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[marytvirgin]

know it’s for the better. - g. suguru

pairing: geto suguru + fem!reader, implied gojo satoru + fem!reader

summary: but butterflies cannot see their own beautiful wings, so he’ll gladly worship you quietly.

warnings: canon au, angst (please forgive me ily all), mentions of violence, vulgar language, crude humor, time-jumps, cameos from shoko, megumi, yuji, nobara :3 comfort.

word count: 16.8k

a/n: this fic has been my baby for a month, i’ve poured so much love into it. treat her well <333 loosely inspired by the songs “first love/late spring” by mitski and “waiting room” by phoebe bridgers. there are so many references to so many things in this :) some quotes that i will think about forever. hope you enjoy.

october, 2006.

“nine out of ten times.”

it’s the first sentence you say out loud after minutes of silence, and you’re given a puzzled look. it kinda makes you want to laugh, the confusion etched across his face so foreign that it’s rather intriguing. he’s golden, even under all the darkness. the world makes space for fallen angels.

“nine of ten times… what?”

you resist the urge to thumb that furrow in his brows, the creases looking wrong upon his soft features. you only smile, snuggling closer to him. either the room is magically colder, or suguru forgot to close the window. you give him the benefit of the doubt.

“that i would choose you.”

you’re slurring your words almost, but more from the plain laziness in your movements rather than from genuine exhaustion. suguru hums, fingers tapping along your arm. it may be around four in the morning, but you couldn’t sleep.

the both of you hadn’t been able to for a while.

not since riko, not since toji, and definitely not since the new scar trailing across your stomach. shoko hadn’t been able to make the repair seamless.

you didn’t really mind. a lot of things seemed pointless nowadays.

“and the other time?”

your eyes linger on the strand of hair that always falls imperfectly on his face. a little crack in his flawlessness, though you’re not sure how grand that observation actually is.

you sit up a bit, propping your head with your arm as you look down at his pretty brown eyes. narrow, as they currently are, but still evidently alluring.

“well, i think it’s okay to be selfish sometimes.” you reason, voice soft. sometimes the dependency you had with suguru worried you. waves can crash, but the water itself remains. you think you’ll always be bound to him. his, forever. and yet you say, “i’d choose myself. just for a bit of sanity.”

it’s meant to be lighthearted, but the silence that falls afterwards kills any tone of playfulness that statement might have held.

you wish you had been a little more greedy.

•••

september, 2007.

emotions were complicated things.

it’s complicated to process the bullet you watch fly through a child’s head. it’s complicated to process your near-death experience. it’s complicated to process process the news of your classmate’s death. it’s complicated to process how it’s expected for you to go back to normal. it’s complicated to process everything.

so you curl up further, and hope that the news you’re hearing now is only a nightmare. because again, it’s too complicated to process.

“he killed them.”

and with the way satoru says it, repeats it, you think he wants you to sit up and hug him. be vulnerable, because god knows it’s been so long since you have.

but you lay there, back in the bed that you used to sometimes share with the criminal. the stillness makes satoru’s stomach drop, and he can’t will himself to say it again just for the chance of getting a reaction from you. but how much pain can a heart take? because it felt like yours might give out at any moment.

you didn’t sign up for this.

naively, no, you didn’t sign up for this.

“how many?”

you’re not sure why you ask. any number would have you spiraling, but with the silent refusal satoru gives by not replying immediately, you’re sure the answer would kill you alone.

he knows. he knows the exact number, he’d seen the report.

but he stares at your desolate form, eyes scanning the mess in your room. or, lack of. he hardly saw you get get out of bed these days if it weren’t for missions. the only sign of movement from you were the plushies that used to adorn your bed, now sprawled on the floor. for a second, he wonders if they’re gifted from who he thinks they’re from. but that thought feels stupid the moment he thinks of it, because - yes. of course they were. that man had loved you like his lungs naturally loved air. he loved freely, graceful in the way he cared. about satoru, about you. anyone, really.

so saturo makes a decision, hoping that it alleviates a little bit of the ache that he now concludes he will attempt to shield you from. because he cares about you too much to see you succumb to your own internal wounds. he wants you to be strong, like him. like suguru was. he can’t lose you too.

“i don’t know.” satoru lies, and he hopes that sentence can at least ease your heartbreak. but he feels it just as much. sorrowful, the kind of pain he’s been too familar with for a while now. he frowns when you don’t move.

obstruct from his view, your hands grip your sheets as tight as humanly possible, and you’re sure that you break skin through the fabric. you want to cry, but you can’t. not in front of satoru. not while he’s right there.

because this doesn’t affect you. you didn’t care.

so what? suguru had left you to the wolves. to fend for yourself. he became a monster. it didn’t bother you.

and you try to convince yourself to think the same when satoru sits beside you. you’re still thinking it as his shaking hand places itself on your side.

but you give up when he lays beside you, feeling his grief. and that pain only cements itself further as you begin to quietly sob months worth of misery.

you don’t feel much better after.

•••

march, 2008.

nine out of ten times, you’d like to be given the option to wipe your memory.

the other time would be the ability to travel to the past. it’s hard to decide which could be better, or arguably worse. maybe you could save haibara - tag along on that stupid mission and fight that stupid curse. switch places with him, even. the world seemed a lot duller without him in it. nanami spoke even less than he did before. you couldn’t keep up a conversation with him.

was it irrational to think that you might have been able to kill toji too? he just caught you on an off-day. you’re the reason he killed riko. it’s your fault that a child is dead.

there’s so much to be sad about, you’ve started to confuse those ugly feelings with plain normality. it’s natural to feel like this. you can’t really remember better days. they’ve blurred, causing twisted retroactive interference.

your rock had fled. any form of stability you had crumbled with the weight of your sorrow, and you’re forced to miserably pick yourself back up because you’ve never really been used to being alone. satoru wasn’t really around anymore, and shoko never left her studies. you certainly weren’t abandoned, but, unfortunately, you understood that grief couldn’t just halt time forever.

you’ve mourned so much, it feels silly to still have the same ache.

but how do you even move on? what’s the process like? because you’re almost certain you wouldn’t be able to survive it.

you’ve began to rid any remnants of him in your room; any proof of his existence. clothes, specifically, because they hold on to his scent, and you think if you stop for a moment to actually look at them you might break down again. you see memories in them. times where he’s worn the black t-shirts, or his white button-up. insignificant at first glance, but it’s your life you’re holding on to.

you stuff them into bags as quickly as you can.

if he’s not here, he can’t hurt you.

at least, not anymore than he already had.

you think it’s cruel that you’re stuck with a person’s presence even if they’re not physically there anymore. you’ll always associate this room with him. the world, at that.

and maybe it’s childish that your first response (after the sulking) is to trash his belongings, but you can’t think of anything more rational to do. the universe will move on without him. you can’t be left behind too.

when you’re finished, you’re not sure if the sight of five large trash bags and an emptier room makes you want to sob or hit something. it’s like life has lost it’s color - a new vision, duller than what was deemed humane. torturous.

yet you can’t bring yourself to pick them up and take them out of the room. you’re idle, staring at them like they’re just meant to disappear. you hadn’t realized how much your room consisted of just him.

trash, is what you’re unintentionally calling everything in them. but you don’t think that, never in a million years.

if it were up to you, you’d keep everything exactly where it was, and obliviously continue a cheery facade. but the thing about awareness is that after it’s discovered, you can’t really leave it. it’s branded into your mind, poking at your brain with a stick because it will annoyingly never have the intention to leave you alone.

it’ll sit with you in your darkest hours, and you’re unable to predict when light will shine through.

“dump them.”

you jump, defenses high on alert as you instinctively fall back. almost immediately after, you drop your hands, sighing.

shoko is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. you’re about to ask her how long she’s been standing there for, but her lingering gaze on your conflicting pile of issues answers your question before you have the chance to.

“i’ll do it for you.” she offers, finally looking up to meet your eyes. they’re a little sunken in, and she looks restless. it’s the first time you’ve seen her in nearly two weeks. she’s ditched the short hair since a few months back, the length sitting comfortably at her chest now.

you dumbly stare, non-respondent on purpose. you don’t want her to do that.

she seems to recognize the discomfort on your face at her suggestion, and you watch as her brows bitterly furrow, a small glare now directed at the bags. but you don’t get much emotion other than that.

“you can’t cling on to this shit. it’s unhealthy.” she softly explains, shaking her head. you wonder if that’s her medical opinion or genuine concern speaking, but you don’t ask her to elaborate. instead, you turn around, taking a seat at the edge of your bed.

you kind of want her to leave.

“what’s healthy, then?” you retort, shrugging. it sounded a bit hypocritical coming from her. shoko had barricaded herself for the past six months, not even offering an ounce of genuine sympathy. in reality, you know it’s because she’s naturally avoidant. she didn’t crave support like you did. she didn’t need it like you had. because shoko has always been independent, never strung up on people. and you envy that more than anything.

“i don’t know.” she answers honestly, pursing her lips. but with one look around your room, and she’s certain it wasn’t this.

hesitantly, lets herself inside, eyes scanning the bareness. if it were any other day, she’d see suguru at your desk, or on your bed. he’d wave, and you would greet her with open arms. everyone knew the two of you were nearly inseparable (if it weren’t for satoru). the room always had a pleasant atmosphere when the two of you were in it. it feels cold and grim now, though. shoko has to fight a shiver.

you observe her, waiting for a joke or two. you’re nearly hoping, because any form of comedic relief had begun to be your craving. you needed an escape from all of this.

but instead, she turns back to you and wordlessly sits beside your tense form. it’s quiet for a bit.

there’s a charm that shines on the top of your desk, catching her eye. it dangles among other souvenirs, and shoko has to avert her eyes when she realizes that they’re all gifts from a certain deceased underclassman.

everything about this room feels like a graveyard.

“satoru comes back today.” shoko suddenly says, letting the first thing she can think of be verbalized. her eyes stay on the wooden floor this time. “he’s been in kyoto for a couple of days.”

you hum, nodding. you didn’t know.

if shoko kept her distance, then it was like satoru had completely faded. you couldn’t even remember the last time he had texted you.

then again, you weren’t sure if you’d even respond.

“i was thinking we could eat dinner together… when he gets back.”

your head perks up. barely.

that sounded familiar. mostly because it had been a routine up until recently. never verbally established, but it was natural for you and shoko to be accompanied by two towering sorcerers as you ate whatever satoru had decided on for the day. he was a picky eater. there’s a bitter taste on your tongue as you realize you’d be missing a member now.

“we can.” you nod, awkwardly kicking your feet back and forth. silence again.

you can feel shoko’s annoyance. how she’s trying to get you to talk, but you’re stupidly stubborn and refuse to. however, she knows you a little too well, and plays the waiting game. because she knows you’re weak when it comes to your heart, and weaker when it comes to the people you love. her included.

it’s not a relief when you finally break. if anything, it’s painful to hear, to watch. and though it’s only one question, it’s so complicated that it feels like you’ve asked her how the universe itself was created. simultaneously, it’s equally as simplistic.

it doesn’t even sound sad. it’s hollow, void of any distinct emotion. you’re staring at the wall.

“shoko…” you don’t pay attention to how she stills and watches you intently. you’re oblivious to the frown on her face, how she leans in just a little closer. and the widening of her eyes as you finish speaking. “how are you… okay?”

you feel particularly pathetic. shoko was so strong. satoru was the strongest. and yet here you were, more fragile than ever. on an alter, you’re a mere viewer from below. simply watching perched gods, basking in all their glory. the difference always evident, never comparable.

and yet shoko stares for a little, dumbfounded.

no, absolutely no one was ‘okay.’ the world was crumbling in front of everyone’s eyes. but you’ve always been a reminiscent person, she supposes. you search for familiarity. it’s harder for you to let go.

