’s the most he’s spoken in days. You cross your arms, mirroring him, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me, then? Not about the money, I get that, but about your son?”

He glances at you, then looks back down. His skin has more color in it before, the almost-invisible freckles across it showing in the moonlight. “I wanted you to give me a chance.”

“A chance at what, exactly?” 

He doesn’t answer. His eyes shift to you, those careful, bright eyes flicking over you, as if begging you to read his mind. You can’t.

“Always the mysterious one, aren’t you?” You shake your head, gently pushing his shoulder. His face remains stoic. 

“I looked into you. Asked everyone I knew in France about a girl at a boarding school from America. No one knew you, no one had heard of you. I need to know.” He speaks softly. “I need to know.”

You look away. “Why, Tom? Why do you need to know? It’s not who I am anymore. I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

“I need to know who you are.” His head tilts, his eyes still fastened resolutely to his legs. “I’ve told you who I am.”

“It’s different.” 

“Tell me how it’s different.”

You bite down on your lip, looking up at the ceiling. “Please, can’t you just trust me?”

“I need to know.” 

“Okay.” A lump forms in your throat, and you don’t even try to swallow it down. “Okay. I’ll tell you. You have to promise me something first.”

He nods.

“Promise me you won’t treat me different. Promise me you won’t treat me like a bomb about to go off.” 

“I promise.” 

“Okay.” You close your eyes, a faint burning sensation behind them. “I guess… It starts with my mom and the man who got her pregnant. I don’t really know what happened. I just know he kept women, rented them out to other men, sent them to other parts of the world.” You glance at him, waiting for a reaction and not getting one. “After I was old enough, which, to him, was when it wouldn’t cause permanent damage, he sent me off to France, where I was kept as… well, I was kept there to be used. There were other girls. One of them taught me how to shoot. I fell in love with her.” Your throat closes and your words grow choked. “When I was fifteen, one of the men that kept control of us beat her to death. I shot him, and I ran. I made it to the streets, hid in alleyways and basements, spent my time half lucid. They kept us drugged, and the withdrawal almost killed me.”

Your lip quivers. Memories drip slowly through your mind. Darkened hotel rooms, the taste of alcohol on your lips, the feeling of your body being broken over and over again, the fogginess that kept you alive, kept you able to do your work. You remember her icing and dressing your wounds. You remember her brushing through your knotted, wild hair. You remember her touch, so gentle compared to a man’s, saving you from your own mind. 

“I ended up working at a racetrack. They barely paid me, and it was hard work, but I was good at it. That’s how I ended up where I am now.”

“Why did you leave France?” His voice stays quiet and even, but not quite unfeeling. There’s a respect to the way he speaks to you now.

“They found me.” A silent tear drips down your cheek. “They found me, and I had to run again. You can’t find any information about me because there is none. I existed in underworlds and living nightmares, and then I was nobody. I’m no one. I’ve never been myself, I’ve just been the things other people want me to be. You can’t find out who I am because not even I know who I am.” 

“You’re not.” 

“What?”

“You’re not no one.” He turns to look at you, blue eyes clearer and softer than you’ve seen them in the last few days, or maybe even since you met him. “You’re someone to me.”

You scoff, wiping another rogue tear from your face. “You barely know me.”

He swings his legs off the side of the bed, one of his knees between yours, and leans forward to meet your eyes. You grow still, the intensity of his attention freezing you. 

“I don’t waste time, do I?” His eyes flick over your face, trying to read you. “Don’t waste time on nobodies, do I? You’re not nobody. Don’t give a shit what happened to you, or who you think you are, or whether you have fucking money or not. You don’t have to hold your head up so high that you forget who the fuck you really are.” 

You sniffle. It’s too much. Your heart pounds in your chest and you find yourself unable to breathe. You shake your head, pushing your chair back from him and standing. “I need to go.”

“No, you don’t. You can—”

“Thomas!” You gasp for breath, tears spilling from your eyes. “If I say I need to go, I need to go.” 

Before he can speak, you’re gone. Head bowed, body trembling, throat closing and lungs on overdrive, you try to silence your panting as you walk down the hallway. You’re fading in and out, failing to pull yourself out of your own head. There are hands on you, gripping at your flesh, trying to hold you. Pandora's Box has opened, and you’re caught in the stream of terror coming from it, stuck, light in the head. You leave the hospital, closing your eyes and repeating to yourself, over and over again. 

My body is here and I am inside.

My body is here and I am inside,

My body is here and I am inside.

[stxrvel]

i don't wanna live forever (1)

summary: reader couldn't stop having deaths in her life ever since the Supersoldier serum came into her life. no matter how hard she tried to stay sane, it seemed that life didn't want to give her a break. until, one afternoon, she learned that one of her old friends was alive… (you guys know im bad at summaries, but please give this one a chance)

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: +4.5k

warnings: angst, major character deaths, canon deaths¿?, bad words, english is not my first language! thoughts of revenge and death, this is like an introductory chapter, so the buckyxreader interaction is low, but it'll get better, i promise!

note: holy fuck guys. i just spent like five hours writing and editing this and i fucking love it. its been a while since ive been this proud of a work, im actually scare the emotion will disappear, but i really want to rejoice in this one. i wanted to write something a little different from my usuals, maybe a little common in the fanfiction world, but i started and i simply could not stop (or maybe just approach this bucky fic from another perspective). so this is the first part and i'll try with all my heart to keep this going because it was fucking insane, at least for me. i really hope you all like this as much as i do! feel free to leave any comment! thanks always for all the support!! see you next time <3

part 2 ; part 3 ; part 4

When you went into the Supersoldier serum project with Steve, you thought you were going to change the world. Of course, at that time when technology was relatively new any invention felt like the beginning of a new era. That's how it was all sold to you and it was how you expected everything to turn out… Until you realized that it was all really a waste of effort and time.

They were just propaganda for war. Not to stop it, to promote it. To motivate it.

You tried, on several occasions, not to think too much about it. You tried to stay out of it as Steve sometimes asked you to, even though even he didn't want to, as Bucky asked you to when you lay on his shoulder to cry in the little time you had free between trips. It was a great burden of guilt and helplessness.

Until you and Steve, with the almost imposed help of Peggy and Howard, rescued Bucky from the evil hands of Johann Schmidt and his nefarious organization, HYDRA, that, unbeknownst to you, would haunt you for a long time to come. It was only after that, after spending several sleepless days on edge thinking about what might be happening to Bucky, that you and Steve were finally able to go out and contribute something. Destroy HYDRA and the Red Skull's plans.

Of course, you realized that not everything could go right when, the one mission you couldn't attend, Bucky didn't return. And then Steve didn't come back either.

“Do you think this will ever end?” you had asked Bucky the day before his last mission.

“Of course it will,” he had answered without hesitation, moonlight illuminating his clear eyes, squeezing your hand as if it was all he wanted to do for the rest of his life. “And after that we can begin to live as it should be.”

But there was no after that, because you never recovered from losing him. From losing them both.

“Are you okay?” Peggy approached, in the middle of the afternoon when the sun was streaming through the stained glass windows of the church, illuminating the spot where Steve's empty coffin had been, because they didn't even find his body. They didn't even think there was any of it left.

You barely moved your head to acknowledge her presence, moving the prayer slip they had recited throughout the mass between your hands. Your eyes were crystallized, in tears that no longer even made the effort to flow, because you had already spent too many days and nights crying. Peggy had been on the other side of the church, sitting next to Howard while the priest spoke, because you had refused to be near them in those moments. You didn't want to be near them.

“As well as one can be,” you slurred, finding that it had been a long time since you'd last used your voice for anything other than cursing and crying disconsolately.

The people had already left, probably an hour or more ago. The empty coffin had already been brought out, all the flower arrangements had been picked up, and the priest was preparing for the evening mass. You knew you had to leave, you knew Peggy and Howard were there waiting for you, but you felt stuck at that moment. You didn't want to leave, you didn't want to get ahead, you didn't want that life if it had to be this cruel.

You heard Peggy's sigh, before she took a seat next to you, a short distance away, averting her gaze to look at Christ on the cross.

You didn't know if you were selfish to be so closed off to your friends at this moments, because they must be grieving as much as you were, but you didn't know how to deal with the future possibilities. Bucky and Steve, great men and soldiers, one even with enhanced abilities, had not been able to make it through the punishment of war. What if Peggy and Howard were the same? What if they too had the cruel fate of dying at the hands of injustice? Could you deal with that? With everyone gone?

Maybe you could open up to them a little more because if not, who else? Turning away from them was not going to ensure their survival in this hate-filled society. Maybe you could protect them, like you couldn't protect Steve and Bucky. Maybe you could make a difference, because you had the chance to.

“You know,” Peggy spoke again, rearranging herself on the bench and crossing her legs, “Steve always knew this was how it would end.”

Her wistful, mournful, fragile voice sent a shiver through your body. Peggy didn't consider herself someone to show herself vulnerable in front of others no matter how close they were, even in those things that hurt her the most, in those things that affected her personally and made her eyes water instantly, she always tended to shut down. And at that moment you didn't dare interrupt her because you knew it would probably be the only time she would talk about Steve in a long time.

“Sometimes we'd talk, between tour trips, and he would tell me that wasn't what he wanted to do, even when he had to convince you otherwise,” her clasped hands would occasionally squeeze between words, blinking rapidly to fight back the tears. “He didn't know if he'd made the right decision.”

You could almost picture him, backstage at the foot of the stairs with that notebook he carried everywhere and wouldn't let go, Peggy at his side nostalgic, as helpless as the others. It reminded you of the times you'd had similar conversations with Bucky, desperate to find a purpose, a way through so much fog.

“The first time I saw him so sure of himself was when he asked us to help them look for Bucky,” she mumbled his name, as if trying not to scare you away by saying it too loudly. “Ever since then it seemed like he'd found that spark…”

“Until Bucky died,” you whispered, the words cutting through the cold and silence, Peggy shifting on the bench contritely.

“He lost something of himself from that day on, it wasn't hard to tell. The next time I heard him so sure after spending days lost, it was on that call from the plane.”

Peggy paused, raising her hand to cover her mouth as her voice faltered. You turned to look at her, wishing you could rip the pain from her soul and leave it in yours. She was trying to contain her emotions, breathing deeply, and in that moment you wondered what life might be like from now on, with the specter of grief following you around, waiting for the next time the dead knocked on your doors, unexpectedly, without allowing you to say goodbye.

“He had told me he wouldn't die in peace until he could get it all over with. And he took it all with him. And I hated him so much for it…” Peggy sobbed, her labored breathing standing out between words. She kept looking straight ahead at the stained glass windows, the expression on her face hard and scowling despite having tears rolling down her cheeks, as if she were trying to blame something for what had happened. Her reproachful eyes fixed on the Christ.

Her wails echoed through the walls of the church, the father on the dais sending them a look of sorrow. He had offered you water, thirty minutes after everyone at Steve's wake had left, when they kept walking, and you stood there.

Another empty casket.

“Ladies,” Howard's voice reached your ears amidst all the physical and emotional numbness. You could barely notice Peggy wiping under her eyes with the pocket square that was surely part of Howard's suit, as she took breaths to get up. “We should go now.”

You heard him walk, his slow, careful steps stopping just behind you. There, on his feet with his chest tight, he rested a hand on your shoulder and gave it a squeeze in support. He knew it was the most you would allow him at a time like this, deciding not to pass up the opportunity to let you know he was there. You sighed, feeling a heaviness take over your body as you stood up.

“Yeah, let's go.”

The next few months passed in a blur. Maybe too fast, maybe too slow, you weren't sure anymore.

Peggy continued to work at the Strategic Science Reserve for a couple of years, calling you from time to time to help her with some jobs. You kept a low profile, practically a fugitive from the state, while trying to live a halfway normal life in Europe. A lot of it thanks to Howard really.

Life had become a rather monotonous routine when you stopped getting so many calls from Peggy and Howard several years later. You knew they were fine, but not being able to return to the country filled you with anguish every day. And trying to lead a normal life became too complicated when you looked in the mirror and it seemed like not a single day had passed since you were in that capsule of Dr. Erskine's with Steve.

Until Peggy called one day asking you to come back. She told you that it was safe, that there would be no state officials waiting for you at the airport, but even if that had been the situation, you wouldn't have hesitated for a second to buy the first plane ticket and fly to see them again. To Howard and Peggy, to melt into an embrace, longing for the lost years.

You had thought that contributing to the fight in World War II had earned you a ticket to at least be recognized in the military, but all you gained was the government with their mad scientists looking for you to try to recreate the Supersoldier serum. Peggy didn't want to risk you and Howard gave you no choice by giving you a plane ticket to Finland with your bags packed.

You wasted many years not being by their side, unable to keep the promise you had made them in your head to be close by to protect them, to watch over their safety.

But when you left the airport there was only Peggy, and maybe that should've told you everything.

Her hair already looked gray, the effects of gravity and time present on her face. You hated to think that you shouldn't have looked any different from the way she saw you last time when she waved you off at that same airport. Her warm gaze was the same, raising her arms with held back tears to encircle you in a big hug. She tried hard not to sob against your shoulder, you felt the choppy movement of her breath against your chest.

She looked so different and the same at the same time.

You walked to her car a moment later, her trying to carry your suitcase and you telling her you were perfectly fine carrying it on your own. Amidst a smile, she walked into the driver's door and you frowned as you saw the empty passenger seat.

“Where's Howard?” you spoke as you sat down, after stowing the huge suitcase in the trunk of the car. The way you moved to buckle up, you didn't notice the way Peggy froze in place, her hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly that her breath hitched from the effort.

“We're going to see him,” was all she said, but she was very good at hiding that something was wrong. Only for a little while.

During the trip, even though you tried to ask things about them, about what they had been doing during this time, you didn't miss the way her shoulders were tense or her eyes very alert. Something bad had happened and Peggy was trying to hide it from you.

When she pulled up in front of a church, you already knew what had happened without her answering a single one of your questions.

Howard had died.

You two had sat next to Howard's son Tony, his spitting image, in complete silence as the prayers went on. At that moment you didn't know what had happened, hoping it had been a quiet and peaceful death, because you didn't know if you would be able to endure another violent death.

Peggy gave you all the details when the mass was over, after the coffin was taken away, and you hadn't felt such fury in so many years. Not since the deaths of Bucky and Steve had that adrenaline rush of anger returned to run through your body as violently as it did at that moment, when Peggy told you that he had been murdered along with his wife. All to steal some prototypes of Dr. Erskine's serum. The damned serums with which everything had started.

This time there was a body in the coffin, but there was also a culprit. Someone to point the finger at and take it out on for years of anguish and pain.

You were at Peggy's house, staying for a few days, when she told you that wasn't all.

Peggy had a suspicion that HYDRA hadn't disappeared when Steve crashed that plane into the ice. Her suspicions generated panic in you, because Bucky and Steve had died for that, now apparently Howard, only for it all to have been for nothing. The feeling of carnage that ran through your whole head made you nauseous, years of helplessness and pain pent up in such a small body had to find its way out somehow.

“It was a man, according to the information I've been able to gather,” Peggy spoke, taking a seat across from you in the dining room of her living room, after pouring you a glass of lemonade. “He didn't die from the crash. He had a concussion. He was hit in the head. His wife died from asphyxiation.”

“Does Tony know?”

“No,” Peggy shook her head quickly, one hand over her heart as if the mere thought caused her physical pain. “It didn't even occur to me to tell him something like that.”

“And he was looking for the serum,” you recalled, a bitter feeling planted in the back of your throat, the memories of the disastrous times during the war coming back into your head like a blinding flash.

“He took them. We don't know who he is or who he works for, but whoever they are, they must have been following us for a long time to know about them.”

“You mean years,” you arched an eyebrow, your fingers touching the cool exterior of the glass seeking some reassurance.

“Possibly. That project isn't recent,” Peggy nodded, drinking her lemonade with a grimace. You stared at the liquid almost finished from her glass, a wrinkle forming between your brows with each passing second and you kept wondering why.

“But what the fuck was going through that asshole's head?” you spat angrily. Rage at already the amount of lives that serum had taken with it and at Howard's recklessness. Rage at the reaper who seemed to be following in their footsteps for some reason, rage at that damn man and whoever his damn boss was.

“It was the only option, Y/N,” Peggy turned her gaze, meeting your eyes with a strange glint.

“What do you mean?” you were almost afraid to ask, your friend's gaze suddenly turning evasive. You watched her run her fingernails over the glass of the tumbler, lost for a moment in thought. The way her shoulders slumped forward in defeat caused a pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. Peggy shouldn't be going through these things at this point in life.

“Howard was working with the Pentagon, as a contractor or something. They had found you. Howard felt cornered and they made him sign an agreement.”

With your incredulous look on her face, Peggy didn't dare look back at you for a few seconds. So much had happened since you had left and it seemed that you had only been told about the things you weren't going to care about so much. But if you had known that you wouldn't have cared much about giving some of the state officials their comeuppance. You would've liked Howard to trust you enough to tell you, not live in as much fear behind his back as the last few years must've been. You didn't like the way Peggy's lips curved downward, as if she, too, would've preferred to make another decision had she known this was how it was going to end.

“Howard assured them that he could recreate the serum, and told them he would as long as they left you alone.”

“Fucking asshole…” you closed your eyes, scrubbing your face with your hands. The rough skin of your hands rubbed against the delicate skin of your face, years of combat and mistreatment foreseeing a harshness that reminded you every day of what you'd had to go through to get to that moment.

“I only found out about it after it happened. I didn't see it for like a whole week,” Peggy shook her head slightly, her eyes glistening in the pain of the memories. You shook your head hard, a more violent reaction than you could have anticipated.

“That stupid… stupid asshole! What the fuck made him think I couldn't defend myself?”

“He was trying to do the right thing,” Peggy finally searched your eyes, meeting the red rims that told her you were holding back too hard breaking in front of her, only using that pain mixed with rage to keep you sane.

“And look how that turned out!”

Peggy stretched her hand across the table, with a pleading look asking you to lower your voice, averting her gaze to the hallway. You followed her gaze, for a second forgetting where you were, forgetting that her family was with you behind the doors where you were plunged into darkness. It was past midnight.

You took a second to calm yourself, trying to drown out the uncontrolled emotions and taking deep breaths to calm your fluttering heart.

“And if what you theorize is true…” you regretted the moment those words left your mouth; you didn't even want to finish the sentence.

“Do you think it is?”

“I don't want to,” you shook your head instantly, closing your eyes, the thought sounding illogical inside your head. Your hands on your chest trying to contain the storm of feelings that was making chaos inside your head. “That would mean that everything we did, everything Bucky, Steve and Howard did and sacrificed, was in vain. It will all have been in vain.”

You spent several weeks with that thought in your head, working hand in hand with Peggy, and the organization you barely knew as SHIELD, to track down the whereabouts of the killer of Tony's parents and the one responsible because the Supersoldier's serums were, surely, in the wrong hands.

And yes, it was many years of fruitless missions and dead ends, with you running every field mission and Peggy calling the shots from the New York facility. Every time you felt close to discovering something, it seemed that the enemy rejoiced in your failures and still couldn't understand how they were always three steps ahead.

However, you had to leave the missions when Peggy became ill.

The silent, lethal Alzheimer's.

During the first months in the hospital, she still recognized you. She also recognized her husband and children. But after the first year, she frowned every time her children walked through the door. After a year and a half, her husband had to remind her that they had been married for about forty years.

After two years, she was still only remembering you, Howard, Steve and Bucky. Her whole life during her time in the army was all you talked about, sometimes you would tell her how much more time had passed than she remembered and always, without fail, she would ask you how much you had done in Europe for so long by yourself.

She cried every time she remembered Howard's death. She cried every time she remembered her children. Out of her mouth came a thousand apologies that no one would accept, because there was nothing anyone could do to prevent what had to happen. You wished she had been a serum test subject instead of you.

For several years, missions to find Tony's parents killer were sporadic because you spent more time around Peggy than at the SHIELD facility. She was the only thing you had left of everything you'd ever had, of when you held the world in your hands. She was the last thing keeping you tethered to that reality, keeping madness from flooding your reason. How could you have so many years ahead of you when that was all you had to live for? A life full of the dead, full of pain and suffering. What kind of karma were you paying for?

You were leaving the SHIELD facility, after another failed mission, when Nick Fury stopped you in front of the exit. You almost rolled your eyes right under his watchful gaze, tired of having to meet him anywhere, and exhausted from his comments about this vengeance project or whatever he wanted you to be a part of.

You still didn't know how, being such an exemplary agent, Coulson had fallen into his nets.

“Miss L/N,” the man stopped you with his words, his hands behind his back and a tense stance that caught your attention.

“Fury,” you nodded in his direction, hoping he'd be quick because you were running late for your weekly visit with Peggy. “Do you need anything?”

“I'd like you to come with me somewhere,” Fury approached tentatively, his one eye fixed on your wary expression, which shifted to boredom the moment you thought you knew what he wanted.

“If this is about that project, I've told you a thousand times-”

“No,” he interrupted you, moving forward and removing his hands from behind his back. “It's not related to that. I really want you to come with me.”

“You look agitated, but I need-”

“I'll take you to see Peggy myself after this.”

You didn't like that he knew your routine, even though you weren't doing enough to hide it from the other agents. But Fury looked nervous, even though he was hiding it very well, trying to keep his cool as he looked for ways to convince you.

You figured it wouldn't be a big deal for you to go off the deep end for once. After all, Peggy never remembered you were going to see her.

You set off in Fury's armored vans, not quite sure where you were going, but sure that it was urgent, because he had taken it upon himself to let his driver know that you had to get there as soon as possible.

You took that time on the trip to come up with a new strategy for the next mission because what you were doing up to that point wasn't working and you felt too close to throwing in the towel, figuratively speaking. You could spend years following a ghost, but you wouldn't give up on finding Howard and Maria's killer.

Before the car pulled up to one of SHIELD's secret sections, they passed the giant, imposing Stark Tower. You never saw Tony again after that time at his parents' funeral, not even during his visits to Peggy because you always made it a point not to cross him. You didn't think you'd be able to look him in the eye while you knew his parents had been killed without being able to tell him. You had promised Peggy in her lucid moments that you wouldn't tell him anything until you could find the culprit. You didn't want to initiate that pain if it had to be kept repressed, as yours once was, and probably still is. You had learned, some time after the funeral, that he was living with Edwin Jarvis, and you were glad to know that he would have good companionship to keep him company in such hard times.

Fury, a handful of agents and you entered the vans through the entrance to what appeared to be the parking lot of an old warehouse. Upon entering, the first thing you noticed was the number of armed agents that seemed to be guarding the place, not at all discreet to how SHIELD used to do things. You weren't sure if Peggy would authorize something like that, but you couldn't question the Director's decisions. It wasn't your place.

“What's going on here?” you frowned, watching as every meter there was another agent and another agent. You got out of the car without waiting for an answer from Fury, moving directly toward the entrance where most of the agents were concentrated. You barely noticed their looks in contradiction, running their eyes over you and then over the man trying to catch up to you, dubious as to whether or not they should move. “Move.”

“Wait,” Fury's voice stopped the command in the agents, who turned back to look at you as you sent Fury a confused look.

“What's all this mystery, Nicholas?” the man startled almost discreetly at your tone of voice, the agents stirring uncomfortably, but kept the serene expression that was getting on your nerves. “What the fuck did you do?”

“We got a call from the Arctic.”

“From the Arctic?”

You tried to ignore the way the hairs on your neck instantly stood up, your body alerting you to something your mind still couldn't comprehend. You felt like a deer face to face with a predator, expecting the worst.

“The Colonel informed us of something that might interest us,” Fury's cryptic voice echoed in your ears, drowning out the flicker of uncertainty vibrating from your head to your toes. “They found a plane.”

You didn't even answer him. Your heart began to pound wildly, cornered, ready to have your head bitten off. The tension in your shoulders intensified, with the involuntary movement of your hands as you broke into a cold sweat. The mere implication of his words caused an emptiness in your stomach, a sense of longing and fear you hadn't felt before.

You looked at Fury, trying to find in his gaze the gleam of a lie, but there was nothing there but assurance. There was nothing but recognition and understanding in his gaze, but that didn't make the emptiness in your stomach and the tight chest go away. It didn't make the feeling of being outside your body go away.

You barely remembered to move in the direction of the door, the agents instantly moving out of your way, pushing it so hard that one of them flew out. You moved your eyes around every corner of the room, the cream-colored walls generating a great repulsion in you. And there, in the midst of all the confusion and the storm, a confused and disgruntled face looked back at you. A face you never thought you would see again.

Steve Rogers was standing a few feet away from you, barely comprehending what was happening around him and instantly recognizing you. Your chest compressed once again, the tears you held back for so many years even in your loneliness making their own way into your eyes, endangering to end that mask you wore everywhere you went.

Steve was actually there, looking back at you with his eyes shining in recognition. You didn't know if he was as surprised as you were to react or you looked so bad that he didn't know if he should approach you or not. You just knew it was him, it really was him right there in front of you. He wasn't dead. Steve wasn't dead. He was alive. Ah, he was so alive.

The broken sob that suddenly left you was loud enough to make your friend shed his stupefaction and stride over to where you were. You barely managed to cover your face, between sobs, wails and disbelief, feeling your knees give out, surrendering to the weight of the pain, when his strong arms grabbed your shoulders before you hit the floor. Preventing your fall, as you had wished so many times before.

You cried against his shoulder, when feeling him against your body you knew there was no doubt it was true. You moved your hands away from your face, wrapping them around his waist as tightly and lovingly as you hadn't hugged anyone in so long. Surely the last time you hugged someone like that was when you saw Peggy on your way back from Europe.

Steve wasn't far behind, his arms around your shoulders just as tightly, his chin against the crown of your head, moving from side to side trying to hold back the loud sobs that shook your body.

You couldn't believe it, but it was true, he was right in front of you.

Steve was alive. He had come back to your side. You didn't even want to ask why.

And there was nothing else you could think about for the rest of your life.