“did i tell you that?” she asks, more rhetorically than anything. there’s a teasing tone that her voice holds, but it does little to rid the tension of your question. you slowly shake your head.

“then how do you know that’s true?”

you shrug, fiddling with your fingers. “i don’t know.”

you want to tell her that your thoughts are purely based on toxic comparisons to yourself, but the air feels a little thick already, so you don’t.

“c’mere.”

there is no protest made when she wraps her arms around you, and forces you to fall into your bed with her. the pillows under your heads dip, and you’re enveloped in the softness of your blankets. shoko’s warm, and if you closed your eyes you might mistaken her hold to be like a mother’s affection. evident adoration, just by the touch. you’re derived and soak it up as much as you can, leaning into her.

it reminds you of late nights where you’d have sleepovers and gossip until the sun came up. too tired to train the next day, yaga ordering laps regardless of your visible fatigue. and you’d run with gleeful smiles, energy lifting as you were side-by-side again. an unexplainable friendship one could never truly describe with words, just pure thoughts. it’s sickeningly nostalgic, because you think about the fact that it really had not been that long ago. how quickly things change.

shoko nuzzles her face into your hair affectionately and sighs. she squeezes you tightly. declarative - ‘i’m right here.’ never enough to make up for the lost time and avoidance, but enough for now. because shoko didn’t act like this normally, and for you to see her in such a state meant more than just any regular apology.

“i think you know how to love better than any of us.” she admits, and that sentence alone has you curling a little more into her, your chest suddenly feeling tight. she leans in, and her lips form into a sorrowful smile as she observes you. full of pure understanding. again, a connection that could not be made with words. it feels a little spiritual. she brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. “that’s why you find it all so painful.”

hesitantly, you offer a sad smile, her words all bittersweet. it makes you laugh a little distastefully, the reality of them hitting you at once. “well, that’s not fair.”

“it’s not.” shoko agrees, nodding. “but it’s a lovely thing.”

you make a face. recently, it’s only brought you suffering. the good bits don’t seem as worth it - as ‘lovely’ as she describes.

you pause, contemplating for a little. and your voice is affirmative, like you’ve never been more sure in your life. you kinda sound like a naive child.

“i don’t want it. take my feelings. i don’t like them.”

it’s true. it’s the biggest truth you’ve ever told with the biggest sincerity. and you know it’s not possible, that you’re stuck like this forever. a soft, easygoing heart that beats for everyone around it. your words make shoko snort - a real genuine laugh. you giggle through watery eyes.

“the world sucks.”

this time, it is a pitying smile that shoko gives you. lop-sided, and hesitant. she feels bad.

her arms leave you, and she opts to instead lay facing you, faces mere inches from one another. you’re both laying on your cheeks, against folded hands. shoko taps your nose.

“you know what i think?”

you hum, sniffing a little as you try to focus on the small amount freckles across her face instead of the overwhelming urge to let some tears fall. it works, for the most part. you count twenty.

“i think the world gives strong feelings to strong people.”

you smile at that.

shoko was something else.

“i’m pretty fucking strong then, aren’t i?” you mumble, tired eyes blinking as you sigh. shoko’s eyes crinkle as she returns the fondness, a hand resting on your cheek.

“definitely.”

and you can only hope she’s right.

there’s nothing that interrupts those sweet moments of tranquillity. where you can act like everything is just a little better, because in all honesty, it was. shoko’s good at making you feel like that.

if you really thought hard enough, this could be just another regular day. you want it to be.

you feel shoko’s finger poke your chest, and she gives you a pointed look. it’s like she could read your mind - subconsciously, as if she had the ability of a third eye.

“it gets easier. every day it gets a little easier. but you gotta do it every day — that’s the hard part.”

she leaves it at that.

you lay together, appreciating each other’s mere presence. and it feels nice. support, like you craved, but words even more. you aren’t able to formulate how much you adore her, but actions speak louder than words, so you shuffle just a tiny bit closer.

you’re not sure how much time passes by.

when shoko stands up, she rids you of her warmth, leaving the cocoon of wonder and comfort she’d so gracefully created for you. yet you feel fine, that isolating shiver now replaced with content. you think you feel a little lighter too.

“be outside by seven. if it’s up to me, we’ll all get sushi. no promises though.”

she’s back to being more standoffish, but still your same shoko. you nod appreciatively, the thankfulness worth the weight of a million tons. your eyes follow her as she walks across the room.

the door shuts, and you’re left alone again.

you can feel your heart beat a little faster, the realization of your commitment to the later plans finally dawning upon you. it would be the first real reunion since then. maybe a chance to talk things out. be levelheaded, get some communal closure.

or, maybe you’d be able to ignore the past and focus on the present. just act like friends eating lunch. because that’s all it was, wasn’t it?

begrudgingly, you force yourself to stand, too aware of the fact that your habits of wasting time in bed have far exceeded a reasonable amount over the past few months. it was time to get better, be better.

your hands grab the first bag.

it’s heavy, as you imagine all the other ones are. but you suppose if you don’t think about what’s in them, it’ll make the process a lot smoother.

you’re nearing the door when you stop.

it’s a small paper, it’s yellow exterior almost blending in with the sunlight escaping through the windows. you inch closer.

and it’s pathetic that the sight of his handwriting on a sticky-note makes you lose your breath. shameful, because how are inanimate objects this damaging?

it’s hung above your desk. by haibara’s gifts, and by notebooks you never really used in this academically-lackluster school.

you stare at it for a while, hand resting over your forehead as you take in every minuscule detail. you let go of the bag.

it’s the last note suguru had ever left you, made a few weeks before his disappearance. before everything went downhill. little poetic phrases that would embed themselves in your mind until death. you’re afraid to look.

it’s neatly written, displayed in purple ink. doodles of clouds and flowers surround the words. he had a habit of leaving them around. you suppose you never caught this one.

there’s a little heart next to his signature, encapsulating just a memory of lost devotion.

‘how strange to dream of you, even when i am awake.’

your hand crumbles the note in a second.

the paper is evidently weak, and when you open your hand back up, the words are still clearly there, haunting you. and you know you don’t have the heart to throw it away. or, realistically - throw anything away.

you fold the note gently, and leave it on your desk. your body yearns to leave, to escape the suffocation of what suddenly felt like walls that were caving in. you slam the door on your way out, bags and all left behind.

you’d definitely prefer to wipe your memory.

•••

april, 2005.

“you’re so annoying.”

satoru grins, standing proudly as you repeatedly attempt to hit him on the head, your touch stopped by his infinity. he’d only recently learned how to control it decently - claiming that he needed to because you had a bad habit of using him as your punching bag.

“you know what though? this is a good thing.” you muse, arms crossing as you finally give up. satoru’s head tilts, and you raise a brow. “no one wants to touch you anyways.”

there’s a dramatic pout that immediately finds itself on his face, and he whines from instinct, letting his guard down for a moment to shove you. you slap his arm before he has a chance to react.

“she’s right.” suguru nods affirmatively, earning a gasp from the white-haired male, and suddenly, suguru is being shoved too. you giggle, briefly making eye contact with him. it’s a little too quick for your preference, but the stolen glance has you holding your breath for a moment.

it’s exhilarating.

suguru is beautiful in a way that is hard to describe. but it’s not from a loss of words; you can speak endlessly about him. he’s everything a person could dream of and more. but it’s little gestures that truly draw you to him. how it seems like he always lingers, attentive and patient no matter what boulders you seem to throw at him. he’ll carry that weight on his shoulders easily, and with the most effortless smile. it’s a gentleness that you weren’t even sure was possible before you met him. he defies all expectations, all normalities.

“oh, i forgot to ask-“ satoru turns to you, raising his brows. sometimes his glasses bothered you. his eyes were freakish, yes, but you also had a conflicting urge to always look at them. “how’d your mission go yesterday?”

you cringe, involuntarily stiffening as you replay the events in your head.

“stupid semi-first grade. i let my guard down for a second and it almost clawed me.” you sighed, rolling your eyes. you fail to notice suguru’s eyes widen. “but we exorcised it right after. i swear i saw nanami shit himself.”

there’s a stark difference in reactions from both boys. while satoru snickers, suguru stays quiet. white and black.

“glad you’re still with us.” satoru beams, ruffling your hair before you have a chance to swat his hand away. “right, suguru?”

all attention flocks towards him, and you and satoru patiently await his response. he’s looking off to the side.

he feels a little childish.

there’s an uncomfortable pit in suguru’s stomach that he can’t shake off, and he swallows thickly, nodding with a dismissive cough. “yeah, glad it went well.”

obliviously, you flash him a thankful smile.

it makes him feel the tiniest bit better.

he wished yaga would pair you two together, or even put you with satoru. an actual backup - not someone below your skill level. haibara and nanami weren’t comparable; they were still new to jujustu. younger, less experienced. he holds a little resentment towards your abilities, and while he knows you’re never sent on missions that are tougher than you can handle, he always has an inkling of worry that lingers uncomfortably. he hates not being around you - not knowing if you’re okay. and he knows you’re a reckless fighter. you brush off the mention of critical injuries and move on, completely unbothered. the burden of stress came so easily when he was around you and satoru.

“you have another one tomorrow, right?”

you hum, nodding as you fiddle with the end of your uniform, sighing softly. “it’s across town i think. not sure who’s coming with me yet - maybe it’ll be shoko if i beg hard enough.”

suguru has to fight a wince. also not an ideal companion. shoko didn’t specialize in combat.

she’d only be actual help if you were wounded, and -

“why not me or satoru?”

he speaks before he thinks, and iternally, he punches himself in the face. he can see satoru stop moving in his peripheral vision. he thinks he sees a smirk. coy, but no words come out.

scoffing, you deadpan. “where’s the practice in that? you guys will kill it before i even get a chance to see it.”

and that’s true, because it’s happened dozens of times before. show-offs.

“we can get kikufuku after!” satoru exclaims, completely disregarding you as you begin to protest rather loudly. “i’ve been craving it. i haven’t had it since last week!”

“wait longer.” you sneer, glaring at him. “i rather go alone.”

now that, suguru would verbally be clearly against, without any hint of shame.

“boo.” satoru deflates, rolling his eyes at you. “that won’t even happen.”

it wouldn’t. you hadn’t earned that trust yet - the absolute certainty that you’d survive if you did a mission alone.

suguru’s glad.

“not yet.” you chirp, and the hopeful smile on your face doesn’t help anything. “but soon enough.”

there’s that unwavering aura you always hold that makes suguru feel a little sick. it’s determination, stubbornness, that follows you and keeps you whole. when you talk like that, words void of any doubt, he knows you mean it. and you’ll accomplish it, because your will for achievement is stronger than your rationality.

but he has you now, right in front of him, so he’ll ease himself of the worry. for now.

“in a million years.” satoru remarks, sticking his tongue out at you, not even bothering to look your way as you hold up a rather unpleasant finger in his direction. playful banter was regular between you two; you fed off of each other’s energy. suguru seemed to be the mediator.

an observer, with eyes particularly always lingering on one certain person.