[cultofdixon]

The differences in power

Negan Smith • She/Her Pronouns • The little lady is the one with all the power and when the group found out, maybe that will be their window • ANGST/SFW • TW: Major character death(s) / Canon Violence / Anxiety / Injuries • Re-Writing Canon

Requested by: Anon

“Listen here Dwight. You don’t do what I fucking say and I promise yea I will bash her fucking skull in with my—-“ Negan stopped his threat and dropped Dwight back onto his feet as he anxious stated to step back. “Y/N. What are you doing here?”

“Oh me?” Y/N smiles making herself known in the hall they were in, as she gave Dwight a glare resulting in him running off.

“See now how am I supposed to beat him into submission if you are always around”

“Do you not want me around? I could go…” Y/N pouts turning around to walk off but Negan quickly took her hand spinning her back resulting in that devilish smirk of hers. “What, baby?”

“You…God, you” Negan folds and couldn’t be mad at his woman for interrupting the heated conversation earlier as he brought his lips against hers.

When news about the outpost came through the Sanctuary, Laura quickly went to the big man’s room knowing she would find Y/N there as she gave her a confused look until her shoulders slumped giving her an idea of what she wanted.

“Do you have any fucking idea how many good soldiers I lost because we didn’t put down that son of a bitch from the Hilltop?! AND YOURE TELLING ME THE RAT BASTARD GREGORY SURVIVED HIS PUNISHMENT” Negan snaps in Simon’s face as he kept his cool on the matter even if what happened wasn’t his fault. The big man had to yell at somebody. “Get that one bitch in here that informed—-“

“She’s dead sir. We don’t have intel on who exactly she came in contact with. But from what we do know…with what Gregory told, it’s exactly who you’re thinking of”

“Simon. I swear to FUCKING GOD. If you don’t get me definite results on these fuckers. I will hang you on the fence out—“ Negan pulled away from being in Simon’s face when he spotted Y/N peak her head through the door with a soft knock.

“Sorry if you’re busy with your boyfriend I can—-“

“You better get that sweet ass of yours over here, darling.” Negan smirks pushing Simon aside as Y/N brought herself up to her man wrapping her arms around his neck.

As Simon slipped away from the two to meet Laura in the hallway, he gave her a thankful expression.

“Load up the car. Gotta check in with a few hidden eyes”

“Think Negan will find out?”

“Hell no, his woman will keep him busy. Besides, we’ll look good with the information we’ll receive” Simon smirks heading off as Laura rolled her eyes before following the man.

A couple days passed and Y/N found herself waiting in the loading docks of the Sanctuary after being told by one of Negan’s men he expects her there. She thought that was a little confusing but when she saw cars pulling up, her spirits lifted like usual knowing Negan has come home.

But it was hectic.

“Get the prisoner in the goddamn cell. Simon, you gotta keep your eyes on Hilltop. I ain’t fucking letting that community get the better of me with this new one in our roaster. And I swear to fucking god if Alexandria pulls something in two weeks I’m killing—-“ Negan stops himself when he stopped abruptly in front of Y/N. “Hey baby” he instantly shifts his mood, leaning down to kiss her cheek as the confusion writes itself on her face.

The sound of the men struggling to contain the prisoner caught Y/N’s attention as she let Negan continue to kiss her cheek down to her shoulder while her eyes glued on the scene.

Then there was this anxious realization when Y/N locked eyes with the man they were dragging in. Hell, he even tried to stop to get a good look at her.

“What is it, baby?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinking”

“Now that can be dangerous” Negan laughs lightly, bringing his lips to hers as she hums against his lips keeping her arms around him when they parted.

Once night consumes the day, Y/N made her way down the hall in her pajamas as she surprisingly slipped out of her and Negan’s room without him stirring. She knew where everything was in the Sanctuary she’s been there long enough.

Dwight caught a glimpse of her in the corner of his eye when he was watching the prisoner from the other side of the closed door.

“What are you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Is that the prisoner in there?”

“Yup. To make it more difficult for Alexandria to want to attack us” Dwight rolls his eyes bringing his attention back to the book in hand. “Don’t report me to big man but I really don’t know how you could even love him for what he does”

“I…I don’t exactly know what he does” Y/N frowns crossing her arms leaning against the wall Dwight was propped up against. His full attention on her. “I guess it’s blind ignorance. But I also didn’t fall in love with him for what he does as a leader”

Dwight couldn’t get mad at that, but for some small reason…he’s worried for her. Worried of her finding out.

Even with the small incidents she has seen.

“Dwight. Is your prisoner’s name Daryl?”

“What? You hear that in passing or something?”

The silence she gave only brought more confusion to Dwight with a bit of curiosity. Y/N shrugs it off and leaves the man to continue his watch of a closed, locked door.

________

“She hasn’t turned up”

“We can’t wait here forever, son. Unless we want the walkers to find us” Hershel informed Daryl as he kept his attention glued to the darkness of the forest waiting for someone to turn up.

“Daryl. We gotta go. Find somewhere for the night” Rick grabbed his shoulder only for him to dramatically yank his body away from him. “She’s gone for all we know. There’s nothin’ we can do”

Daryl held on for a little while longer until Carol pulled him away from the banks of the freeway.

Meanwhile an injured Y/N had collapsed in the woods after hours of walking endlessly in the wrong direction. She thought it was the end for her as she laid in the dirt letting the weakness take over.

Then she was suddenly lifted from the ground who knows how much later since the collapse. She felt safe enough to lean into the unknown man.

“I’ve gotcha darling”

________

Y/N found herself appearing in that hallway every other hour of the next couple days and it draws some suspicion from Dwight that he even brought it up to Negan.

“Are you implying my girl is a mole?” Negan questions with a threatening undertone in his voice as he inches closer to the shorter man pinning him against the nearest wall.

“N-Negan I’m just. Making assumptions here” Dwight laughs nervously. “Don’t listen to me”

“Are you sure? You’re assumin’ my girl knows the people in this little community that I plan to fucking destroy—-“

“Babe” Y/N interprets watching Negan scramble a bit letting go of Dwight as he gave her a terrified look. Resulting in her giving him a “beat it” expression which he did instantly while her man stayed. “What were you doing?”

“Dwight got it in his head that you might be a mole for this new community…but he also hasn’t been a Savior as long as you have”

“You know he’s wrong right?”

“I do. I’ll always believe you over anybody else…” He trailed and that drew her to cross her arms expressing annoyance. “But…I have to ask darling”

“What?”

“Do you know…who Rick Grimes is?”

Are you going to hurt me like you hurt them if I said yes? Y/N thought as she gave a soft nod watching his shoulders tense with the new information but when he instantly cracked to watching her cower. Made him feel like a monster.

Funny…isn’t it?

“…I would never hurt you”

“I…I know…” Y/N frowns still avoiding his gaze. “Negan, you have to tell me what you do to these people…I need to hear it from you and not from the violence hungry soldiers or the innocent”

What she did know, was the reason to want control. The loss of his wife Lucille. She understood why he couldn’t trust anyone. She knew about the killing…just not to the extent that it was. What he does to these people psychologically was…heartbreaking.

He learned who she knew before he found her. She had a group back in Atlanta…that held up in a quarry. Her best friend was the one they took hostage and the one who saved her from the city was the man he killed.

They left her, is what Negan would think for Y/N to side with his actions. But she doesn’t. She has her own anger towards the things that have happened to her…but she would never kill a man to make things right.

“It’s okay to hate me after learning about everything”

Y/N remained silent as the two were now sat on their bed in their shared room.

“I won’t give you anything to cause more harm”

“I know”

“I hate you for killing people…innocent or not”

“I know…”

“But I hate myself for loving you and only wanting to stay in the moment from when you saved me” Y/N felt the tears roll off her cheeks as he tried to wipe away her tears but she retracted at first before suddenly bringing herself into his arms latching onto him.

The top Savior, the boss, the man fears by many…fell apart in her embrace holding onto her for dear life as if she’d disappear if he let go.

When the morning came, Negan sat alone in the conference room having arrived before everybody else he asked to join him on this trip to Alexandria a couple days before the deadline. To his surprise, Y/N entered the room dressed for a run as she gave him a stern look.

“They will recognize you”

“I know”

“…I don’t…I can’t have you getting hurt”

“I won’t…if I do, I know what you would do”

“I won’t punish with you present”

“I wish you didn’t at all.” And with that she left to check on those preparing the vehicles.

When the debrief ended and everyone was loading into the vehicles…Negan approached his waiting for Y/N to join him as she watched Dwight drag Daryl into the truck.

“Darling?”

“He won’t give you anything.”

“What?”

“He won’t give you what you want. Daryl is stubborn. He won’t…he doesn’t turn his back on his people” Y/N felt the old sting she felt that night, Negan didn’t even have to say what he wanted to know that she’s feeling all she felt that night. “Abusing him won’t give you anything unless you brought the dead back to life”

Negan bites his lip anxiously before stopping Dwight from shutting the doors to the truck and giving Y/N a look. She instantly took that chance to climb in with the hunter as Dwight gave the boss man a concerned expression but his immediately went dark.

“Don’t ask questions unless you want to meet your maker, Dwight.” He snapped, walking away from the truck to get into his car to lead the group.

The second the doors shut, Y/N sat close to the door while Daryl hugged the wall by the drivers.

He’s dead. Has to be.

This is a goddamn ghost in front of him.

“You ain’t real”

Y/N didn’t say anything and watched the man she knew to have a hard exterior just fall apart.

“You ain’t real. You died. You died that night at the barn fire. You never turned up. You ain’t real!” Daryl shouted at her but she kept a level head while the driver groans in annoyance.

“You didn’t look for me. None of you did”

“Please—-If this is some sick joke!” Daryl snapped once more, this time when they halted Y/N punched the man in the arm.

“ITS REAL” Y/N snapped back. “I never died. You never looked for me. You all left me behind”

“And now what? You’re a Savior. One of the enemy? I’ve seen yea. Didn’t believe it. Caught glimpses enough to just think you’re not real. But every time I saw you, you were with him.” Daryl frowns avoiding her eyes when he scoffs along with the next part. “What, the dick game that good?”

“If you’re going to piss me off, I’m not going to help you” Y/N whispered in anger as the last part confused Daryl.

“What? Now?!”

“No, I just need you to listen carefully”

With hesitation, he did. Before more could be discussed, they were at Alexandria and everyone unloaded. Y/N stuck in the back out of Negan’s way but when the Saviors separated to raid the community…that’s when she locked eyes with an old familiar pair.

“What’s gotten into you, Mr. Grimes?” Negan smirks turning around and his expression fell watching Y/N get closer to make sure she’s not seeing a ghost.

But Rick was. He was rethinking who died at the lineup, maybe he died and this was his hell.

Being faced with who he left behind

“What are you taking from them?” Y/N questions Negan while keeping eye contact with the deer in headlights.

“Everything. 90% of everything”

“No”

A few Saviors turned their heads toward Negan for an immediate lash out. None of them seeing how whipped the man is before until then…

“What would you suggest then?”

Y/N, being the person she’s always been, wouldn’t let them suffer because of past actions. She told Negan to let them keep their beds and 75% of their pantry goods. She knows he would argue about the weaponry, she’s heard how he was in other communities. So targeting stuff he wouldn’t like to argue with her about, he will do for her instantly.

As Negan went to check on what they were taking back to the Sanctuary, Rick took note on the power Y/N has over the man that killed their family. But he couldn’t help himself the second he was alone with her.

“He killed Glenn at the lineup” Rick blurted out watching her tense. “You’re with a man that killed your best friend and you’re okay with that? You know what you could do to stop hi—-“

“The fuck are you telling her?” The Savior Arat got up in Rick’s face when he was only telling Y/N.

“The truth of what you monsters have done” Rick stated pushing her back and before Arat could get up and personal again, Y/N stepped in between them.

“Don’t.”

“Or what? You’ll have Negan kill me?” Arat hissed, not liking the fact that Y/N stood her ground. “He’d do anything you ask of him princess. We are here to show who’s boss…and that’s not you”

“You lay a finger on anybody and I’ll rip it off”

That only brought a smirk out of Arat as she pulls herself away to continue the job. Y/N turned to Rick giving him a saddened look but there was something else about it that intrigued him.

“Y/N—-“

“Keep your head down Rick Grimes. Or others will be watching it roll” Y/N frowns stepping away and toward Negan’s car to stay in for the remainder of the visit.

The drive back was quiet and more than Arat was made about Y/N’s decision. They still took from the community, Y/N knew she couldn’t completely skew his decision into not taking anything. She needed to be not so suspicious. But that didn’t matter.

Y/N stood outside the conference room eavesdropping on Negan yelling at several saviors that have told Y/N what he has done to the communities. If they had kept their mouths shut and to themselves, nothing would’ve reached her ears.

She pushed the door open to listen to the once yelling man, stop and turn into a softness only she heard and those who witnessed his change around her.

“Let’s go, tomorrow will be different” Simon assures Negan as he walks past Y/N with the others following after him.

Negan waited for her to approach him at the table bringing herself to slot between his legs as he was sat on the table. Y/N rests her hands on his thighs feeling his forehead rest against hers.

“I’m sorry for yellin’”

“Why are you apologizing? It wasn’t—-“

“I know you were eavesdropping, darling. I was mad about the stunt you pulled…hell I’m more mad at myself for letting you”

“Negan…”

“Yikes…First name. Guess I’m in the dog ho—-“

“Would you hurt me if I went against your rule here?”

The man instantly pulled away and carefully took a hold of her face with both his hands as his expression fell.

“I would never hurt you. My empire could fall because of you and I’d never lay a finger” Negan frowns, wanting to know what’s going on inside that beautiful mind of hers that is hidden behind the sad look on her external features. “I love you, Y/N. Don’t ever think that I’d hurt you ever”

Y/N didn’t say those three words back as all she did was bring her lips against his. Enjoying the peacefulness it brought, for it might be the last…

“Let’s go to bed, love”

“Mm…okay, darling”

As the night progressed, Y/N managed to slip out of his grasp leaving their room but not before grabbing his keys.

She managed to get to the prison cells without being noticed as all she needed to do was get Dwight away from the cell in mind. It would’ve only been difficult if Y/N didn’t know Sherry. She helped her distract her partner in order to get to Daryl’s cell.

But yet another obstacle stepped in her way.

“What do you think you’re doing”

“Get out of my way Arat”

“Or what?”

Y/N stared her down and went to walk passed, she didn’t get far until Arat grabbed a fist full of her hair to pull her back. Little did she know that Y/N’s instinct was to grab her arm and throw her body over her person. With the right formation, it’s down without struggle. The self defense classes from before the world ended still came in handy.

The thud of Arat hitting the concrete was only going to alert people so Y/N went fast with unlocking the door to Daryl’s cell and dragging him out of the facility.

Daryl didn’t have to get far to know Y/N hesitated. He turned toward her, being tossed a set of keys for one of the bikes.

“Come with me”

“I can’t.”

“Y/N…he’s a monster. He’s killed—-“

“I know—-“

“And you’re okay with that?” Daryl frowns wanting to know why she’s doing this. Why she’s hesitating and staying with a man that’s hurt many…”Y/N. Please. You can help us take—-“

“And I will. But not in the way you all want…you want him dead. I want him alive. For before this whole empire…he was just Negan Smith. Not a scary savior that takes so much from others because the world took everything from him.” Y/N frowns knowing Daryl wouldn’t get it, she doesn’t give him much credit. “I will help you take him down…take the Saviors down…but you won’t see either of us at the end of it”

“Y/N…”

“Go, Daryl. Before they realize what I’ve done”

“…I waited for you. I waited for you at the highway that night” Daryl frowns feeling the tears burn and threaten to fall. “Rick made us leave…I didn’t want to”

“Daryl…go back to your family before this was all for nothing”

The hesitation ached at him as he kept looking back every step of getting out of there. Daryl wanted to scream at her and take her but she’s always been a smart person…so he left for the Hilltop. Knowing Alexandria would be their first target for his disappearance.

As Y/N quietly made it back inside, she noticed their bedroom door open and the light on. She peered inside finding an annoyed Arat and Simon talking to Negan who instantly dismissed them. Arat of course purposely bumping into Y/N on the way out as Simon gave her a more sympathetic look.

Once it was the two of them and the door shut, Negan instantly pulled Y/N into his embrace asking her in whispers if she was okay. If she was hurt in any way. The confusion struck her as she brought her arms around him resting her head against his chest.

“Negan…”

Negan held her tightly feeling her shift to bring her gaze to look up when he parted enough to look her in the eye.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“Yes…” Y/N frowns bringing her hands to rest on his face, her thumbs gently wiping away his tears. “But, Negan…you can come with me…leave it all behind.”

“But I—“

“You don’t have to decide now. You will know where to find me”

“Y/N…”

Please…

[inkformyblood]

stuck on you (COD Kinktober 2024 Day 20)

09 Ghoap, Stuck in a Wall, Ace-spectrum Ghost. Canon Era. Lemon.

Riley didn’t think this day could not get any fucking worse until it did.

“All right there, Riley?” Captain MacTavish isn’t quite in view; there isn’t enough wriggle room for Riley to tip his head back so he can see the man looming over the collapsed door frame above him but he still tries, lashing one leg backwards, heel angled up just enough to— 

There’s the dull impact against something solid, not MacTavish’s bollocks like he’d been aiming for, Riley’s foot caught securely and fucking raised to be hooked under MacTavish’s arm like he’s a fucking toddler throwing a fit. 

“Fuck you, you fucking gobshite. If you’re not going to make yourself useful, then fuck off.”

MacTavish doesn’t even flinch at the barrage of curses thrown at him, continuing to trace his fingers over the exposed sliver of skin at Riley’s calf. Riley doesn’t need to see him to be able to picture his grin, the slow languid spill of it like ink dropped into water, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes cut into sharp multifaceted relief. “Warm out, isn’t it, Riley?”

Not only is Riley stuck in a literal hole in a wall, just enough space to breathe and swear and not enough to wriggle free, but his Captain is going batty. 

Riley snarls through gritted teeth, “If you say so sir.” He couldn’t tell anymore, sweat pooling on the nape of his neck, soaking his balaclava, stinging his eyes with every misplaced blink. His sunglasses had slid down his nose earlier, harsh daylight carving a sundial across the floor as he waited.

”’s only acceptable that I try to keep you shaded while we wait for the exercise to finish and you can get to medical.”

“Not fucking going to medical.” Riley knows he’ll wind up in medical one way or the other, knew it when the dust had settled and he wasn’t immediately dead, but he’ll be damned if it’s not going to be an argument first.

“So,” MacTavish continues like he hadn’t even spoken, his voice as measured as would be if he’s reading from a mission briefing, “best if I stand closer, aye? Like here.”

Riley’s head snaps up, nearly knocking himself out on the rubble behind his skull. “You’re enjoying this.”

MacTavish huffs out a quiet laugh, his hips flush against Riley’s arse, the heft of his cock unavoidable. “I am, my mouthy little lieutenant stuck in a wall? If I was any younger, would’ve cum in my boxers at the sight of you.”

He rolls his hips once and Riley tries to follow the motion reflexively, his raised leg tugging against MacTavish’s hold as his other leg wavers, grit catching against his sole. 

“Give me a yes, Riley,” MacTavish murmurs. “Or we’ll stop and wriggle you free and send you off on your way to medical with a sticker for good behaviour. Can sort myself out no bother.”

Would be easy to just keep quiet. He’s not had much of a libido since his resurrection, barely enough to be noticed before, but he likes making MacTavish feel good, a warm sense of pride getting to warm his belly when the other man bruises his hips and groans into his neck. 

“Yes,” Riley says, tipping his hips into MacTavish’s cock as best he can, and the other man groans, his grip tight on Riley’s leg before he hooks his other hand against Riley’s hip and begins to grind in earnest.

[thaliagracesgf]

Chapter Three: Holly, Jolly

wc: 5.7k

divider from @saradika-graphics, images from pinterest

general CWs, not necessarily all in this chapter: drinking, alcoholism, drug abuse, smoking, cancer, hopper being kind of a deadbeat, usual canon violence. not entirely proofread.

masterlist (incl. series)

a/n: wow. this chapter took so much out of me. it was intense. it’s been in progress for over a month (thank you for bearing with me! i was on vacation!) and i had a lot of important scenes in it that i wanted to do well. truly what got me through the last bit was chapter one of season four of @stevie-petey’s “come home” coming out last night (which you should go read, if you haven’t yet!). i hope you enjoy this!

You are absolutely fucking dead when you wake up. “Tina,” you groan. “Does your head also feel like a million nails are being drilled into it?” You look around her room, feeling absolutely attacked by the pink and the sparkles that you’ve seen a trillion times before. 

“Yes! How did you know?” She gasps sleepily, and you’re so sure she’s still drunk. “Owwww,” she moans, “that hurt.” 

“What, speaking?” you reply, and yes, it really does hurt. “Fuck me, I need to either drop dead right now or someone needs to feed me, like, all the food in Hawkins.”

“Ughhhhh,” she responds, your faces still in your pillows. “That sounds so good.” 

“We have to get up.”

“No, no no no no no no,” she cries. “We can skip today. Can we skip today?” 

“You can knock yourself out. My dad would actually lock me in jail, probably.” You don’t let yourself fall back asleep, because if you do, you know for a fact that you will not wake up again in time for class. You shuffle painfully to the edge of the bed, swinging your legs off as you continue to lay down, and eventually muster up the courage and strength to sit upright. The pain in your head gets a million bajillion times worse, and you moan again. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t do what I just did. It was so bad.” 

“I’ll suffocate you if you suffocate me,” Tina mumbles. “Then we definitely don’t have to go to school.” 

“I really, really like that plan.” You push yourself to your feet, fighting through the throbbing pain that feels like your brain is too big for your skull, and walk the two steps to your duffel bag before collapsing on the floor again. 

“I’m wearing your jeans,” you mumble to her. “I can’t wear my red pants two days in a row.”

“Wonderful,” she responds. You’re pretty sure she’s asleep again. You pull on a sweatshirt you’ve had since second grade—you can’t even remember where it came from at this point. 

You make it to school alive, by some miracle. And you definitely still look like a corpse when you walk into class, taking your seat behind Nancy. The bell rings, and your head starts to throb again. You take note of her concerned looking face, and assume she must be suffering similarly. At least you aren’t alone. 

That is, until she leans forward in her desk, “Hey Ally,” she gets the girl’s attention. “Where’s Barb?” 

“Um, shouldn’t you know?” the girl responds, turning back around.

“You haven’t seen her, anywhere?” Nancy continues. “At all?” 

Ally shakes her head, and Nancy slouches back in her chair, noticing you. Before she can ask you, you shake your head, biting your lip. This cannot be good. You don’t know Barb well, but she definitely doesn’t seem like the type to skip. 

You look ahead, forcing yourself to pay at least some attention to class, because you cannot for the life of you figure out the difference between antiderivatives and integrals, but you’re still running through possibilities of how or when Barb could have left Steve’s last night in your head.

You walk into the cafeteria, making your way over to your table in a headache-induced haze. You almost don’t notice the interesting look Steve gives you as you sit down, but you can’t figure out what it means. You manage to drown out a bit of the conversation as you think about Barb, Will, your Dad, Will, your grades, your headache, until Tommy raises his voice. 

“That’s why science doesn’t make any damn sense to me,” he says with food in his mouth, gesturing at Carol’s foot up on the table. It’s got some nasty thing on the ankle, and she’s decided that the best place to examine it is your lunch table. It’s making you nauseous the more you see it. You’re trying to avoid looking, but that’s only so possible when it’s next to your applesauce. 

“Nothing makes sense to you, dude,” you roll your eyes, and Steve snorts. 

“I swear, look at this. It’s totally frostbite,” Carol whines. 

Steve passes his applesauce over to Tommy, who thanks him before returning to his girlfriend. “It’s a heated pool,” he says dismissively.

“Well if it’s not frostbite, then what is it?” 

“Ugh,” Steve interrupts. “I don’t care what it is, it’s disgusting! Get it off the table. We’re eating here.” 

“What he said,” you add. 

Tommy touches it with his spoon, and Carol smacks him away. Much to the rest of your disgust, he continues to use the spoon for his applesauce. 

“Hey Tommy,” Nancy cuts in, trying and failing to ignore the spoon disaster, and narrowing her eyes. “When you left, did you see Barb?” 

“What?” 

“Barbara. She’s not here today.” 

“I seriously have no idea who you’re talking about,” Tommy snickers, and you roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair as he leans across the table. You’re trying to keep as far a distance between yourself and that spoon as possible. 

“Come on, don’t be an ass, man,” Steve says. “Did you… Did you see her leave last night or not?” He doesn’t actually look all that concerned with what Tommy has to say. 

“No. She was gone when we left,” Tommy says, as though he’s annoyed at Nancy and she’s asked him a million times. 

“Probably couldn’t stand listening to all that moaning,” Carol adds. The pair of them start mocking Nancy, loudly, turning heads in the cafeteria. You kick her across the table.

“Come on, that’s so disgusting, guys.” 

“You say that because you got out of there, Y/N!” she laughs. “It was bad.” 

“Can you… can you just cut it out?” You glare at her, and she gives you a puzzling look back, smirking at you. 

Your friend is trying to hide his smile, though. And it’s extremely troubling for you. Why are all your friends turning into extra special assholes this week? 

“Listen…” he turns to Nancy, not doing anything about how uncomfortable she looks as Tommy and Carol die of laughter across from them. “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably just… she’s probably just, like, skipping, or something.” 

“Yeah.” Nancy replies, totally unconvinced. You catch her eye. “Yeah, probably.” 

You sit on the brick ledge just outside after Chem as Nancy tries to call Barb’s mom. You made the suggestion after class, after watching her skittish looks and jittery vibe for an hour, and offered to come with her. Now you fiddle with the fraying edge of your hoodie as she stands by the phone. 

The line rings. “Come on, come on, come on…” Nancy mutters.