•••

spring has flowers blossoming again, and you feel inclined to stay out for as long as possible. the confinements of your dorm feels like an obstacle, and it’d be a waste to miss out on the beauty that winter’s absence welcomed.

it’s perfect weather.

the cursed weapon in your hand had begun to feel rather light, your arm adapting to the overpowering weight. you disliked close-range combat, but you were being sent on tougher missions now, so there was no room for complaints. your abilities needed to strengthen.

and it’s frustrating, really. to have to constantly forgo complete confidence and figure out where you’re weakest; you could easily make a list with areas of needed improvement. a lot of your classmates seemed to lack that issue. you suppose what’s worse is that you’re completely aware it wasn’t a competition - but you had convinced yourself that at the least, you needed to stay on their level.

even if that meant working ten times harder, even if that meant exerting yourself past a reasonable amount.

but this routine has gotten you this far, and, sincerely, it hadn’t been too much of a problem to keep up with.

in fact, you could probably do a little more.

“you shouldn’t train so much, you’ll strain yourself.”

your stance falters, though you easily recover within the same second. maybe a little too late, but you tried not to be nit-picky. he was naturally quiet.

“i gotta keep up with everyone somehow.” you quickly grin, trying to calm the visible pants of your labored breathing. it’s futile, and you momentarily turn away, as if embarrassed to look anything but perfectly composed. to look less than him - or anyone, really.

your back is towards him.

suguru can read you perfectly. it’s with ease that’s almost completely overbearing, and some part of him believes that he’s only been put on earth to watch out for you. like it knows that you aren’t the kindest when it comes to yourself.

it’s so natural that he supposes it might be his true purpose.

you only hear him hum from behind you, and suddenly there’s a weight pushing down on your raised weapon, ushering it towards the floor. gentle fingers graze against yours, and you let him grab it from you, albeit with some hesitation. he places it on the floor.

“let’s take a break, yeah?”

he doesn’t even need to coerce you, you’d follow him blindly if he asked. you always do.

and he’s leading you, knowing you’re behind him without having the urge to look back and check. exhaustion lingers, but you’re too entranced by him to focus on the sore ache of your limbs. he’s graceful as he walks.

“we trained this morning.”

you freeze momentarily, looking off to the side with a shrug. it’s not that he sounds hostile - it’s just a bit more monotone than normal. “practice makes perfect.”

suguru makes a noise of acknowledgment, but it sounds a bit absentminded and dull, lacking any understanding. like a huff of annoyance.

“right.”

he shouldn’t be this bitter, this cold, when speaking to you. it’s rough against his tongue, and his entire body, mind and all, is actively telling him to stop. emotions are ugly things, though. it makes people less rational; less aware - say things they may regret.

suguru slows his steps, up until you’re beside him, where you should be. and by a glance at you, he knows he’s gotten too uncharacteristically rigid. you’re looking at him, confusion clouding your head. concern, actually. he sees it now.

“did i do something wrong?”

the meekness in your voice, haunted with worry, clears his senses in a millisecond. his eyes widen. panicked, he feverishly shakes his head.

“no — no. of course not.”

he sees you relax a bit, but you’re still looking questionably at him. your head tilts. “then?”

suguru sighs, swallowing thickly as he stops walking. it’s an enchanting sight, grassy fields just a little off main campus. you see a few flowers.

you follow after him as he sits, greenery cushioning your bodies as you settle. suguru picks at the weeds, his eyes on the floor. he speaks quiet, voice among the gentle breeze as his hair flows in waves. you have the urge to remove his hair-tie and see it fully.

“i just worry about you.”

you don’t even attempt to hide the slight flustered smile that finds itself on your face, body feeling overwhelmingly warm. he’s avoiding eye contact for once. l

it’d be a lie if you claimed you didn’t notice the tension - the smiles, the laughs, the soft-spoken volume of his pure voice. so silky smooth it’d rid you of all your worries in a second. but there’s something so alluring about never saying it out loud. like it’s your little secret the two of you can keep, because adoration itself is something so beautiful it needed to be dragged out for as long as possible. you’ve grown to be a little impatient, though.

you nudge him teasingly.

“don’t. i’m right here.”

and it’s true; suguru sees it as a privilege. to be around your presence, to just talk to you — he worships the ground you walk on, and he’s not sure how to tell you that might be the reason why he worries so much.

instead, he chuckles, head bowing momentarily.

“i wish it were that easy.”

you bring your knees to your chest, giggling lightly.

he’s cute.

undeniably.

“it is.” you urge, dragging out the last syllable as you sway towards him. he meets your eyes. “just trust me like i trust you.”

suguru thinks that you’re sometimes oblivious to the weight of your words. they can be so intimate, and you’ll deliver them like any other sentence. as if you hadn’t just made his stomach churn, and his heart beat a little faster. he trusts you more than a healthy amount. he’d trust you with his life, his future — he’d leave everything in the palms of your hands.

“i do.” he replies, reassuringly. it’s earnest, and you smile. suguru bites the inside of his cheek, and closes his eyes. “it’s everything else that scares me.”

and there’s really nothing you can really do to help that fear, because you know it’s completely reasonable and realistic. tomorrow is never promised, especially with the hectic lives you live. you want to tell him that you have similar thoughts when he and satoru are out for days at a time, no return window strictly placed. that it has you pacing back and forth until their arrival, and even then you downplay your relief. but that’s a little embarrassing to say when he’s listening so intently, so you keep quiet.

you turn to him, shrugging with a smile you pray looks more optimistic than sorrowful.

“we can only ever hope for the best.”

a little hollow, less declarative than preferred, but it works the same. suguru nods in silent agreement.

suguru used to think that exceptional beasts like you and him could not fall in love — that it was the secret of ordinary people. for beings, who can alter the world, were special in indescribable ways. but he’s grown to be more open-minded, more accepting.

because what else could he do? you were so irresistible that it ceased the existence of his birth-given psychology. his mind, altered just for you.

“you know… you don’t have to prove yourself of anything.”

this time, it’s suguru who nudges you. he leans in, and you feel his hair brush against your arm. it tickles, but you don’t flinch. your body naturally welcomes the proximity, tingles and goosebumps etching across your skin. you squint, waiting for him to elaborate. and he does, with one validating sentence that kinda erases the possibility of self-doubt. just for a bit.

“i think you’re strong.”

he’d move stars for you, talk to the moon if it meant you got to keep the shimmer in your pretty eyes. and he’d ask the sun to stay out longer so he could continue seeing your rosy cheeks.

he’d gladly live for infinity if he could be the reason you get flustered forever.

you’re very pretty like this.

his eyes are watchful, observant as you scoff bashfully, avoiding him. and you quietly respond, with that same soothing voice. he thinks it could be a lullaby.

“i think you’re strong too.”

suguru smiles, nodding and all-knowing. he pokes you playfully.

“i know.”

you’d complain, but his tone lacks any arrogance. just a statement, enough said. because he knows how you think, how you observe.

and while you don’t say it out loud, your eyes are telling him ‘thank you.’

how beautiful the act of reading an expression is. of knowing a person so easily it’s like clockwork, unraveling intricate details to form a conscious understanding.

he watches your eyes narrow, and awaits a question he knows is on the tip of your tongue. your face looks a certain way during contemplation.

“you like doing this stuff?” you ask, tilting your head. “being a sorcerer, i mean.”

as if the two of you had other options. you didn’t.

but there’s something comforting about answering known questions. speaking the obvious into existence, letting the information linger in the air.

“i like it.” suguru replies, smiling. “if you get rid of the bad stuff.”

his voice gets quieter at the end, but you save him the questioning glance and smile back.

you hum, nodding. “like what?”

and you can name a million bad things. every day is a reminder of them. the two of you have that in common. but thankfully, the world has been kind enough to not let you experience them. your optimism hadn’t been tainted.

and as you expressed to him — you try not to dwell over the ticking clock, only ever hoping for the best.

suguru’s hands are behind him, propping himself up as he gazes at sheer, distant clouds. the sky is a pretty mix of yellow, orange, and red. evening approaches.

“well, all that self-sacrificing stuff for the betterment of mankind — for starters.” he sighs, head leaning back. you wonder if you imagine the way the slight slivers of sun sparkle against his skin, and how angelic his aura seems in that very moment.

you scoot a little closer, gaze matching his as you look upwards.

“we’re helping so many people, though.” you reply, glancing at him for a second. his eyes are closed, like a cat basking in the warmth of the light. you want to kiss his cheek.

“we are.”

“i think it’s cool.”

“it is cool.” he affirms, nodding. one eye opens, and he shamelessly stares as you obliviously observe the world. suguru is suddenly grateful that this view is currently only reserved for him, as he’s sure anyone would fall in love with you in this exact moment. yet, at the least, he wants you to see yourself in his neutral vision.

but butterflies cannot see their own beautiful wings, so he’ll gladly worship you quietly.

he looks at your hand on the grass, right beside his. it’s contemplation that’s been built up for months, thoughts of you invading all his senses. suguru figures that if he had a flower for every time he’s thought of you, he could walk through a garden forever. he inches his fingers closer.

and pauses when they’re less than a centimeter away, pulling back as you break the silence.

“i mean, i’d die for you guys too.”

suguru tenses, and you grow nervously quiet from the sight of his surprised expression, feeling suddenly embarrassed. an awkward laugh leaves your lips in an attempt to ease the gloom of your words, and you mindlessly wave your hand. “if it came down to it, y’know.”

you would in a heartbeat. you’d do it a thousand times over if you could, but you don’t tell him that. that proclamation is reserved for only you.

and as suguru looks over at you, stares, he doesn’t think he’ll ever despise an idea more than he does now. it’s blazing, the thought horrendous.

“don’t say stuff like that.” he demands, shaking his head brazenly. you can feel his eyes still on you, and he’s lost his smile. “don’t ever.”

all the defense, the stoicism, stemming from the thought that — yes. he 100% believed you would die for anyone. and that terrified him more than anything.

suguru isn’t sure how to communicate his thoughts in a softer way. he doesn’t mean for his demeanor to grow so cold again, but it bothers him - makes him sick - that you can say things like that so easily.

“i didn’t — i’m sorry.” you stutter, eyes wide. you swallow thickly, “sorry.”

and again, it’s hard to be upset with you.

but this, he can be against. he needs to be.

“you can’t think like that.” suguru speaks, softer this time. it’s pleading, as if he’s begging for a bit of mercy. and he is. “please.”

he wants to tell you that it’s okay to be selfish, to prioritize yourself first. but it would seem a bit hypocritical coming from him, because he knows he’d throw everything away in a whim if it meant keeping you safe.

love blinds him, he supposes.

“okay.” you nod, eyes on the floor. “i won’t.”

you’re considerate enough to lie, despite knowing full well that your words don’t align with your mind whatsoever. and you think suguru knows that.

he’s staring. you can feel it, eyes as intense as a midnight sky. you feel a little afraid to look up and meet them.

but it’s only instinct when he speaks your name softly, a coaxing whisper among suffocating tension.

you think he looks ethereal when being clouded with concern. godly, towering upon you. the magnitude of his gaze truly shows with the lack of distance. you register the feeling of his hand on yours before anything else, the touch searing from pure shock. a large palm covers your skin.

“… i’m sorry. i just care about you a lot.”

worry is care. it’s one of the greatest devotions — the act of panic for another person.

suguru thinks that romance may actually be the most horrific thing in life. that it’s not curses, but love. it’s the deepest weakness.

“you kill me when you get injured — when you speak like that.” he mutters, and the two of you don’t say a thing as his hand inches higher.

it feels a little harder to breathe.

“can’t promise i’ll stop.” you reply, a pitying smile finding it’s way on your face as you watch him close his eyes briefly.