You’re not sure what to do with your eyes, whether you seem uninterested and bored if you stare at the ground or a creep if you watch or check up on her as she calls. As you kick a rock on the pavement, you think about driving by Dustin and the Sinclairs’ houses tonight. You realize you haven’t seen the boys since Will went missing. Since you let him go home on his own. You blink back sudden tears in your eyes. You’ve been trying not to vocalize it in your mind, knowing it would send you over the edge, but you know Will’s disappearance is your fault. If you had just driven him the rest of the way, seen that Jonathan had eyes on him before taking off…

“Hello?” You startle at the faint voice of a woman who must be Barb’s mom through the phone. 

“Hi!” Nancy also jumps. “Hi, uh, Ms. Holland, it’s Nancy.” 

“Oh, Nancy, how are you?” the muffled voice returns. 

“Good… I’m good. Um, I was just wondering, is, uh, is Barb there?” her voice sounds a little higher than normal. 

“Mmm… no…” you can’t hear the rest of the sentence, but Nancy winces, so you assume she’s not there. A growing pit makes you sick to your stomach. Are you cursed? Are people you sort of hang out with doomed to go missing? Are you being incredibly narcissistic by thinking about that right now instead of Will and Barbara, their families? 

“But she did come home, right? After the vigil?” You can’t hear Ms. Holland anymore over a ringing in your ears. 

“Right. Yes. She did, sorry. I meant, did she come home this morning? I think she left some textbooks and she was gonna go pick them up.” 

“Oh, um, no, I haven’t seen her,” Ms. Holland’s voice comes back through. You fiddle with the edges of a food drive poster on the side of the phone box. 

“Do— do you know what? I just remembered… she’s at the library.” Nancy is not doing a great job at this, you hate to say it. You make eye contact with some sort of leopard or cheetah on a Battle of the Bands flier, and wonder briefly if Eddie Munson is doing it. You can hear his fucking guitar every single night at home. There was a point when you thought about starting a band together, when you were in fifth grade, but your music tastes were completely different. You argued for hours on what your band’s sound would be before finally calling it quits. You sort of drifted from Eddie, after that. He always thought you were trying too hard to fit in around Steve and Tina, trying to convince you to hang out with kids “like you.” I.e.: other poor kids.

“Yeah. Yeah, I will,” Nancy responds to something you missed. “Sorry to bother you.” She hangs up the phone and sighs. You bite your lip again, and the end of school bell rings. You grab her hand, in an attempt to comfort her, you guess, and the two of you start walking up to the parking lot. 

The pit in your stomach grows again when you see your friends at the top of the hill, leaning on what you recognize as Jonathan Byers’ car. Although, even if you didn’t know the car, you’d probably have been able to figure it out. Jonathan shuffles uncomfortably near them; his presence, especially, is the concerning part. Steve, Tommy, and Carol are rifling through some papers, and you hear Steve’s voice, sounding harsher than usual.

“No.” He rolls one and waves it at Jonathan. “No, this is called stalking.” 

“What?” You exclaim, and their heads turn to you and Nancy as you come up the slope. 

“What’s going on?” Nancy asks, a little hesitantly, observing Jonathan and furrowing her brows.

“Here’re the starring ladies,” Tommy jeers. 

“What?” Nancy adjusts her bag. 

“Jonathan?” you can see Steve grit his teeth as you address the other boy. You’re about to stop yourself and start on him when Carol interrupts. 

“This creep was spying on us last night,” Carol looks a little too happy to illuminate the pair of you. “He was probably gonna save these for later.” She passes you photo sheets, and the picture she passes you might honestly surpass all of the shitty things that have happened to you this week. It’s you, sitting on the edge of the pool, lifting your arms in the air as you shotgun a beer. 

Your red bikini top, here in black and white, is pushing up your chest, and to be honest, your first thought is that it’s a great photo of your boobs before you remember why it exists, and the world seems to come crashing down on your shoulders. 

Your headache worsens, and the tears you’ve been holding back throughout the day threaten dangerously to spill over, and you have to fight not to let them. You’re not going to cry in front of Tommy and Carol, and you don’t think you want to cry in front of Jonathan Byers right now, either. 

You glance at Nancy’s, and it’s somehow worse. It’s her, from the back, at least, pulling her shirt off in the window you know is Steve’s room. It’s sick. You knew they had sex last night. Jonathan Byers is a creep. You knew he liked her. You never want to see Jonathan Byers again in your life. You knew it was going to happen. You think you’re going to throw up, or cry, or both. 

“See, you can tell that he knows it was wrong, but…” Steve starts, clicking his tongue, “man, that’s the thing about perverts. It’s hardwired into them.” He ruffles Jonathan’s collar. He looks like a total douche. You don’t know what’s going on right now, what you’re thinking. You can’t breathe. “You know, they just can’t help themselves.” He tears up the photos left in his hands, and Tommy laughs. Nicole, the girl you’ve really only just noticed, crosses her arms smugly. You want to yell at her, of all people, right now. Why the hell is she here? Why is she pretending she cares about any of you, any of your friends? Who gave her the right to look at Jonathan the way she is? You want to slap her. 

“So… we’ll just have to take away his toy.” 

For some reason, that’s what snaps you back to reality. “No!” You think you shout but it comes out as a murmur. Steve looks at you incredulously, and Tommy and Carol snicker. 

“Steve…” Nancy starts. 

“No, please, not the camera,” Jonathan almost begs. It’s pathetic. You hate him. So much. He moves for the camera, and Tommy blocks him. 

“No, no, wait, wait,” he holds out his hand. “Tommy, Tommy.” The other boy backs off, and Steve turns from Jonathan to look at you. “Are you serious, Hopper?” There’s so much in the way he says it. You can read his voice like the back of your hand, now, after ten years of being his best friend. You hear him asking you what the hell has come over you, why you’re taking this pervert’s side. 

Then he addresses Jonathan again. “To be honest, man, you’ve got some balls, taking these of her.” Your heart is beating out of its chest, and the ringing is coming back around you. “I mean, do you know who her dad is?” 

“Steve,” you warn. 

“Oh,” he clicks his tongue again. “That’s my bad. I guess you’ve been spending a lot of time around him lately, huh?” 

“Steve!” You shout. 

“It’s okay,” he holds his hand out at you for a second, offering the camera out to Jonathan. “Here you go, man.” He reaches for it, but Steve drops it on the pavement, and you watch as the lens, and probably all the machinery you don’t understand inside, shatters. 

“Steve!” You cry out as it happens. You don’t really know what else to say. 

Will bought him that camera. Will bought him that camera. Will bought him that camera. 

“Y/N, do you have any quarters?” Lucas’s voice ringing in your head. “Will’s got nothing, he’s totally saving everything for this dumb Christmas present for his brother.” 

Steve Harrington is a rich asshole, and you don’t know why you ever thought he could be a good friend. 

The realization hits you like a million bricks, and you bend down to desperately scoop camera pieces up, in part to cover the tears that have actually started rolling down your face. He’s not a good person. He’s not a good person. And there’s nothing you can do about it. And you don’t have any other friends, because at this point your only other option is a pervert who was taking pictures of the boobs you’re never going to be able to look in the mirror at again. 

As Jonathan bends down beside you, it takes a lot of strength not to shove him on his back. Let him know you don’t care about him. You care about the bits of her paycheck that Joyce Byers put aside for Will’s small allowance, all of which went into that piggy bank for that camera. You care about the quarters that Dustin, Lucas, and Mike sacrificed at the arcade when he showed up with nothing because he had saved it all for that camera. You cared about the hours you had spent at the grocery store with Lucas as he rolled his eyes at Erica, who was berating him for being picky over lemons for the lemonade stand they were building, where all the profits were going to the stupid fucking camera. 

And now it was laying in shards in the Hawkins High parking lot, and your best friend in the entire world was responsible for it. 

And he was walking away. 

You make a split second decision to abandon the camera, chasing after Steve down the hill. As you get up, you kick a bit of what was the lens, and you hope it cuts Jonathan open. 

“Steve!” You bark, turning the heads of your friends up ahead. You storm up to him and shove him backwards. 

“What the hell, Hopper?” He stumbles back. You’re almost stronger than him. You’re certainly a better swimmer. 

“You’re such an asshole, Harrington!” You shout.

“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head in disbelief, “did you not see the photos he was taking of you? Or of my girlfriend?” You think the last sentence hits you kind of hard, but you don’t think about it. You’re too angry.

“You don’t think! You don’t think about anyone except your fucking self, Steve.”

You can see in his eyes that he genuinely doesn’t understand why you’re angry at him. And of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know about the camera, or Will. But he has to know the Byers don’t have money, right? He has to know that Jonathan can’t buy a new camera, right? He has to know the sacrifices someone in that family made to get him that, right? He has to know that you’re just like Jonathan Byers. Right?

You don’t realize at first that you’re hyperventilating. Or that you really are crying, now. You can’t breathe. You’re vaguely aware of being lowered to the ground, and of Steve crouching in front of you, rubbing your arm. Of him calling Nancy over, and of her stroking your back, and telling you you’re okay. Of your breathing slowing down, and of them helping you back to your feet. Of trudging to the gym as Nancy helps you walk, and Steve looks at you from her other side as if for the first time in his life, he can’t figure you out. 

You sit with your back against the lockers, staring at the side of the bench Carol’s laying on. 

“So,” she laughs from Tommy’s lap, “I told Mr. Mundy, the solution of ten plus Y equals… blow me.” Tommy snickers. 

“Bull,” Steve calls. “If you did that you’d be in detention right now.”. You realize you’ve ditched Nicole somewhere on your way back in. Good riddance, you figure. She was probably just trying to get in with the four—five?— of you. You realize you probably sound like a narcissist. You don’t entirely realize that you’re definitely projecting your anger about this from Steve onto this random girl. 

“Saturday,” Carol replies.

“I bet Mr. Mundy’s still a virgin.”

“Oh, he’s so a virgin.” 

“Maybe you should blow him, Carol. Help your grades a bit.”

“Nice, Tommy,” you mutter. Tommy gives you a look, as if to say, “She speaks!” Carol smacks him.

You can’t see Nancy from the floor, but as she walks away your eyes follow her. 

“Hey! Nance, where you going?” Steve calls. 

“I totally forgot,” she stammers, turning back. “I told my Mom I would… do something with her.”

“Well, what do you mean? The game’s about to start!” 

“I’m sorry,” she winces as she walks down the hall.

You watch Steve watch her go. Good for her, honestly. You’re thinking about doing the same thing, and the only thing stopping you is still that raging headache.

“What the hell’s wrong with her?” he turns back to the three of you. 

You shrug, sinking deeper into your hoodie. 

“Maybe she freaked out when you went all psycho on the psycho,” Tommy jeers, looking over at you as he says it. You jeer back at him, silently. 

“Oh, give me a break,” Steve dismisses him.

“What’d you expect, dating Miss Perfect?” Carol’s bubble pops loudly, echoing in the cinderblock hall. 

“Can you guys just…” you trail off. “Shut up?” 

“Okay, what the hell is going on with you?” Carol rolls her eyes.

“I just… stop making this into such a thing. I don’t want my dad finding out about this.” 

“Yeah, no shit,” Tommy chortles, and you look at him, surprised. 

“No one’s telling your dad,” Steve says. “None of us were supposed to be there, not just you and Tina.”

“Really, Steve?” you raise your voice. “I don’t want him to get mad at Mrs. Byers, or anything that’s going to stop him looking for Will,” you scoff at him. “To be honest, I could care less right now whether he finds out about your stupid fucking party.”

Tommy whistles. “She got you, man,” he reaches out to push Steve, and you glare at him, too. 

“Jesus Christ, Y/N, I just—” he trails off. “Can we just go to the game?”

You look up at him, meeting his eyes. For the second time today, you don’t think you understand each other at all. “I think… I think I’m gonna go home,” you say, and confusion passes through his eyes. 

“What?” 

“Yeah, I just… I don’t feel great. And I probably have to make dinner, or you know, my Dad won’t eat anything, and…” 

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever. Just go, Y/N.” He waves his arm at you, dismissively. 

“I… I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah.” 

Tommy and Carol are watching the interaction, Tommy almost wide-eyed and Carol blowing another bubble, bored. You scoop your backpack off the floor, looking for Steve’s eyes one last time, but he’s not looking at you. He stares at the ceiling instead, so you turn and walk down the hall, between the green and orange striped cinder block, the same way Nancy’s just gone.

You feel like the empty roads of Hawkins are closing in on you. Empty branches reach across to close in on you and your car. You swear you keep seeing shadows pass among them, and you jump at every one. You’re scared that you’re going to swerve and crash your car, but the thought of pulling over, any closer to these woods, is unthinkable. So you speed along towards the park, trying to keep your eyes on the asphalt as opposed to the forest, and think about anything other than Will or Barbara, and the serial kidnapper that’s lurking somewhere around this town. 

As you drive into the park, the lights from the trailers around you provide some small comfort, but you curse your father for choosing a spot so far from everyone else, and by the open water that seems to absorb all the light for twenty yards around your house. The sun set in the short while it took to drive home. If there was a graph charting the correlation between the amount of sun and your level of fear, it would have an approximate slope of negative one. Or negative ten. Or negative ten thousand. 