“i know.”

suguru feels a little like a broken record player, doomed to repeat the same phrases like it’s clockwork.

it’s futile, you’re mutually aware.

he can’t control you, he’s unable to dictate what decisions you make — no matter how stupid, or how horrid they are to him. but he can’t bring himself to stop trying. maybe, if you’re reminded your value, you’ll eventually think the same.

but, honestly, the way you’re looking at him right now could make him believe anything.

“did you find out who’s joining you tomorrow on your mission?”

the corner of your mouth quirks upwards, and he knows your answer before you say it out loud. he grins.

your other hand places itself on top of his, and you smile back. heart giddy, but you try your best to keep your composure.

“i pulled a few strings.”

•••

december, 2015.

you wonder if growing up not only changes your body, but your soul.

because it takes a long time to realize how truly miserable you are, and even longer to see that it doesn’t have to be that way.

it’d be kinda hard to feel your unhappiness now, regardless.

“i prefer if you keep them outside, megs.” you wince, eyeing the dirt-covered paw prints on the hardwood floor.

the two perpetrators stand on either side of their summoner.

flushed and clearly embarrassed, megumi curtly nods. his hair moves the slightest with the movement, and he turns his head away from you, kicking his foot back and forth. “sorry, i wasn’t thinking.”

the dogs leave your eyesight quickly after. you snort, playfully rolling your eyes at him, walking over to ruffle the dark spikes on his head.

“it’s okay, don’t worry about it.” you smile, silently pleased when he doesn’t move away from the ministration. he’s always been more lenient with you, a fact you hold high over a certain white-haired sorcerer. “plus, i’ll just make satoru clean it up.”

if you had blinked, you might had missed the way megumi’s mouth quirks up, satisfaction clear as day. it makes you giggle, up until you finally inspect him closer. your eyes linger on the dirt covering the side of his white shirt, and you softly sigh, pursing your lips.

“how was the curse?” you ask, nudging him a little where the stains are most prominent. “roughed you up a bit, huh?”

megumi’s introduction to jujustu wasn’t entirely seamless, but he was definitely a natural. an anomaly, like satoru. born with talent.

you watch as his face turns sour, and his eyes suddenly narrow, the stoic expression more familiar. he avoids your gaze and looks at the door expectantly, mumbling something under his breath.

“what?” you reply, brows furrowing as you lean a little closer in hopes he’ll repeat himself. megumi’s mouth opens again, and he’s about to, but an obnoxious ‘i’m backkkk!’ interrupts him.

you share an unimpressed look with the younger boy.

satoru strides inside, whistling with a grin. you’ve spent too much time with him, years ticking off your lifespan from both the annoyance and contentment that he simultaneously brings into the world. he and megumi had left early in the morning, and it was around midday now — too long with him, as you can clearly pinpoint on latter’s face.

satoru’s hands are in his pockets, and he shuts the door with his shoulder, leaning back against it.

“missed us?” he smiles, and he walks over to throw an arm around megumi, which is immediately thrown off. satoru glares momentarily, but quickly looks back up at you, clearing his throat. “missed me?”

you stare, sighing softly before gently tugging megumi towards you.

“i missed megumi.” you correct, crossing your arms. your head motions to him, “and why does it look like he got pushed on the floor? i thought you said-“

“it was a grade three!” satoru immediately exclaims, and points to the boy beside you in accusation. “he told me not to get involved.”

despite his adult frame, satoru never really outgrew his childishness, still quick to blame anyone other than himself. his defensiveness was mildly irritating, but you've come to grow used to it. your head shakes disapprovingly, and you huff. “he’s thirteen, you idiot.”

satoru’s smile turns a little mischievous as megumi looks at you quizzically, a frown on his face. “so?”

you rub your head in annoyance, ignoring satoru’s ‘oooo,’ and gently flick megumi on the forehead. “you’re not an official student yet. dealing with curses by yourself can wait. for now, you fight with satoru.”

satoru dramatically sighs, and much to your dismay, approaches you. his arm infamously wraps itself around your frame, body leaning towards you, and it feels like the weight of an elephant, crushing you as you stumble. he doesn’t let up. “you worry too much. and he exorcised it! maybe with a little less ease than expected, but-“

he grunts when a hand collides with his side, and you’re too busy pushing him off to see the way he sticks his tongue out at megumi.

maybe your concerns were a little irrational, but your heart was in the right place. megumi was still young, still enrolled in a normal middle school — albeit, close to his last year — and you had originally planned to keep him completely innocent for just a while longer. no world of killing, curses, and whatnot. but satoru had pushed him into it within the first few months of his complicated adoption, and you secretly knew that there was nothing you could do to completely shield that side of the ugly world for him.

so, you suppose the least you could do was teach him how to protect himself. in case you or satoru couldn’t.

“well,” you sigh, defeatedly. there’s a lopsided smile on your face, and you expectantly look to megumi. “how was it, then?”

there’s a boyish smile, a little shy, that appears on his face. “cool.”

“see!” satoru grins, arms raising in victory. “he loved it, and he should probably do it more often-“

“fine, fine.”

it’s always been pretty futile to argue with satoru. not only is he stubborn, but painstakingly arrogant. he tends to think his ideas are always the best, simply because they’re made in his very head. and you can’t discredit them, because normally, they’re alright. but it can be frustrating. he’s also really hard to deny.

it’s only natural to give in. just so you can avoid drawing it out.

“awesome! i think he’s ready for a special grade!” satoru claps his hands, and you deadpan, rolling your eyes.

“don’t kill my kid.” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn, ignoring the way satoru’s smile settles into something a little more genuine. heartfelt, maybe.

truth be told, you’d trust satoru with everything and more. you worry and fret, but at the end of the day, he’ll still be there. he’s been stuck to you like glue for years now, and it didn’t help that you practically live under the same roof. different rooms, but realistically having no actual space. it’s nice, and you really do hold him in your heart deeply. at an arm’s length.

you end up being stuck with cooking dinner yet again — satoru winning because otherwise he’d ’poison the kids’ (which, you think is stupid because he could easily just follow a recipe. also, he’s used that excuse before.) — and it’s like clockwork, a routine, when you find yourself sat across from him on the couch afterwards, tsumiki and megumi long gone in their respective rooms.

you’ve found that gojo satoru acts a bit differently when it’s just the two of you. less irritable, and easier to talk to; you’ve noticed this since you met him. his voice gets quieter, the blindfold comes off, his hair falls, and you’re presented with a more raw version. and maybe the kids get a different version too, but you find that hard to believe when megumi’s distaste is so palpably strong.

“movie?” satoru asks, peeking at you through narrow eyes. his face is a little smushed by his palm as he leans against the armrest, and there’s a lazy smile on his face. he looks kinda tired, weirdly enough. exhaustion is so foreign on his face that it looks almost fake. you wonder how much he slept last night, spotting hints of darkness beneath the pretty blue of his vision.

you think it’s strange that you don’t get sick of his presence, even after all this time. that’s it’s forever missed more than loathed. you’re always in such close proximity, practically doing everything together, and yet you find that crave him every second he’s not beside you. pitifully, it might just be the attachment issues you’ve subconsciously formed, and have unfortunately plagued satoru with. but that reason just seems a little too sad for you to fully admit. everything realistic is somehow bitter. you softly sigh, momentarily closing your eyes.

you’d love to stay, just to hear his idiotic rambles and comments. they always brought more substance than the film itself. and he’s been gone all day. you rub your forehead, feeling a small inkling of guilt.

“i have a mission later.” you reply, apologetically, and smile sincerely. “but when i come back, yes.”

an active report coming from a town over — information on paper only describing the energy as ‘ominous.’

“oh,” satoru’s eyes widen, and though you’re unable to read the exact emotion on his face, he seems a little alarmed. nearly wincing. he’s kinda upset that you didn’t tell him sooner, that being visibly clear — but then again, did you really have an obligation to? he didn’t really tell you whenever he had missions. but that was because he’d return in a few quick hours every time. satoru didn’t like being gone for too long either. he never dragged out his departures; he hated to leave you by yourself, even if the kids were with you. it feels a little cruel. you watch his eyes dart towards the windows, and he shifts, facing you. the movement is a little awkward, and he pauses before his speaks, hesitant with his words. “want me to go with you? it’s kind of late.”

it’s sweet that he asks.

“satoru,” you chuckle, tilting your head. “it’s a couple of second grades. i’ll be fine.”

a little white lie, but you craved some action. satoru always got stuck with the interesting missions, and even then they posed no such threat to him. all of your assignments were simple, too easy to be considered enjoyable. if this was going to be the route you were taking in life, — exorcising curses — then you could at least make it somewhat fun.

satoru can tell something’s off. you’re too dismissive, and you won’t look at him directly. but he feels as though it’s not his place to scold you, and he trusts you dearly, so he ignores his gut.

“alright.” he shrugs, his arms moving behind his head as they nonchalantly cross, contrasting the way he feels a little unusual. “call me if you need anything.”

•••

december brings cold winter air, and you blow into your palms, attempting to warm the skin that’s begun to grow a little numb.

more people should go on nightly walks, you think. maybe then it’d be more calming. every street you’ve turned to is nearly empty, the only comfort being provided by dim overhead lights. but you suppose you’ve gone through more fearsome events, so this shouldn’t really be that big of a deal.

it’s a little frustrating to be walking around so aimlessly. the report gave no specific location, just the brief mention of a couple of previous sightings. by now, they’d more-than-likely dispersed to other areas.

you’re slightly tempted to call satoru for some help, as you’ve never been the best at detecting curses at a long-range, but you refrain.

it was late, and you know he’d probably never let you live it down.

satoru would never say ‘no’ to you. but there comes a price with that reliability and expectancy. small instances, like when you caught a cold, and had asked him to order for you at a coffee shop because your voice had been to sore to do so. he complied, but not without a relentless amount of teasing, even going to far as to lie to the barista, saying ‘sorry, she’s just really shy.’ he lived for your embarrassment, and it was generally harmless, so you couldn't reprimand him for it.

but sometimes every time, he’d have his own small apology. like how right after you had returned home, there was soup coincidentally ordered on your front porch.

satoru had walked inside without looking at you.

he can be tolerable. rarely.

you're nearly persuaded to go back home, midnight beginning to take a toll on your tired eyes. as far as you were aware, the curses hadn't caused harmful havoc. but it'd be pretty humiliating to head back without a small victory, and even then you'd probably stay up feeling guilty.

unintelligible whispers break you out of your thoughts, and you blink, eyes scanning the area.

goosebumps arise, and your head turns.

finally.

you nearly jump when you see it, though keep your composure, standing straighter.

it’s hardly detectable, as it stands. fairly large too. it might actually be a second grade.

you huff, brows furrowing as you inspect the curse. this was the cause of the ‘ominous’ energy? you feel it, but it’s looks don’t work well with it’s written description. maybe you’d be heading home sooner than you expected.

your hand reaches behind you to grab your weapon, and you move forward, testing to see how fast it’s reflexes are.

it doesn’t move.

you pause, rolling your eyes briefly.

“at least put up a fight, dude.” you mumble, nearly sighing as it continues to plainly watch you. you walk a little closer, up until you’re only a few feet away, and hum. “you’re not the brightest…”

you insert your weapon back into it’s sheath, and stare. it’s been a while since you’ve had the chance to see a curse so closely. they’re all usually extremely reactive, not sparing you a second before attacking. violence is their prime instinct; the main thought in their heads.

when you reach your hand to poke it, and it still doesn’t budge, you know something is wrong.

oh.

your entire body stills, and you’re certain that you feel your stomach drop to the floor.

something felt familiar.

confirming your terrible suspicions, the curse disappears in front of your very eyes. not exorcised. you’re staring at the empty space that it once occupied, too bothered by the fact that your heartbeat has picked up ten times faster.

you almost reach for your phone, but stop, feeling as though it wouldn't be the wisest decision.

this suddenly all feels a little too calculated. you don’t even attempt to grab your weapon again.

shock numbs your bones. it bleeds through and renders you useless.

you hear your name before you see him, and you figure it feels the same as the nearly-fatal slash toji had given you almost a decade ago. so painful that it makes your heart stop. it’s spoken with such intimate fondness — too much for your poor heart to comprehend.

his ubiquity is so daunting that you’re sure all time ceases to exist.

you don’t want to turn around. you want to run, flee before you know it’s too late. before you hear him speak, and the world comes crashing down all over again. you’ve tried so hard to piece it back together. every tiny detail - you’re not sure if you’d be able to start over. why now? when you’ve finally been better. when you finally believed that normality was even possible to achieve.

but you’ve always naturally given into him, and that habit stays strong even after all these years. you think he knows that too.

it’s with upmost hesitance that you turn around.

you’re not sure what to do.

he’s a sight for sore eyes. healing, beautifully transparent. a dear smile, inviting you closer. or more like a predator awaiting it’s prey. your body is giving you every negative cue, yet your legs stay in place, submissive to his presence that’s been so horrendously missed.

he a little looks older. or maybe that’s just the unfamiliar sight of all his hair down.

“hi.”

a part of you thinks that if you ignore him for long enough, he might disappear. leave you alone, as he’s chosen to do before. he’s lost the right to be welcomed.

fury is really the only emotion you could accurately pinpoint. you hate how soft he speaks. you hate it more than anything.

if you could stomach it, you’d ask him to close his eyes and turn the other direction. you’ve always been weak when he looks at you so intently, as if studying you to the finest detail. but you refuse to be the one to look away first - you selfishly crave his attention more than you value your own self-respect.

and as suguru looks at you, he thinks you’ve made it impossibly more difficult to do anything but beg for undeserving forgiveness. he’s staring at reflective streams, seeing as they slowly trail down your face. it must feel nice to be falling tears, symbolic of raindrops returning to the ocean. he’d like to sit in front of the ocean again. with you, being careless teenagers just for a little longer. but the ocean brings back bitter memories and the thoughts of a certain brunette child, so he refrains from thinking further.

“… don’t cry.”

it’s not a command of any sort, but instead a quiet plea. you’re too pretty for tears. too pretty for pain, too pretty for this unfair life he’s plagued you with.

he watches your eyes visibly widen, and your hand raises quickly, using your sleeve to wipe remnants of your intense emotions. it stains your skin a bit red from how roughly you move, lashes dismally coated with the aftermath.

“i’m not—“ and you huff, your throat feeling tight. your head bows by instinct, and you shake it firmly. you press your palms to your eyes for a few seconds, pushing harshly, as if the pressure could ease some of the shock, or ground you in any way. “i’m not fucking crying.”

cautiously, suguru nods. he’ll play into you, listen to everything you say even if it’s not entirely truthful. anything to make his appearance less daunting and harmful. he waits for you to speak, knowing the sound of his voice may not be as pleasant as he had hoped. he’s not sure what he was expecting.

battered already, in so much internal sorrow you might collapse, you breathe as deeply as you are able to. it shakes, and you opt to biting your lip instead.

harrowing disbelief is tainting your skin and bones, and it feels hopeless to even try understanding why he’s here. waltzing right back into your life, bewitchingly present. words linger, staying on the tip of your tongue as you internally battle yourself to release them. release you.

the air smells like rain. and you think — all this anger, it was once was love.

“i hate you.”

and there’s a frown on your lips, trembling as you try to muster up all of the loathe, resentment, and frustration into those three words.

it fails. because the admission is not of truth — if anything, it’s guilt. for the sole reason that you know your feelings stand the exact opposite.

you hate suguru for leaving you. not him as a person; him as a thought. a thought that consistently runs rampant through your mind, adding fuel to a prevalent fire that refuses to be extinguished. and you imagine that he likes that he still has that effect on you, because the hauntingly serene smile he holds doesn’t even falter, not for a second.

you’re forced to stare at him with that expression, and it feels wickedly taunting. not as comforting as it had before.

“that’s alright.”

it’s all he puts out into the air, and that gentle tone he holds kinda makes you want to hit him. he’s not like satoru — you’re sure he’d let you. but suguru can sense your agonizing heartbreak. he’d sense everything about you with his eyes closed. and he feels guilty for making you reopen old wounds, but he’s unaware that they’ve never been given a chance to properly heal.

geto suguru sees a little bit of you in everything lovely. the sun shining in the morning, the smiles on two pretty little girl’s faces, the moon casting a dim halo over the world at night.

you’ve only become a greater treasure. one to be cherished, to be adored. he’s missed you in his sight more than anything. you’re still a angel on earth, incredulously beautiful. even with tears, even with that despaired look on your face. he’s fighting every urge in his body to not step closer and mend your broken self.

he’d like to run his fingers over your soul and pour his love into each crack he finds.

“give me a few minutes. that’s all i need.”

he’d prefer an eternity. but he thinks that he’s asked for something reasonable.

it’s expected when you scoff, glaring daggers with blurry vision. but it doesn’t make it any less painful.

suguru can take it. he deserves it.

“please.”

the distaste on your face refuses to falter.

you crave to love without it having consequences.

since when had caring become so much of a burden? it’s evil, honestly. maybe stone-cold was the way to go. nanami might be on to something.

“stop this, suguru.” you whisper, hand sliding down your face in frustration as you let out a bitter sigh that lacks any amusement. “leave me alone.”

he savors the way his name sounds on your tongue, the drawn-our syllables holding the same familiar care of nearly a decade ago. it feels longer, too much time spent away from you. it lightens his aura, makes his senses heightened in almost a feral way. you speak of him like fate.

old habits refuse to die, and he stays where he is, the same face of persuasion used as he outwardly refuses your answer.

“kill me, then.” he shrugs, and he thinks he might actually die from the way your frown falters into shock once again. his smile twitches, nearly threatening to downcast.

it should be what you do.

suguru was a dead man. that fact hadn’t slipped your mind. you remember when satoru saw him, in the flesh, after the sentence. he couldn’t bring himself to kill him then, and you could briefly recall the look on his face when you softly told him you could eventually do it if he wasn’t able to. that solemn twinge, knowing something you wouldn’t admit out loud.

because satoru knew, better than anyone around, that if you went through with it, it would break you past the point of repair.

suguru, seemingly satisfied with your stillness, steps a bit closer.

it kinda feels like doom. you think the world may stop for a moment, and that all the bad things in life will come and finish you off. that death will take your hand, guiding you, kinder than anything that’s ever really touched it. because what it’s held before has cursed it.

when his hands reach up, you expect a knife in the throat — any consequence for the stupidity of your compliance. but the blades are soft, and they raise to hold your face. gently, as if earning the trust of a stray kitten. because they’re not blades, they’re his hands. he feels you shaking against them. and it’s odd that all tranquility really needs is a certain sight; reassurance in the form of a graceful being who has been absent for too long. you don’t move. you’re unable to. instead, you stare, taking in a lost future. hair you used to brush yourself, eyes that would watch you with such visible adoration. they still do, and that realization alone has your head hurting.

you feel his thumb wipe below your eye, and it feels cold over your heated skin. suguru sighs, his eyebrows furrowing ever-so-slightly.

“you’re very beautiful.”

it’s spoken almost hopelessly, as if the admission physically hurts for him to say. in a way, it does. he’s let go of one of the last devotions to you that he’s kept bottled inside of him, because he knows this might be the last time he sees you. he has to let everything go. you need to know what he thinks of you, how important you are. how he’s submitted his soul to the disaster of loving you since you were teenagers.

by the way his eyes narrow, and his pupils grow just a tiny bit bigger, your eyes widen, and you’re pushing him away instantly.

you know what comes next. you’re able to predict it before it’s able to horrifically conjure itself out loud.

“no, suguru.”

he follows after you, a firm yet gentle hold on your forearms stopping you from completely leaving. you’re already shaking your head, biting your lip as it threatens to quiver. he’s trapping you, and he knows he’s already won.

“let me.” he coos, rubbing the skin of your trembling limbs. and you try to convince yourself that you shouldn’t sympathize, or fall for that sweet, missed voice of his. how he’s just a stranger you unfortunately know everything about. to ignore gentle aura you’ve missed so much that you felt as though you’ve never been able to get a grip on the pain in your chest. “let me say it.”

you’re not built for this, not capable enough to take another harrowing blow.

“leave — fucking, leave.” you seethe, frantically attempting to pull your arms back, though his hold has gotten stronger, and the fight that you have left in you is quickly diminishing by the second. there’s a moment — the tiniest sliver of time — where you stumble, and you’re being pushed closer to him before you can blink.

“you don’t want me to.” suguru shakes his head, eyeing you carefully as you stop your movements. it’s declarative.

you’d like to slap him. knock some common sense into his head because, obviously. you never wanted him to. not when you were sixteen, not now, not ever.

it’s just defense. because you cruelly know that letting him in will just make everything worse. walls were needed for protection, even if the doors are halfway open.

his hands find themselves cradling your face once more, and he’s pulling you, a small gap being the only distance left between a terrible decision. you’re subconsciously following, body keen on obeying his every move. his gaze feels a little intrusive, looking so intently you have the urge to turn your head and close your eyes. your breath is shaky, and you feel a little light-headed.

you wonder if anyone else in the world has ever loved someone this terribly.

hastily, your hands place themselves on his chest with an attempt to push him away, but they stay pliant. you look at him, incredulously.

“what is wrong with you?”

it’s clear when his expression darkens a little, and he dejectedly looks to the side. you catch his eyes widening a bit, the harshness of your tone foreign, because you’ve only ever spoken to him with such tender care. you’re spewing out words with cracks in your voice, nearly whispering because you’re afraid that if you speak any louder, it’ll truly start a storm.

“you… you kill people, leave me — leave everyone — and then…” your eyes close, and you feel the liquid trailing down your cheeks again before you’re able to stop it. you can’t finish your sentence, too busy holding your breath to calm a threatening sob.

it feels like you’re sixteen again, and everything is crumbling.

his arms move slowly as they wrap themselves around you, and you feel even more inclined to cry when he presses your head against his chest. like he’s done dozens of times before. he sucks, the world sucks. this comfort is long overdue, and you still can’t find it in yourself to complain, simply succumbing to the pressure of his presence. you’d like to hug your younger self. because she needed this, even if it can’t really count as closure. even if you currently felt your knees buckling from beneath you.

“i wish i could take away the pain, pretty girl.”

suguru won’t give you false apologies. he only feels guilt for causing you harm. he dislikes how pain looks on your face, and he wants to tell you that he’s unable to sleep at night without you, that every day is a challenge. that truthfully, the ache is mutual. but he has something to accomplish, and you stand on opposing sides.

the two of you are stubborn people.

“take it,” you tremble, and your arms are already around him, despite the screams in your mind. he feels safe. he feels like everything and more. “please, please, take it.”

the pleading in your voice makes suguru feel horribly ill, and he tightens his grip on you, not really knowing what else to do.

it’s worse when you’re the perpetrator. the criminal, the evil. he wonders what your life might have looked like without him in it — how happy you could have been. should’ve been.

but there’s been bad things — events that he’s sure might had ended horrifically differently without his existence.

he wonders how your scar looks, now.

suguru’s fingers are firm as they reach below your chin, and he forces your eyes to meet once more. they’re red and glossy, but still undeniably captivating. he’d like to look at them forever.