Gravel crunches under your tires as you pull in, and you turn the car off as soon as possible. You think you’re hoping that if you’re completely silent, and completely invisible, that whatever monsters are lurking around town won’t come for you. You sit in your car for what seems like hours, but is probably closer to twenty minutes, before you decide that you don’t want to get out of it. It’s warm, and your house is definitely freezing. So you dig the walkie-talkie out of the bottom of your bag, and fumble with the dials, tapping into the police office’s main line. 

“Flo?” You start. 

It takes a moment, but her voice crackles back through. 

“Hi, sweetie.” Her voice sounds strained. 

“Is something wrong? I was just wondering if you knew where my dad was.” 

“Oh, sweetie. He’s… he’s heading down to the quarry, but you shouldn’t go down there—” You tune her out. Why would you go down there? You never follow your dad to work. Why would you…  

“Will,” your voice creaks. 

“Oh, sweetheart, would you like to come over here, and wait for your father to finish up?” You know she’s nervous, you know she’s looking out for you, but the way she says “finish up”, as if Will is some menial task, makes your stomach drop.

“No, Thanks, Flo,” you mutter. You can hear her responding to you, but you’re not listening. You toss the walkie into the passenger seat, and before you can think about what you’re doing, you reverse your car and fly back out of the trailer park. 

You race back down the tree-lined streets, no longer caring that they’re closing in on you. It’s only five minutes or so to the quarry, but it feels like twenty with the way your heart is pounding out of your chest and you feel your breath leaving you again. 

You hear the sirens before you see them, but as you turn the corner your eyes are assaulted by the flashing red and blue of what must be every law enforcement, firefighting, or ambulatory vehicle in Hawkins. 

You let out a strangled cry as you park your car and jump out, starting towards the water before you see the boys peeking out from behind a fire truck. There’s so much going on, there’s so much happening. Will. Why are they here, how can they be here? Will. You need to get them out of here. 

“Hey!” You shout and they all jump. “You guys need to get out of here, come on— who is this?” There’s another boy with them,  or at least you thought at first, but now you’re pretty sure it’s a little girl with her head buzzed. None of them answer you, all watching your father storm past officers at the quarry. 

You all watch as a small body is pulled out of the water. Your hand flies to your mouth, and you cry. 

“It’s not Will,” Mike says, holding the pole on the back of the truck for support. “It can’t be.” 

You can’t find words to respond to him. Officers pull a stretcher further up the shore, and you would recognize that little red vest anywhere. But Lucas shakes his head, and tears start to fall from his eyes. “It’s Will. It’s really Will.” 

Mike straightens, turning away from the sight. You’re holding Dustin’s shoulders from behind him, as tightly as if you can stop this from happening if you hold on to him like this. 

“Mike…” the girl says, but he slaps her hand away. 

“”Mike”? “Mike,” what?” He shouts. “You were supposed to help us find him alive. You said he was alive!” You’re so confused, so lost, and staring at the water. You don’t know what the hell is going on with these kids, but you know that their best friend is dead on that stretcher, and Mike is distraught, and he’s taking it out on this girl, possibly in the same way you were taking out your anger at Steve on Nicole. “Why did you lie to us?” His voice cracks. “What’s wrong with you!? What is wrong with you?” 

“Mike…” 

“What?” The girl shakes her head, and Mike prods her for an answer with his eyes, before he turns and storms off. 

“Michael!” 

“Mike, come on,” Lucas protests. “Don’t do this, man.” 

“Mike, where are you going? Mike!” Dustin shouts.

But Mike ignores all of you, picking up his bike and getting away as fast as he can.

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do here, left with two of the kids you babysit and some random girl that you think they might have kidnapped from a cancer ward. But you have to pull yourself together. They can’t be here. You can’t be here, but them especially. You think this might be one of the worst places for them to ever be. 

“Come on, guys,” you manage. “Get in the car.” 

Dustin and Lucas nod solemnly, and carry their bikes to your trunk. The girl stands awkwardly back, until you look between her and the boys and gesture for her to hop in. 

The car is silent, except for the few seconds where you ask where you’re supposed to drop this girl off. Some sad whispering and hesitation determines that you should take her to Mike’s, and you do, watching her climb in through the basement window. 

“Okay,” you start, as soon as she’s inside. “I realize that this is one of the worst times for this, but one of you needs to tell me what the hell is going on with her.” 

Dustin and Lucas argue muffledly in the backseat.

“Today,” you drum on the steering wheel. You’re trying to distract yourself—one problem at a time. 

“She has superpowers,” Dustin mumbles, as Lucas says:

“We just found her.” 

You try, and fail, to make sense of their words. 

“Okay…” you look at Dustin in the rearview mirror. “What do you mean, “she has superpowers”?” Lucas gives him a look that you interpret as warning him not to say anything else. 

He talks anyway. “She lifted Mike’s Millenium Falcon with her mind.” Jesus Christ. 

“Dustin, I’m being serious here,” you sigh. “I just want… I just want to help.” 

“I am being serious!” 

You sit in silence, mind reeling. Obviously this is some bit that he and the others have made up, and he’s confused. Surely. But how would you feel if you were bringing something like this to your dad, and he didn’t believe you? But you have no reason to believe him. Superpowers don’t exist. The kid’s best friend has just been found dead in the quarry you’ve all swum in since you were kids, and he’s been reading too much X-Men. 

“He’s not lying,” Lucas says quietly. He’s staring out the window, tears still rolling down his cheeks, but he mumbles at you as you drive. 

“We found her in the woods the night of the storm.” 

“You were out at night in the woods? In a storm!?” You almost crash your car. “Are you guys insane?” 

“We were looking for Will!” 

“That’s not for you to do, Lucas! That’s what the police, and the adults who are volunteering are for! And you certainly shouldn’t have been alone!” 

“Yeah, well, look at what a great job your dad did,” he snaps. 

You purse your lips and stare at the reflected traffic lines ahead of you. 

“I’m not… I’m not saying… Look, you guys just have to be safe, okay? Will isn’t the only kid who’s gone missing.” You realize as you say it that Will’s body doesn’t solve the mystery of Barb’s disappearance. Impossibly, a sliver of hope rises that there’s more to this than meets the eye, but you shove it back down. You’ve just seen Will’s body raised from the water. The water. Barb was by the pool. 

“What?” They ask together. 

“I… forget I said anything,” you rush. 

“Who’s missing?” 

“Friend of Nancy’s.” Dustin rolls his eyes. 

“Who, Steve Harrington?” Lucas scoffs. 

“I— no.” Why would you ever introduce Steve as a friend of Nancy’s? “Barb. Red hair? Nevermind.” 

“What if…” Dustin turns to Lucas. 

“No, dude. He’s dead. Dead!.” Lucas crosses his arms, going back to his position at the window. 

“Okay,” you mutter, and startle the boys as you pull the car over to the side of the road. “You both need to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on here.” 

They do their hesitation and bantering dance again, before the mumbles all rush out, and you can’t make sense of who’s saying what. 

“She’s psychic, or something.” 

“She tried to get naked in Mike’s basement.” 

“She said she could find Will.” 

“She said he’s hiding.” 

“Okay, okay, okay!” Now this is making a little more sense. A skill at guessing what people are thinking, or something, is much more reasonable than telekinesis. And they must have let their minds run a little amok. 

“You find this girl, and she says she knows something about Will?” They nod. “And you don’t take this to the police?” They shuffle uncomfortably. “Chill. I’m not a spy for my dad. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on here.” 

“She said bad men were after her.” A chill runs up your spine.

“What do you mean, bad men?” 

Dustin raises his hand, holding it like a gun, and starts to point it at your head. “Dude!” Lucas shouts. “You’re going to freak her out.” He turns to you. “Guns. Basically.”

“Military, maybe?”

“Why would the military care about some kid?” Lucas asks. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” You stop to think for a second, but your mind is exhausted. You’re so, so, tired. And the boys must be as well. You’re glad, at least, that you seem to have distracted them from the body for a moment, even if it’s with more of this weird situation. But you need to sleep, and so do they. You tell them so, and they try to protest at first. “I’ll come by in the morning, okay? We can talk more then. Just… radio if you need anything, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Lucas murmurs. Dustin nods in agreement. You drive them back to their houses in silence again. You’ve all resolved to your quiet mourning, but at least in you, something is stirring. Something that wants to get to the bottom of this, to find Barbara if you can’t find Will. And to at least find out, for sure, what happened to him. Hold someone accountable, if there is anyone. In a strange way, you hope there is someone. 

As you drop each boy off, you watch as they walk in through their doors. You know you won’t be making that same mistake again. 

a/n: thank you for reading! as always, all reblogs, shares, comments, asks, etc are so so appreciated! let me know what you think!

taglist (just ask if you'd like to be added!): @thisisourlovestory, @ladygrey03

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 30 Death

Warning: Reader is gender neutral but described as feminine (not female, but things that are feminine. To be crass, if male, think femboy looks), fuck canon, implied violence and death

You had been staring at him since the team came into the bar. Ghost looks at you from the corner of his eye, something in the back of his head itching in familiarity. He knows he’s never met you, but it doesn’t stop his brain from saying that he knows you.

“Somethin’ wrong, LT?” Soap asks, drawing him back from his observation.

“No,” Ghost declares, taking a purposeful sip of his beer. Soap and Gaz share a look while Price arches an eyebrow. It doesn’t matter that they know something is actually wrong, Ghost won’t acknowledge it.

“Excuse me?” you call, forcing Ghost to acknowledge you. Turning to you, he makes eye contact and is struck with green, red, pink, and black. He blinks and you offer an enigmatic smile.

“Nice to meet you again,” you say, nodding before turning to leave the bar. Ghost stares after you, his wife in mortal form.

“…‘M goin’,” he declares, throwing down some cash for his beer and running after you, unwilling to let you go when you reawakened what he once was. Death, after all, can only occur if Life is present.

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

You always knew who you were, what you were. Your most remembered names, Kore and Persephone, influence this mortal form most heavily. Your face is soft in the way a woman’s is, lips naturally full, most of your height deriding from long legs. As a child, you had been uncomfortable, unsure about what your body was, even as your “gift” was smothered by those around you, intentionally or not. It wasn’t until you graduated that you finally figured out your true purpose, finding all the myths and stories about Death and Life.

It was no wonder you were feminine, as Life is usually feminized with Death her husband. It was weird, wandering through life knowing someone was out there, Death was out there somewhere. Eventually, you stopped actively seeking them, only to stumble over them that very day. A mammoth of a mortal, wearing a skull balaclava, while sitting with three other men. You could practically taste the Death that rolls off him, pulling you toward him. Instead of confronting him, of falling to his feet, you offering him a choice or a challenge. You’re not too sure yourself, but you walk away. Outside, you hear him follow you and you smile.

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

Ghost kneels, horrified and struck as he looms over Johnny’s still body. Pulling his body up and into his arms, Ghost releases a shaky breath.

“Love, please,” he pleads softly, “I need you here.” He reaches out and grasps, pulling you gently to join him in this fucking tunnel.

“It wasn’t his time,” you assure Ghost, “I can heal him.”

“Please,” Ghost requests, “I can only keep his soul here for so long.” You nod and press your lips to Johnny’s wound, painting your lips red as the skin knits itself together, coaxing life back into his body. Ghost sighs and presses the soul back into Johnny’s body, relaxing as it eagerly returns.

“He’ll be sore,” you whisper, gently tracing the gunshot to Johnny’s shoulder with a small frown.

“You’ve done enough by reviving him, Love,” Ghost assures you. You look at him before nodding, returning your gaze to Johnny and gently brushing the hair from his face.

“Ghost, wha—What th’ fuck?” Gaz sputters, having moved away from the disarmed bomb to you and Ghost. You look up with big eyes, all doe-eyed and innocent, making Ghost snort.

“We’ll explain later,” he assures Gaz, “We need t’ get Johnny ‘n’ Price medical ‘tention.”

“Ghost,” Gaz tries, swallowing nervously, “Soap is--!”

“Wha’ th’ fu’ ‘it me?” Johnny slurs, blinking in confusion. Price and Gaz stop short, staring at Johnny in disbelief.

“We need to get him to a medic,” you repeat for Ghost. Johnny’s head flops on Ghost’s arm, staring up at you in awe.

“How’d ‘n angel ge’ ‘ere?” he asks, blue eyes unfocused and adoring. Ghost huffs, lifting Johnny into his arms and walking out, you at his side as Price and Gaz follow. Unfortunately, their back up is facing resistance by some of Makarov’s fuckers.

“Love, ‘old ‘im,” Ghost orders, handing Johnny off to you before stepping out. He’s furious, the pitch of abyss running just beneath his skin. These fuckers aren’t winning today, their times are going to be up by his hand. No fate, no destiny, just Death.

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

You stand calmly as you feel husband burst out of Simon, the mortal form holding together just by your life sunk into him. One by one, the soldiers wearing police uniforms fall, screaming and plying your husband for mercy as Simon calmly walks through the battlefield.

“LT? Th’ fuck?” Johnny croaks, his brow furrowed in confusion. You just hum and press another kiss to his head, more for you than to soothe Johnny. After all, you and Simon had already decided that you both wanted Johnny in your home, as your lover.