“i would, if it were that easy. i promise you.”

you believe him. it could be from the genuine strain in his voice, or your muddled brain that’s clawing to escape your own head. what good is a healthy mind?

he’s saying your name again, and it’s quieter this time. more intimate. you don’t cower, you stay, even huddling the tiniest bit closer. you’ve given up on composure, you’ll let him selfishly have you. besides, it feels nice when he’s treating you so delicately. hands ghosting over your cheeks, eyes that admire your desperate, sad ones. you don’t stop him this time, numbly prepared for the aftermath.

he pauses, trailing his thumb over your jaw, and swallowing thickly. he’s never quite looked normal. always too perfect in comparison to everything else. he smiles, and you see a hint of something that you can’t really classify as full joy.

“i love you.”

the world doesn’t end.

you’re still looking at him, thinking that it will for a moment. instead, you see bashful pink.

‘i love you’ is such a tricky sentence. it’s powerful, meaningful, and could also be a lie. the power of speech is that there really are no limits, and you suppose that’s what makes bad people. sometimes.

he toys with the collar of your shirt, briefly, and lets out a breath of amusement through his nose. suguru feels lighter. and simultaneously horrible. he tilts his head, barely, his voice quiet.

“will you let me kiss you? even if you hate me?”

there’s a little teasing in that sentence, and he nudges his nose across the side of your face affectionately. you’re unaware of how hard his heart beats against his chest as soon as he asks.

you’re sixteen once more, and you’re silently nodding before you’re able to think further.

you’re imagining fairytales you can’t believe in.

it’s hard to determine how long you’ve thought about it. his lips on yours. your hands are in his hair and on his face nearly immediately. you’d trade a lot of things to be this close for longer — you wish to be combined. and he’s soft. he’s so soft you dread taking your hands off of him. if heaven was a place on earth, it’d be this.

pitiful.

he tastes sweet, like a forgotten dream. butterflies suffocate your insides as you stand, and your knees feel a little weaker. suguru is a bit impatient with his movements, hands trailing down your sides to squeeze and caress. his touch feels hot and is hastily done, but gentle nonetheless. you feel his lips curl up against yours, and your stomach flips.

you rather not pull away. pulling away brings back reality, and fantasy is really all you want. if you kiss him a bit harder, and close your eyes a little longer, you’re able to stay.

he pulls back first.

you’re breathing heavy, eyes wide as they bore into his. he might be the most precious thing in your life, and you’re not sure if you’re able to let him go. you’re afraid that you’ll love him forever, and that you’ll never be in the same place again. this feels cruelly temporary, and you know it is. by the way his expression settles, and the way he repeats those three words so quietly, it’s meant for only you to hear. a fact.

“i love you.”

you swallow thickly, in a haze that’s caused just by his very being. a drug-like addiction, and you feel so content it’s like you’re home.

suguru knows you won’t say it back. and in all honesty, he prefers it that way. it’s what’s best. what matters most is that he knows you mean to. he’s able to read that lovestruck wonder on your face so easily it makes him warm. it was both a relief and horror to be known so perfectly. you, who still wears your heart on your sleeve. he’s forever grateful that you’ve always been so giving, so selfless when it comes to him. he feels as though he abuses your sweet compassion.

you tug on his sleeve.

“we can work something out.” you whisper against him, and suguru knows he’s gone too far. he’s tensing, and his eyes are anxious, a small shake of his head contrasting your nods. “i’m yours. i’m yours before anything else.”

heart, mind, body, soul. you’re bonded for life, and you’ve known that since you were young.

“oh, no, baby.” suguru hurriedly answers, and the desperation in your voice, the way you clutch on to him a little tighter, has his head reeling. he’s panicking. “you’re better where you are, sweet girl.”

you know his mind is made up, that it’s fruitless to try, but you’re so blinded by desires that you don’t even care that you’re begging him. he’s mean, doing this to you. there is no ultimatum or other decision - this is it. you’re just destined to be separate, and that hurts to realize, so you’re glad he’s cushioning the blow. just enough for you to keep standing.

suguru is complicated. he hates that he is, he hates what his life has brought him (the only exception being the beauty of the people in his past; you included), but he’s certain that you’re safer as it is. golden and pure. with satoru, with shoko. and you’re strong. you’re so strong he can’t put it into words.

maybe he had some reasonable motives — riko’s death, yours and satoru’s near deaths, haibara’s death — but they’ve shaped him. shaped you, more, as it seems. you continue your life, even after it’s been tainted red, and blackened with misery. satoru, the same. you can take a bit more. you’ve gone through the worst of it. at least — it’s what he selfishly tells himself.

it was stupid to come see you. kiss you, at that. but he can’t bring himself to regret even slightly. if he’s considered evil, barbaric, he’ll gladly take the titles if it meant spending more moments with you. it’s cruel, not malicious.

you’re still his person. but he can’t have you fully — at least, not in this lifetime.

suguru isn’t really sure he could pass on the torch so easily. to give you up completely — the most ultimate sacrifice. where there would be a possibility of his replacement, and the loss of his heart. he can’t trust anyone with loving you; no one can really love you like he does. he’ll take pride in that.

“you’re going to live a long, happy life.” suguru quietly assures, nudging his nose against yours. your eyes are tightly shut, overall avoidant. this might be a nightmare, if you believe hard enough. “find someone who loves you, and you easily will, do everything-“

“i don’t want anyone else.” you interrupt, eyes narrowing as they open, like the idea is something of the unthinkable. “you’d be stupid to think i do.”

this might be worse than unrequited love, you think. every feeling is mutual, besides the belief that you should be together. he’s the bane of your existence. and that kills.

suguru is reasonable. you understand his refusals, why the two of you can’t be — how immaturely you’re thinking about this. you can’t leave your life behind for him, it’d be asking for your own death sentence and the loss of everything left that’s good in your life.

you can’t create a cycle, as much as it pains for you to come to terms with.

“i can’t have you, pretty girl.” suguru sighs, trying to ignore the way his voice wavers the tiniest bit. he’s growing desperate in persuasion, but even he falls flat against the situation. “i want to, so bad, but it’s not right. we’re not right.”

your chest feels tight as you stare up at him.

you wonder, truly, if he’s aware of all the turmoil he’s caused; that he’s let happen, because he never even came back to offer a mere shoulder for support. he simply left you in the dust.

it hurts to hear, especially coming from lips that had been pressed so wonderfully against yours. you still can’t bring yourself to hate him.

you used to fear irrational ideas. that if you let someone in, take care of you, you wouldn’t really be yourself anymore. independency never worked well, and you’ve strung on a bit too hard to a knight in shining armour. a being like icarus, who’s flown too close to the sun. you were right, it seems.

you’ve lost, and it kills to realize.

bitterly, you remember hearing some time ago that ‘it gets easier.’ or better. it’s been repeated to you, multiple times. the reality is, you’re not too sure. what gets easier is maybe the coping. but even that is still evil and painful.

hopeless, you stand, and your voice feels hoarse.

“… suguru?”

how can you hate something so natural? when it feels as though those syllables are meant to be spoken in repetition. his name means excellence; to surpass all.

suguru looks at you, eyes previously occupied with gazing upwards to avoid an act of human emotion. they mirror yours, glossy and faintly red. no visible tears. he has the self-control you lack.

but you can be a little selfish.

“can you…” you take a deep breath, and lean a little forward, resting your head in the crook of his neck to escape a reaction. if he feels the liquid of your tears, he doesn’t comment on them. he’s awfully warm. you’d like to lay in bed with him under a summer sun again. you’re trying to force every part of him into your memory while he’s pressed to closely against you. how his hair tickles your neck, the security of his loving arms keeping you from physical harm, how pretty he looks up close.

it’s not greedy to ask for a final request, you think.

“can you stay with me, then? for a few more minutes?”

an innocent question, while he’s been nothing but cruel. despite everything, you’re still you.

it reminds him of his youth. when you and satoru would get into playful arguments, gaining a few steps on him, only for you to turn back and check that he was still there. or when you would return from missions, him being the first person you looked for every time, just to let him know you came back safely.

sometimes, you’d come back a bit battered up, and instead of confiding in shoko for help like any other person would, you trusted him with treating the wounds. all natural, because that meant you got to spend more time together. human bodies are fragile things. he realized the true extent of that after toji. you really can’t take anything for granted.

so it’s really no wonder why he fell in love with you. why he came to fully accept it. and his belief stands strong — anyone would. angels are irresistible, he finds. he would sometimes see wings.

suguru’s glad you can’t see his face. because maybe then, you’d catch the sight of a reflective shimmer trailing down his cheek.

the embodiment of your dreams, hopes, and desires holds you so gently, a little tighter now. he nods against you, but it feels disconnected, because he’s faded into darkness that has already consumed him. too far gone.

time is nothing for now.

and you wonder if it actually does get better, or if everyone is just lying to you.

•••

september, 2018.

“sensei?”

blinking slowly, you immediately straighten at the sight of three towering figures above your relaxed position.

there’s a panic that sets in at the recognition of how watery your eyes feel, and your head turns in an instant to cough awkwardly, avoiding their stares.

it’s around noon, judging by how pleasantly the sun shines through the window, and how awake your students look. yuji liked to sleep in sometimes.

“did i zone out for a bit?” you mindlessly chuckle, the words feeling a little strange on your tongue. you might have a migraine from how much your head is hurting. “i didn’t get too much sleep last night, sorry guys.”

your smile radiates a reassuring warmth, and the concern on their faces leaves by the time you look back at them. if jujustu didn’t work, maybe you could take up acting.

“we finished the warmups you instructed!” nobara beams, short hair flowing after her as she proudly stands. she glances at yuji, her eyes narrowing. “well, me and fushiguro did.”

yuji shoves her.

nobara has always reminded you of rough recovery rooms and gentle curing hands. it makes you a bit nauseous, the nostalgia of it all.

the sight of the whole trio sometimes felt like daggers digging into your heart, stabbing greedy wounds into open gashes before they have a chance to heal.

brighter days for them, a dull ache for you.

“you weren’t awake yet-“

“i told you to wake me up!”

“you did not!”

yuji and nobara bicker for a second, and you feel a little overwhelmed.

because since these two have set foot on campus, they had seemed oddly familiar. unbeknownst to them, but relentlessly distressing for you. you’re silent as you observe, the uncomfortable pit in your stomach staying clear as day. stubborn, because that’s only natural for you.

more than a decade has passed — nearly three years since your last encounter, almost a year after his death, and yet here you are. the hurt just as strong, because you’ve realized that the pain will never fully go away, and you suppose you’ll have to adapt to living with it forever.

but you’re grateful. though you couldn’t go back to the way things were, you have a chance at stopping the cycle. after all, you know little about what the future has in store for them.

you hope it’s kind. you want those grins to stay permanently, for their youth and innocence to linger for as long as possible. because you never had that luxury. the end of your purity was far too quick, adult emotions flooding your senses. you’d do anything to keep them from feeling like you.

plus, you’re allowed to grieve over the child you could’ve been.

“alright, alright,” you blink, interrupting them before their voices can get any louder. they immediately quiet down, turning to you expectantly. it freaks you out a little.

you were still relatively new to whole teaching thing, not used to being followed so attentively. it felt weird to give orders — to have them be listened to, really. satoru was more of a natural, his cheekiness benefitting him perfectly. even if the students found him undeniably strange.

“give me ten minutes and i’ll meet you outside.” you wave a hand, pointing to yuji. “and sorry kiddo, you’re doing some laps for getting up late.”

you fight a smile as you witness a pout form on his lips, nobara’s laugh drowning out his whining. you’d probably only make him run one, but it was always amusing to lie to his face. you adored yuji — he was a bundle of joy graciously given to the universe. it’s pure luck that he ended up with you.

you watch as nobara drags him out, your head resting on your palm, softly chuckling. they complimented each other well. like siblings, you think.

your head turns, finally facing eyes that hadn’t strayed away from you since you woke up from your daydream. it's like a sixth sense now. you know when he's looking at you, when he seems genuinely bothered. it took time to know him. he’s a hard shell to crack.

“you don’t get special privileges, megs.” you snort, motioning your head towards the door. “go join them, i just need some time to wake up.”

megumi looks unimpressed (and honestly, when does he not?), sighing softly before coming closer. the cushion beside you sinks as he sits, and you raise a brow questionably. his voice is blunt, quiet as it fills the room.

“you think too much.”

it surprises you a little, but you’ve come to learn that megumi is rarely predictable, and to always expect the unexpected.

“do i?” you muse, your smile visibly weakening as you softly laugh.

he was too aware of everything, perception like no other. he reminded of you of suguru sometimes, behavior so nonchalant in comparison to the rest of the world. they were both silent observers.

megumi nods, and you realize he’s rather close, only a few inches away from grazing your skin. touch was something megumi struggled with growing up, so you never pushed it on him; you hated making him uncomfortable, while satoru could care less. the giant didn’t understand boundaries. but sometimes, movie nights in his adolescence led to him latching on to you in his sleep. he had his moments.

it makes the action of his hand raising, pressing your head into his shoulder, much more meaningful.

“don’t think.”

megumi’s never been one for melodramatic situations. growing up, he’d used to complain when tsumiki would force him to watch disney movies with her, getting visibly annoyed when he’d spot her tears during more heartfelt scenes. you never brought up the fact that he’d let her rest her head on his shoulder (you secretly wonder if that’s why he’s doing that now), or would rub her back. megumi’s not kind, per say, but he knows how to secretly love (in his own, strange way. similar to satoru), and you think that’s more important than anything.

“that’d be cool.” you sigh, closing your eyes. your eyelids feel heavy on your face, and you try not to get too comfortable, remembering that you’d have to get up in a few minutes. “wish it were that simple.”

megumi hums, staring straight ahead.

your past is a secret to him, tightly kept in the confinements of your heart. and that's really the only hint he's ever needed to know that it still affects you. satoru, the same. he knew little about your lives before he came into the picture, only hearing bits and pieces when you and satoru would get a bit sleep-drunk and giggle about old memories. he's always tried his best to listen, soaking in any details he can. people are generally more honest and open when physically tired. it's why they confess things during late night conversations, and why the flow of words comes out more natural.

you were different from the idiot that had originally taken him in. megumi can scream from every rooftop that he hated gojo satoru (despite it being secretly untrue), but you? the mediator, who he looked up to more than anything? impossible, it’d be criminal.

maybe you disliked seeming hopeless in front of him, but he didn't mind that vulnerability. he wished you'd trust him with it more — that you knew he would never dream of judging you. he's not too well with words, or communicating, really, so he's also not too sure how to tell you. a double-edged sword.

"you're okay, though — right?"

his eyes glance downwards towards you, dark blue highlighting the inklings of concern. it's not awkward when he asks.

he has a heart, despite satoru's beliefs.

heart warmed, you grin, raising your head to look at him with crinkled narrowed eyes.

you find it funny how the world works. going in some strange, bittersweet chain of events because here you were, caring for the life of a dead man’s son while he had permanently tainted yours. and you're happy. not completely, but sun shines through. the blinds are halfway open.

something that had once seemed so dark has been becoming technicolor.

"yeah." you nod, sincerely, and pat his cheek gently, stifling a laugh when his face scrunches in silent disapproval. "thank you for asking. really."

his face gently pulls away from your touch, and you can tell he's slightly flustered, just a tad embarrassed at your small affection. you're grateful for him, unbelievably thankful for the bits of effort he's always put into caring about you (and tsumiki. and maybe the tiniest bit for satoru. tiny.). a true blessing.

gingerly, he stands up, hands in his pockets as he glances at you again, double-checking. you smile.

he only continues to walk towards the door when you give him a nod in reassurance.

you're left staring at your hands when he leaves, a soft sigh escaping your lips. some days are harder than others. it's the toss of a coin, no chances pre-determined. you simply wake up to the surprise every time.

admittedly, you miss the version of you that doesn’t really exist anymore. naive, but more open. fearless and valiant, only ever seeking improvement. you feel bitter that you took that time of your life for granted.

you’ve found that everything’s felt easier, though. something in the air is different.

“hey, did you leave the kids outside? it's hot out there and they're complaining like crazy-“

you hear footsteps come to a halt, and your head tilts up, finding satoru in it's vision. he stands in place by the door, eyes wide as he stares.

"hey," you nonchalantly wave, stretching to alleviate the soreness in your muscles. "i'll be out in a second."

you attempt to get up from your seat, but satoru ushers towards you, stopping you from successfully moving.

"woah, woah, woah — what’s got you so blue?” he asks, scanning over you briefly. there's a light-hearted smile on his face, and if you didn't know him well enough, you might have mistaken it for amusement. but it's down-casted slightly, and he's looking at you a little too intently.

you snort, rolling your eyes playfully, “i’m not blue.”

satoru blinks, unappreciative of the response that he can only justify was from being around him too often.

“fine — what’s wrong with you?” he corrects himself bluntly, crossing his arms. your eyes follow him as he takes a seat beside you, and you internally sigh, thinking about how you’ve left your three students to perish under the sun.

you wave a hand dismissively, "nothing.”

“aw, c’mon,” satoru drawls, and you have half a mind to complain when he sprawls himself over your lap, his eyewear pushed upwards and off his face as he looks up at you. the blue twinkles, even under the fluorescent lighting. “you’ve never been a good liar.”

“okay, now that’s a lie. a bad one.” you scoff, poking his nose. “i’m a talented actress. oscar worthy.”

he playfully winces, narrowing his eyes at you. “no one’s ever been honest with you before, huh?”

“who needs opinions?” you roll your eyes, nudging his head softly. “it’s all about self-love now.”

“yeah, yeah,” satoru whistles, peering up from one eye, the other closed as he visibly relaxes against you. “see how far that takes you.”

you gasp dramatically, “mean.”

the corner of his lips quirks up, and his familiar smirk returns.

banter was natural with satoru. it was hard to take anything seriously with him around.

he brings joy in mundaneness.

“you shouldn’t trust megumi, y’know.”

confused, you pause, looking at him questionably.

“why?” you ask, and you’re internally conflicted as you attempt to recall every recent memory in your head that’s a classified secret. or, something you’ve generally told megumi as of late. nothing comes to mind.

“dunno. he told me something was wrong with you when i walked past him right now.”

your eyes widen, and you groan, head falling back against the couch’s soft exterior.

traitor.

“so,” satoru continues, and his voice is softer, a little more serious. “really — what’s wrong?”

it’s always been pointless to beat around the bush with satoru. he’s impatient, immature, and wonderful. a bad mix that makes you wonder how it’s even possible that he’s generally likable.

“nothing.” you emphasize, rubbing your head in slight annoyance. “he’s making it up.”

you rather not have this conversation. not while the air is half-hearted, and everything has been steady. but he’s right there. and it might not hurt as much as you think it will.

satoru gawks, mouth open, before poking you harshly. “now you’re calling our son a liar? low blow.”

you huff, “he went lower by betraying me.”

a beat of silence.

“so he was right?” satoru blinks, and he’s sitting up hesitantly, awaiting your voice, or a movement. anything to confirm.

“will you leave me alone if i say no?”

“no? you just admitted he wasn’t lying.”

“oh. yeah.”

you’re smiling lightly, faintly awful because you’re not too sure how wise you’re being. maybe this was only the mature option.

“um… i was just thinking. about him.”

you hadn’t really spoken much about last december. there was no tension or anything — it was just a touchy subject for the both of you.

satoru had more right to be bothered.

you expect his expression to drop — for it to grow uncomfortably quiet, leaving you to voice a regretful apology. you’ve rarely seen satoru break. his joyous front is him in natural form. sorrow doesn’t look right on his face.

he’s only been at his worse around you. and that’s a fact that binds you for life, as dismissive as you two seem to act about it.

angels carry weights off your shoulders, and satoru smiles a little. albeit, visibly bittersweet, but a smile.

“we do that a lot, don’t we?”

he’s stupid, annoying, and infuriating when he looks at you like that. as if you two are similar, and he knows how to ice the bruises on your back.

(he does.)

geto suguru is an enigma. is, because even in death, he’s found a way to stay alive. he lives in memories; in thoughts that keep both of you awake at night.

“i guess i just …” you trail off, staring at the floor. you’d be okay with living the rest of your life by satoru’s side. he’s peace, and he knows you tenderly.

you exhale, a small bitter chuckle leaving your lips.

“i don’t know what to do with all the love i have for him.” you admit, arms laying flat as you shrug with a despaired smile that makes satoru feel a little hollow. your hands flow freely, motioning for a few moments before resting back in your lap. “i don’t know where to put it.”

you haven’t known in years. it’s bundled up, suffocating your insides and exhausting your soul. he’s too well tangled with it.

a lot was left unsaid.

answers you crave, questions that will forever follow.

“i’ll take it.”

satoru grins, and you have to bite back a smile from how infectious his expression is. it radiates sunshine.

you feel his warm hands cup over yours, and he gently rubs across your knuckles with his thumbs, soothing that isolating cold. “you can give it to all of us, actually. but more for me.”

he’s silly, and he’s everything and more.

you wonder if you would’ve made it through without him. he’s impacted your life so heavily, you can’t imagine a world void of his presence.

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you mumble, smile ever-so-visible as you playfully nudge him. satoru nods feverishly.

“i’d adore it.” he’s beaming like the cheshire cat, and your expression falls flat as you await whatever idiotic words would flow out of his mouth next. he brings a finger to his chin and hums.

“you know what, though? maybe give some extra to megumi. but i’m not really sure any love could save that kid. not even a mother’s. he's creepy, i'm telling you-“

“satoru.”

he innocently smiles, eyes closed. “just a suggestion.”

you playfully roll your eyes.

it’s all romanticism until it truly hurts. love seems so small, so trivial, when you’re not being affected.

satoru hides his grief better than you ever could. he copes uniquely, and you suppose his way may even help you a little.

they should invent a healing that is linear, you think. so you can’t fall behind, and you can be all-smiles too.

but you’re close enough.

just the right amount, actually.

[marytvirgin]

yes hes my comfort character, and yes he does beat the shit out of people. he multitasks idk

[marytvirgin]

that feminine urge to read something that makes you cry, get angry, scream, laugh like a hormonal teenager, turn up the heat, feel like the most unique and beautiful human being on earth. *sighs*

[marytvirgin]

something’s got to give ; john price

pairing john price x f!reader  word count 2.9k  synopsis a relationship bound to fail from the start. content contains creampie, slight breeding kink, age gap (reader is ~21/price is mid30s), slight angst, hurt/no comfort

Continuar lendo

[marytvirgin]

HAL, HEAR ME OUT !!! ghost coming home to wis wife on Easter, he thought he wouldnt manage to come back home in time, but Price dismisses him earlier, so he decides to surprise her by making a egg hunt for her, something she always said she liked to do when she was little, I KNOW THIS IS A SPECIFIC REQUEST, FEEL FREE TO DENY DEARIE, i just really love easter loool (and simon too)

love ur works, hal ❤

A Good Man

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to Simon's past & trauma, delving into his psyche, angst, but a lot of fluff, Simon's POV

A/N: I knew I had to get this out before Easter actually came around so here it is early, Anon! This was an adorable request. Enjoy and have a happy holiday! <3

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

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it. 