“What the hell?” the other Sergeant, you unfortunately didn’t catch his name, whispers as the Captain watches Simon pull back on his abilities, leaving the soldiers that came with them alive.

“Don’t worry,” you assure them, even as Johnny’s blue eyes stare up at you, “We’ll explain later.”

“…Right,” the Captain agrees with a nod.

[tearueful]

HEY tell me about your boys oc

You've twisted my arm, LMAO.

Time to dump my brain. My The Boys OC is PURE SELF INDULGENCE because she's basically an alt version of Tea but what if The Boys? So you know, a cringe almost self-insert OC that evolved into her own thing in my brain. She 300% only exists to smooch Homelander but as of today and runaway story ideas, MAYBE NOT.

I've got this whole vague outline of a story in my head I've taken notes on and written a few lines and drabbles for, but she'll most likely just stick in my brain cause OC x canon isn't well received and I don't have the free time to RP her with friends like I'd like.

ANYWAY - This is LONG. So LONG.

Her name is Stray, which is super not original to anyone who knows my online aliases or the fact that the first version of my vtube character was named Stray but I like short aliases and Stray is as good a name as any for a cat-based Supe.

Her supe power is that she can shapeshift into any feline. House cat, tiger, leopard, and even prehistoric cats because I want her to lay on Homelander as a polar bear sized saber. THE VISUALS.

Like Doppelganger, Stray fluidly shifts between forms in mere moments but unlike Doppelganger, these forms are all Stray. She can't transform into a visual copy of say, your pet cat.

Like Beast Boy, her animal forms are coded to her colors. She's a calico cat (surprise, surprise) if she's a house cat. A golden tabby coated tiger if she's a tiger. Basically all coat colors try to mimic orange, brown, white to some degree. If she's a lioness, it's a richer orangy hue instead of tawny.

I'd have to pin down the exact colors and make a coat pattern chart, but basically every coat is a little off on what the default is for wild cats. Enough to make you go, 'hmm that seems odd' more than seeing a big cat in a weird spot would. The other thing that's constant is her eye color, same green eyes in all forms. So her hair color / skin color reflect her cat coat patterns and her eye color is consistent, basically.

The main perk is that her supe power scales with form. She's a house cat? Well- That house cat could theoretically blast herself through your skull like Jamie the hamster and come out fine on the other side. This scales, so you get a jaguar biting you it's no longer a 1,500 PSI bite but idfk, biting through steel beams. The bigger Stray is, the more durable and the more damage she can do. Get her big enough and she could bite through Homelander's limbs. :D

The downsides are:

Stray is a perfectly normal, squishy person when not in a feline form. Very fragile, don't let near other Supes when she's a person.

She can't stay in feline form forever. Like Doppelganger, it hurts if she keeps a form for too long but she's been trained (forced) to endure it. After 24 hours, she starts to become debilitated from the pain but can push on depending on desperation level. Regardless, she'll be pretty useless quick.

Stray can be locked out of shifting or locked in a form with a metal band around her neck/wrist/ankle. Say, iron does it because uh- It's the most stable element or something which blocks Stray's atoms from doing whatever the fuck they do to reform her into various kitty cats. Having a power lock is fun for situations.

The backstory is that around the same time of Homelander's debut, Stan Edgar wanted to have a contingency plan. I don't know the exact timeline, but I assume Victoria Neuman was adopted by Edgar around that time as his backup plan for Homelander. Stray was picked up for the same reason, except she was more a creature to get locked away and trained to hate Homelander.

Her SUPER TRAGIC backstory is that she had a normal life, save for being a supe, until she turned 18. Then Vought snatched her up with the excuse of that binding Supe Contract, so her family was none the wiser that through daughter was shipped off to a lab. Meanwhile, Stray was fed some story that her family DIED HORRIBLY because of Homelander with her hatred of him encouraged subtly. Enough to make a bitch pissy, but not rampage through the lab. (That or they kept a bitch collared a lot)

Stan Edgar gets thrown in jail and Stray gets lost in the shuffle, forgotten for the most part until her file is dug up or The Boys are tipped off about something strange over in a SUPER SECRET LAB that Butcher is apparently good at finding, given how he found The Woods in Gen V.

The Boys get a new pet cat as they assume Stray is a suped up animal, since they find her collared and unable to shift. I get to write a few cute drabbles of Stray being tormented as people coo over her as a kitty cat until someone takes her collar off. Then the idiot is hell bent on revenge, which suits Butcher just fine.

She infiltrates Vought Tower by being picked up as a stray cat (haha) by Ryan Butcher. Cue Homelander having beef with a cat who keeps stealing his son's attention. Also, that cat keeps looking at him weird. More excuses to write cute fluff with Ryan getting a pet he can cuddle but can't kill. She chills in Vought Tower with Ryan, getting rather attached to the boy because he is SUCH A SWEETIE PIE.

Stray goes to chomp Homelander's head off eventually, hunting him down like prey and wrecking his shit because I just want to write Homelander being afraid. There's something fun about having Homelander hunted by a bigger predator, something primordial and feral. c:

Ryan intervenes before Stray eats Homelander and she pisses off for a bit. Also, probably dealing with a Compound V high given how much V must be in Homelander's blood.

Something something, Homelander researches the bitch who almost ate him. Figures out her weakness and there's probably MORE DRAMA with them fucking with each other. I haven't banged out the details but these lil shits will be toxic as fuck, but since Stray is a strong supe he'll want her for his supe army. Homelander even shows Stray that her family is alive and she's all, "Well fuck. Uh, my bad bro?"

Ultimately, Stray will waver between hating Vought for what they did, having some loyalty to members of The Boys for their kindness, but loyalty to Homelander and Ryan for similar. She's not a good person so she could go for the DESTROY VOUGHT or SUPE SUPERIORITY side on a coin flip.

She's just a character I want to put in situations within The Boys universe. (Sexual situations)

I want tiger!Stray sprawled out on the floor while Ryan uses her as a living lounge chair as he does his homework.

Bickering between Homelander and Stray. Stray being a VERY FUCKING ANNOYING CAT at Homelander before he knows she's a supe.

Therapy cat for Kimiko. 🥺

Butcher being a jerk and dubbing her 'Moggy'.

Stray leaving bite and claw mark scars on Homelander. c:

[smurphyse]

Bunny and the Fever

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 11 of Bunny and the Beast

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, toxic relationship behavior, drugging without consent, canon typical stories and violence

Summary: Spencer makes a decision for Bunny without her knowing about it

As angry as you still were at him, Spencer tried to stoke your excitement for Christmas. He spent all week wrapping presents and hanging garlands around the house, and thankfully your irritation lessened. 

…and then it backfired. 

It was the day before Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve Eve, you'd cheerily kept reminding him, and you were finishing up some last minute touches on your gifts under the tree. 

Spencer hadn't realized how much he talked about his team with you until you told him the presents you'd gotten for them on both of your behalf. 

He was so fucking happy with you, and he sat with you between his legs on the floor as you smoothed out lines of wrapping paper, your odd choices of things to worry about. He was reading idly over your shoulder, half focused on you and half focused on his book, and when you accidentally answered his phone instead of yours he wasn't paying enough attention. 

"Hello?" you answered sweetly, shoving the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you continued your little bout of perfectionism. 

He wasn't listening until you perked up and said "Oh of course we'll be there! Okay, thanks Luke."

As you hung up, Spencer snapped his book shut and tossed it on the floor, "You have Luke's number?"

You flashed him a wink over your shoulder, "Of course not, I thought it was my phone."

"What did he want?"

"He asked if we were going to dinner at Rossi’s tomorrow."

Spencer glared at you with his mouth hung slightly open, but you weren't paying any attention to him. Instead, you adjusted some of the ornaments on the tree while a million nightmare scenarios barreled through his skull. 

Abduction at gunpoint. Abduction at knife point. Scratch's scopolamine mixture seeping into the exhaust of the car and Spencer going nuts… He shuddered at the thought of what he could do to you with the knowledge he had, unconscious or not. 

You turned with a furrowed brow and straddled his lap, looping your arms around his neck. You gave him a look, "It'll be good for us to get out of the house. We've been cooped up here all week."

"Yeah…" he murmured, and you sighed. 

"Spencer, you said you wanted a life together."  He nodded absentmindedly and you sighed again. 

"Okay, I'm going to bed," you said, untangling yourself from him and standing up. You kissed his temple as you walked away, but Spencer couldn't even look, just watched the sparkling lights as his mind raced. 

He couldn't let you leave the house, it was too dangerous now. If anything happened to you Spencer would lose it, he'd be broken forever…

It was already midnight, but Spencer stayed awake for a while after you went to bed. Trying to think of how he could get out of this family affair, Spencer sat on the floor and let his mind come up with an idea. 

When it came to him, he stared down at his hands and wondered if he was really capable of such a thing. It would be a massive betrayal of your trust, but if he did it right you'd never know…

Spencer walked slowly up the stairs, nodding to himself and trying to convince his morality that this was the right thing to do. 

You were reading in bed, waiting for him. You smiled sweetly and set it aside as the creaking floor announced his presence, then held out your hands for him to join. Shedding his clothes, Spencer crawled under the covers and settled with his head on your chest. 

Your fingers smoothed through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and sighing happily beneath him. 

"Goodnight, honey," you murmured sleepily, and Spencer nuzzled into your breasts, breathing in your scent and letting it comfort him. 

"Goodnight, bunny."

You sat in front of the Christmas tree, checking presents anxiously. You hadn’t been sleeping well since your scare the other night in the kitchen, and even now kept absentmindedly glancing over your shoulder to see if someone was in the window. You could hardly see it from your spot on the floor, but it made you worry nonetheless.

You’d been up for a while, sipping coffee even as the sun hid behind the snowy haze of the horizon. The days were shorter, colder, and you were going a bit crazy being cooped up in the house. The Yellow Wallpaper kept surfacing in your mind… and coupled with Spencer’s weird behavior and you seeing things that weren’t there, there was a real possibility you might be losing it a bit.

This house was so big. And worse, it was empty. Sure you'd decorated it and filled it with books and plants and all sorts of stuff to make it homey, but Spencer was quiet and work was boring…and you were growing restless. 

You heard a noise above you, a quick stomping of feet, and then Spencer’s voice, "Bunny?"

You focused on straightening the ornaments, a throbbing headache beginning to form from his voice. 

"Bunny?"

"I'm downstairs!" you called irritably. You listened as he padded down the stairs, coming straight for you. His hands landed on your shoulders but you shook him off. "I'm fine Spencer."

Spencer sighed and sat down next to you on the rug. You felt his eyes on you, wide and worried. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"It was like five in the morning when I got up."

Spencer’s hand slid over your bare thigh, “Did you have a bad dream?”

“No.” His palm was warm against your skin, and you tried to let it comfort you. You were just… irritated and frustrated and unsure of why.

“Bun-.”

“I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all,” you soothed, sliding your hand over his. You gave him a soft squeeze and a reassuring smile. “It’ll be nice to go out tonight. I could use some fresh air.”

“We could go for a walk in the neighborhood,” he offered, but you shook your head.

“I mean I want to get out of the house for a bit. It’s too cold for a walk.”

Spencer hummed in lieu of a reply. You went back to straightening up the tree and eventually he got up and headed for the kitchen. You decided to pick up a bit as he bustled around in the kitchen. The only thing he knew how to make for breakfast was pancakes, and you let the scent of bacon and syrup wash over you as you sipped your coffee and poked around. 

You were checking on some of the hanging plants in the living room when suddenly you were being hoisted up and onto Spencer’s hip. You yelped and clung to him on instinct, but you couldn’t help the swell of anger that coursed through you.

“Spencer! I’m busy,” you snapped, but he paid you no mind.

He plopped you down on the counter and shoved a plate your way and a fresh cup of coffee, “Eat, then drink.”

“Spenc-.” He waved a hand at you, “You’re in a pissy mood, that’s fine. Eat something and I’ll leave you alone for a bit.”

You let him feed you. Spencer loved to do it, and you knew it was because he cared for you. He liked to do these little acts of servitude without having to express how he felt, and while it irritated you to no end that he couldn’t just tell you sometimes, you supposed this was okay for now. He even tipped the coffee mug to your lips when you finished, then helped you off the counter.

Spencer kissed your temple and smacked your butt before you walked away. You let your fingers drag across his belly on your way out the kitchen and told him softly, “Thank you for breakfast. I just… need to get my head on straight, okay? I didn’t sleep well.”

Spencer leaned against the granite countertop and nodded, “It’s okay, bunny. I’m here when you need me.”

You blew him a kiss and made your way back to the living room. Your eyes wanted to droop from lack of sleep, and you kept rubbing them in an effort to stay awake. The plants were bright and happy to see you. You went about cutting off dead leaves and seeing who needed water. 

Your peace lily in the corner was drooping. They were always so dramatic and fainted if they were even the slightest bit unhappy. Digging your finger into the soil, you realized he definitely needed watering, so you picked up the drainage pot out of the cute white one you had it in and carried him toward the guest bathroom to give him a good soak. 

"C'mon, Pete," you muttered as you rounded the corner. Your vision streaked and your thighs began to shake, so you paused to stop yourself falling over. 

It didn't help, and your trembling legs began to give out. The plant dropped to the ground with a thwack and your shoulder hit the wall as you collapsed.  Your body dragged down the wall as you hit the ground, suddenly heavy and queasy. 

"Spencer…" you slurred, and suddenly he was in front of you. You looked up at him as he kneeled down to scoop you up. 

"I'm… I got dizzy," your whispered. You rested against him as he held you, and you didn't notice that he was carrying you upstairs. “I don’t feel good.”

"You need to rest," he said calmly, clutching you to his chest. "You're pushing yourself too hard, bunny."

"But, Pete," you replied, bleary-eyed and sluggish. Spencer didn't seem worried, so you let the anxiety coursing through you fade as your eyes slipped shut. He set you on the bed and covered you up, and you barely clung to the world as you began to fall asleep. 

"I'll clean it up. Don’t worry, bunny,” he said sweetly. His voice seemed to be on the far edge of reality, and you barely felt his lips press to your cheek. “Daddy’s gonna take care of you.” “But-,” you began. He just hushed you.

“You don’t want to be tired for the party. Get some sleep. I’ll keep you safe.”

With that, your brain finally let go, and you plunged into the dark ocean of unconsciousness that escaped you the night before.

Spencer watched you as he sat on the edge of the bed. You’d roused now and then, quickly slipping back into sleep and going limp on the mattress. Each time your eyes tried to open Spencer set a soothing hand on your forehead and brushed back your hair. 

His heart swelled in his chest until the sun went down, clutching the bottle of sleeping pills his old therapist had given him long ago. He'd put them in your coffee while you were ignoring him in the library. When you slept too deeply he worried he’d given you too much, but your snoring told him you were okay. He’d tell you that you were feeling sick, that you had a fever, and slept it off.

He knew he’d crossed a line, but Spencer also knew he’d do anything to protect you. You were so small and fragile, you needed him to keep you safe. He knew what was best, and in time you’d see it too.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, Rossi’s name popping up on the screen. The sun had set and the party started a few hours ago, so Spencer answered it and held it up to his ear as he watched you sleep.

“Hey,” he whispered, “we can’t make it. Bunny’s sick.”

“Keeping her from us still?” Rossi snarked back.

Spencer gave him a lighthearted chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes, “She’s been sleeping it off all day, poor thing.” “Oh,” Rossi muttered, dejected. “Tell her we missed her. I hope she feels better, kid.”

“Thanks, Rossi.”

“Merry Christmas, Reid.” Spencer brushed back your messy hair and sighed, “Merry Christmas.”

Notes: Oh... oh no...

CM Forever Tag:

@thedancingcostumeyoungadult @muffin-cup @simplyparker @spencerreidsmommy @hotchandspencearedilfs @gspenc @kbakery @nomajdetective @givemeth @hoshihiime @halloween-is-my-nationality @reidselle @thisiscalmanditsdoctorreid @dreatine @thebloomingeagle @fortheloveofwonderland @theforgottenwinter @parkerreidnorth @reidselle @randomhoex @scargarcia-magshotchner @stitchwrites @pygmygoat-bicyclehelmet @cle13 @aysixdy @elhotchner @directioner5life @elhotchner @loveeee2134 @preciousbabypeter @la-stuffs @stories-you-wont-hear @hotchlover @fortheloveofwonderland @lokiandhisdagger @bellanutellababyyy @dark-night-sky-99 @straightforbuckybutgayfornatasha @maltamurdock @charelletjee @kansas-reid @zephyrmonkey @spencer-reid-wonderland @spencersprettyslut @im-sure-its-fine @tvdstelenaforever @teddylupintonks  @lilibet261 @kneelforloki @dirtytissuebox @almostgenerallyalways @whovian378 @cl0udyqu33n @thegettingbyp2 @averagestudent03 @the-sun-died-out @squishycalumxo @sebastiansstanswhore 

@louderfortheback @pandabiiissh @calebye

@dottirose @lfaewrites

[jedusaur]

WIP amnesty: Jamie meets Phoebe

(this was going to be a longer fic, but now that they've met in canon I'm not feeling it anymore, so here's what I'd written so far)

Roy was expecting meeting his parents to be the hard part, because of all the daddy issues. It would have made sense, given Jamie's pathological need for approval and inability to relate to anyone more than six years older than him, not to mention the whole shirtless suit thing. Surely he'd be a disaster with parents. But no, it went fine, they had lasagne and mostly talked about football and made it through the evening with a minimum of awkward moments. And once that was over, Roy reckoned they were pretty much out of the woods family-wise. It wasn't like Jamie was ever going to set them up for a nice lasagne with his dad.

Apparently Roy miscalculated the intimidation factor of a ten-year-old girl.

"Take a fucking breath," he says, gingerly rubbing Jamie's shoulder. "What are you losing your shit for? Kids love you."

"Kids are impressed by me," Jamie corrects. "She won't be impressed, she's Roy Kent's niece." He's perched against the wheel well of the G-Wagon in the car park at Phoebe's school, bent over with his hands on his knees, having some kind of panic attack or something. Roy has no clue what to do.

"Take a fucking breath," he repeats, and waits until he hears Jamie drag some air into his lungs. "It's going to be fine. She's just a kid."

"What if she doesn't like me?" Jamie looks up at him, and Roy is horrified to see wetness in his eyes. "What if she hates me? You wouldn't be able to be with someone she hated."

That, Roy decides, is enough of that. There's only so much feelings bullshit he can tolerate. He grabs Jamie by the shoulders and roughly straightens him up, lifting his chin in hopes of tipping the tears back in where they belong. "My ten-year-old niece does not dictate where I put my dick," he says firmly, and presses a kiss to Jamie's quivering lips.

"Uncle Roy?"

Jamie tries to jerk away from the kiss and bashes his head against the car window. "Fuck!"

Roy groans and checks briefly to make sure Jamie hasn't damaged his skull or the window too badly before turning to look at Phoebe. She's standing there wearing her backpack, arms folded, taking in the scene.

"This," she muses, "feels like a situation I can get some ice cream out of."

Roy has never seen Jamie this uncomfortable, at least not openly. Usually he covers up discomfort with bravado, which actually would probably work better on Phoebe than it does in the dressing room. But here, sitting in a booth across from Roy and his niece at an ice cream shop, he's vibrating out of his skin.

Phoebe glances up at Roy, vaguely concerned. "What's wrong with him?" she asks, making no attempt to whisper.

Roy snorts. "Well, there's a question with a few hundred thousand answers."

She frowns. "Isn't he your boyfriend?"

"Yes." They've covered that part in advance.

"Then why are you being mean to him? You're never that mean to Keeley."

Roy considers trying to explain dressing room culture and their particular history, but he can imagine the series of increasingly specific questions that would follow, and in the end he would just have to admit that ultimately it's all stupid bullshit. "You're right," he says. "I shouldn't be mean to him. Sorry, Jamie."

Jamie's jaw fully drops, which is fucking unnecessary. Roy scowls.

Phoebe has already moved on. "Why aren't you having ice cream?" she asks Jamie.

He glances down at his coffee. "Uh, I'm not allowed ice cream during the season."

"Not allowed?" She shoots Roy a severe look. "Uncle Roy, you shouldn't have a boyfriend who isn't a grownup."

Oh fuck. Roy can just hear his sister's voice on the phone asking why Phoebe is telling all her classmates Roy Kent is a pedo. He jumps in to shut that shit down, talking over Jamie's frantic attempts to do the same thing, and Phoebe lets chaos reign for a moment before losing her straight face and busting into giggles. 

"Telling me off for being mean to him," Roy grumbles, trying not to let her see him fighting a proud grin. Jamie looks a bit like he's been hit by a bus. "That was fucking mean."

"He's not my boyfriend," she points out, tucking into her ice cream.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Fictober '24 Prompt No. 4 — "No, we're not doing that."

Category: Original WIP: WASTE Rating: T Timeline: before the main events, I believe. pretty sure. CW: drug mentions Word Count: 1,120 Additional Notes: just a quick thing I slapped together. we'll say it's canon until I change my mind lmao

***

A man with enough reaver rock in his blood system to put down a large alien animal snarled and snapped at Dazia Fourteen, spittle flying everywhere, his teeth gnashing, and I can proudly say that the man was not, in fact, me.

I watched this happen from a distance, and I noted Dazia's demeanor—not once did she flinch, except maybe once when a glob of that spittle landed on her cheek. I know she views spitting on someone as one of the most disrespectful things you can do to a person, so I was only somewhat surprised to witness her then break her unwavering stare to punch the man in the throat. He went flying backward, slamming into the other junkies standing behind him, one or two of whom had nothing to do with this encounter at all.

The other junkies—the ones there to back up their buddy, anyway—scattered quite admirably, darting off in every direction imaginable, running into Node walls and slipping on pointedly non-slip floors. One tumbled onto the tracks of the tram some feet away, and Dazia bore down on the one that spat on her, her teeth bared and fist clenched with intent to beat the brains that weren't degraded by reaver rock out of his skull...if there were any left.

"No, no, we're not doing that," I muttered, striding to her and swinging her literally off her feet with an arm around her torso. Her entire body was tense, her muscles taut with the need to draw blood in brutal ways. "C'mon, baby girl, you're not gonna get bit by an addict today. Maybe tomorrow, where it can be controlled and pleasant for both of us."

As soon as she realized I'd interfered, she struggled against my hold. I kept a grip on her, impressively, until we were too far away from the situation to justify running back. I set her down, and she took a swing at me, and I ducked it, catching her next swing in my hand and pressing her back until she hit a bulkhead.

"Maybe don't knock out the only addict around here who still kind of has enough faculties to realize going against you is a colossal mistake," I grunted, keeping her at arm's length until she calmed significantly.

"You're not even supposed to be on duty today," she growled through her teeth, shaking me off of her.

I watched her dust off her leather jacket and adjust it so it fit how it was supposed to, and my eyes swept over her figure before I glanced behind me to make sure she didn't rile up any of the other junkies enough to light a fire under their asses and give chase.

"Yeah, when have I ever done what I'm told?" I turned back to her. "The fuck were you doing over there, anyway? Southern District is known almost exclusively for—"

"Yeah, you don't have to explain it to me," she snipped.

"—The less fortunate and the victims barely surviving the wrath of Oren Altavian, and I don't like to be interrupted, Miss Fourteen, if that is your real name."

"You know it's fucking not."

I narrowed my eyes imperceptibly at her. "What were you doing?"

Dazia hesitated here, which surprised me, but I didn't show it beyond lifting my eyebrows expectantly.

"It's not a mission," I continued, my voice low as I attempted to piece it together before she inevitably spilled. "You're not on duty now, either. Could you be looking for family? A loved one? Who do you know that's on reaver rock right now? It's not my business, but I'm gonna make it my business."

"Guetry," she sneered.

"And if you're mad at me for being complacent as Oren preyed on these poor people, I wouldn't blame you," I said, running a fingertip under my eye, smudging my dark liner. "Get in line, right behind me."

"Guetry."

The finality in her voice, the steel in her voice that caught the light outside the tram station, commanded my attention. I took in her set jaw and her flared nostrils, the tightness of her arms folded over her chest, and I straightened my spine.

"Yeah," I grunted, ire rising in my own chest. "Yeah, I'm clearly not gonna be here, am I?"

"You're here now, aren't you, Guetry? You were here to step in and save the day, weren't you?"

I grinned down at her at that, a humorless one I'd usually save for the likes of Oren. "Very cute. You're gonna lump me in with the unlucky ones? You think I'm just as bad a victim of Oren as them?"

"Are you gonna stand there and try to tell me you aren't?" Dazia growled. "You gonna try to sell me a fuckin' bridge, too?"

"Oh, baby, I know I'm not doin' so good," I purred, taking a step back and holding my hands up defensively. "Your mistake is thinking I'm new to this. You know how long I've been here? Do you understand that I was once Oren's actual partner in just about everything he's done, up to and including the kind that gets his rocks off, reaver and pleasurable alike?"

Dazia ran her teeth over her bottom lip as she scrutinized me, but she didn't respond for a while. "So if you're above where these people ended up, why are you here?"

I lowered my hands after running one through my hair, and I glanced over at the ruckus we'd been actively ignoring—the junkie that fell on the tracks had been knocked clear out and a tram was scheduled to arrive very soon. People of all species gathered around, cool and collected, to get the guy out before he was made into mincemeat.

I watched this happen with a slight frown, far into a well-dressed human kneeling beside the man as soon as he was lifted out and settled onto the platform. I recognized her...a woman who takes the tram from this station every day. Her job was to assist the addicts, to give them resources and assistance the government otherwise couldn't provide.

"Guetry," Dazia said gently after some time. "...You're not them."

"I am," I mutter, eventually peeling my gaze away from the scene. I shrugged stiffly. "That's me. Thing is, though...I've come to terms with that ages ago." I circled a finger tightly in the air. "Wish everybody else would fuckin' do the same."

I remembered her expression directly after that. I never forgot it, even when, months later, I ended up braindead for five months after a failed mission sent me spiraling into drinking a whole bottle of gin to chase the lethal amount of reaver rock I smoked.