Skin shredded; showing every tear and rip with a thinly veiled sense of pride along with a detailed description of every bullet wound and burn. Rope tears along the forearms and red stab marks over the visible spine of his back. Tattoos that depict skeletons and war. He couldn’t tell you every life he had ended, but he could name names until his tongue went black and fell off; though he spared you the details. 

Simon Riley was a devil incarnate. Dead-eyed and robust of body. Muscles wound with promised death and the trigger finger to prove it. His life was measured in an hourglass, the sand cascading down like the blood from his knife after a kill; it would stop flowing, one day – abrupt and final. Simon Riley was a demon, a monster. Simon Riley was a Ghost. 

A ghost with an impeccable memory and a deep love for the woman currently on the living room couch. 

The man blinks, slate eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest with a slow melting of his shoulders. He had a doubt that you had planned to fall asleep with the Tv on – or the floor lamp, for that matter. 

Its golden light slipped over your form, and he traced the flow of it as the voice of the news anchor went in one ear and out the other. Gradually, a hand slipped to the balaclava over his head as your lips let loose a grumble, nose nuzzling the feather pillow. 

Simon often found himself watching you sleep when he was home; how your face would lose all tension in those brief intermissions between oblivion and awakeness. When his own nights were restless, it helped to know that at least someone was at ease, especially if it was you. The fabric slips from his tired visage, the mess of blonde locks atop his head sticking this way and that; layered with the gleam of grease. As the black face-paint stains his sockets and spreads with a swipe of a stiff palm, the ever-constant cloud over his head peels back but for a brief moment of peace. 

His bag was still in the foyer, holding three months of dirty clothes and gear hostage in its zipped space; stained, and bloodied. The man himself wasn’t much better. 

It had been a long few months. 

Hooking the balaclava onto the belt of his cargo pants, Simon bends down on an achy knee, a grunt in his throat sounding off like a boar. Scarred fingers go to brush your cheek, though no words exit his mouth, no whispers of adoration. Just a glimmer in his eyes, a release of that furrowed line in the center of his forehead that seemed permanent these days. 

Staring, the faint twitch of his lips is the only tell at all that he was content at all, feeling your skin as a feather would slide over water. He takes down a breath.

There were few instances that Simon fully remembers from his childhood – most displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole – though there is one he refuses to lock away. His mother. He can’t help it, and before he can stop himself the words are spilling directly from his heart to his mouth. 

Hell, he really must be tired. 

“She’d of loved you, Sweetheart.” It’s like he’s startled by his own voice, head pulling back and walls going back up, but that delicate glimpse was enough. 

A gravel voice and manchester accent bleed together to form some piece of the puzzle that was his pure adoration for you; small cardboard cuts and divots that had been given over to create a picture. Simon Riley was a ghost, yes, the Ghost, but he was never that when he was home. 

He was just Simon to you.

Blue eyes study the small smile that blesses your face when the man runs his fingers into your hair and attentively separates knots; your body unconsciously molding to his touch. With a kiss on your forehead, Simon chooses to not wake you. It’s late, the man reasons, and he knows how hard it is for you to sleep when he’s gone. Almost as hard as it is for him when he can’t feel your weight on the opposite side of the thin mattress he’s cursed with in the barracks. 

Against his better judgment, he’d learned to love your contact; your presence next to him and the way you fit into his arms.

As gently as he’s able, the black ink of his tattooed arm slips under your shoulders, pushing between the cushion and your limp body to lie still. The other hooks around your knees, and with a pause to make sure you weren't going to wake up, Simon lifts you as easily as a piece of paper. Your weight lays comfortingly against his chest, shallow breath hitting his neck and he thinks for a moment just how it was possible to love something more than you can love anyone else that came before. 

“Simon…” Your voice brings goosebumps to his forearms, his fingers tightening over the shirt he now recognizes as his own clothing you. A smirk runs over his face. 

Lips caress his pulse, a nose taking in his scent of canvas and sweat; a tinge of barely restrained corruption, a soul more damaged than a window shattered into a million pieces.

How can you stand it? How could your body instinctively lay into him and give redemption willingly? 

Simon grips you ever closer, using his own body heat to lull you back to oblivion. He didn’t have an answer – probably never would – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t forever grateful. 

But he was a stiff man; a stoic one. 

He slips through the bedroom door, navigating in the dark as if his eyes had built-in night vision, and hums out, “it’s me. Go on – back to sleep now, Love.” 

Air communes with a soft grunt, and Simon watches from the side of his vision as your lids flicker open and closed. As desperate as the fight is, it’s over fairly quickly when he lowers you to the sheets, cupping your head and setting in on the pillow. 

Soft fingers wrap his lower arm, and with trapped breath, Simon watches your lips connect to the pale skin of his wrist before your form once more goes slack; ever the stubborn one to greet him even half-gone. Weak mumbles stuck forming ‘welcome home’ and ‘love you’ on a lead tongue garble to nothingness like a gargoyle’s stone speech. 

“Hmm.” The Lieutenant smirks as the area tingles, preening like a bird. There are many things to say to you, but he settles with a mumbled, “Don’t hog the sheets. Gotta go take care of the mess first, copy?” 

You don’t answer, of course. With a delicate pet on your head, Simon exits the room silently to take a shower and organize his gear; closing the door behind him only halfway so he can still keep an eye on you as he passes. Ever the neat partner, he wouldn’t go to sleep until all were in their proper places – clothes in the washer, knives and various licensed weapons in the nightstand, and paperwork in the office. 

There was a sanctity in this. A way to get rid of the lingering adrenaline of being on Base or in the field – deterioration of the mind but in such a way it would be described as a boil to a simmer. 

All of it is uneventful. 

He enters the kitchen with only a white towel around his waist sometime later, flicking on the lights and running his fingers through his damp hair before bee-lining to the fridge. If there needed to be a list made of the things he loved the most, it would be fairly short – only three. 

One, you, two, the adrenaline rush of a good deployment, and, finally, your food.  

Simon would listen to Johnny’s rambling for days if it ended with an excellent heaping plate of whatever you cooked for supper.

Opening the fridge, the man’s eyes widen, shimmering with azure glass.

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine,” he breathes to himself, hand reaching inside the box with fervor, “you’ve been busy, then, eh…? Bloody feast in ‘ere.” 

The Lieutenant drags out a heaping plate of steak and potatoes – a side of greens covered in plastic and a sticky note on top. 

‘Save for Simon.’ 

The food didn’t look older than a day or two…did you save him some of your meals every once and a while just in case he would show up?

He grunts, re-reading your chicken scratch with a swelling of his chest and a foreign heat on his cheeks. Simon moves to the oven, preheating it and placing a cooling rack on a metal pan over parchment paper. Damned if the man would mess up your masterpiece; he’d reheat it properly. 

With minimal noise, he waits for the meat to be done and settles on placing the potatoes in the microwave with the greens for time's sake. Standing in the kitchen, his eyes gradually fall closed, their weight heavy. But his ears perk at the faint pitter-patter of bare feet. 

The sneaking arms around his waist don’t startle him, and with a sigh on his lips, Simon feels you melt into the curve of his open skin. A head connecting with his spine. 

“Thought I brought you back to bed?” He whispers, flesh melding to you like hot iron, a scarred hand resting over the one that’s on his abdomen. 

Your nose nestles into the burns over his back, and even if you couldn’t see it – the sudden sweep of vulnerability is nearly heard. You lay a kiss and think no more of it, but Simon shivers with beautiful agony; eyes gazing off.

“...Erm,” you groan, fingers tracing the build of his ribs, “needed to hold you.” Your breath stills – half-asleep. “You’re…here?”  

Simon chuckles, hearing it echo off the walls.

“I’m ‘ere, Love. Few more bloody cuts,” he breathes, “but I’m here.” 

“Good. Missed you.” A second of kisses and distant blue eyes. Muffled yawns into his flesh. “Didn’t think you’d be back in time for Easter.” 

Simon twists, aware of the delicate fold of his towel, and lifts your fatigued form onto the counter, settling you down so you don’t fall sideways. He blinks down at you, cupping your cheek when your neck gets too heavy to hold up. Your lids rapidly move, your nose scrunched at the overhead light and the man knows you’re only awake because he’s home. 

He utters out to you, faces close, “The Old Man let me off early,” and lays a peck to your forehead, holding his lips there for a long second. Mutters into your skin, “prickly bastard’s been antsy – hasn’t had a good drink in weeks. Was about ready to strangle someone.”

She’s warm.

His body slots itself between your legs, one arm around your back and the other placed on the counter. Simon’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and with a groan of satisfaction, he feels your fingers go through his locks; itching at his scalp dreamily. 

“...Dunno whether to thank him or send ‘em to a therapist.” You whisper, kissing his neck, unable to keep your hands off each other for a mere second. 

“Better to place money on the both.” His grumbled words are barely heard. “I’ve got two weeks ‘fore they need me back.” 

A soft hum is all he gets before the timer goes off and he takes down a breath, forcing himself to peel back from you and grab his supper. 

By the time the both of you are in bed, he’d nearly forgotten about your comment, and as he stroked your hair and felt you bring him closer under the covers, he remembers. He’d asked Price to give him two weeks on account of the holiday you’d loved so much – Easter – and had used the Captain's deteriorating attitude as a pry. It had been easy enough, the two had known each other for a long time. They knew their breaking points. 

Sometimes living around a handful of other men formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood, and while that was true for 141, it was also a pain in the ass. People long for home at the end of it – a soft touch and sweet kisses. There’s only so long you can go with yelling orders into the same faces and playing Poker in a shitty safehouse.

Simon never thought he’d be worthy of it, a home, but here he is regardless and here he would stay. And he knew Easter was your favorite time of the year, and he also knew that Easter was…tomorrow. His dead eyes widened. 

The plan formed quickly, his strategic mind helping as it always does, and as he snuck out of bed and laid his lips to yours in a tiny kiss, a shirt was tossed on along with boxers. You never heard the door to the garage door opening, just snuggled back up to the pillow and an old t-shirt he’d placed in his spot instead; inhaling his calming scent.

—

When the sun had risen an hour ago and Simon had finished with heavy fingers. Groaning, the back of a hand meets a forehead, trying to swipe away sleepiness as one would a fly. But he says nothing, feet hitting the floor as he enters the kitchen, an object held in his palm that was quickly stashed in the breadbox.

This was childish, he knew, not at all like the deadly Lieutenant of TF-141. Like Ghost. The boys would tease him relentlessly if they found out.

“Simon…?” Your voice draws him back, and with a look over his shoulders, he finds you wrapped in the comforter like a mouse. “What are you doing out here?” 

The lie comes easily.

“Fixin’ breakfast.” Your eyes flicker to the open breadbox, eyebrows furrowing. A smirk grows and you walk over with a laugh living in your expression. 

“I don’t even trust you to toast bread, Love, go sit down. You’ve been stuck on rations for too long.” Simon only steps back, gazing over your head and seeing your hand pause. “I’ll make us some…” 

He watches as he loves to do, memorizing the parting of your lips and the recognition lighting like a shy fire. The man smiles then, and it is a delicate thing; an expression not tainted with sarcasm or deception. 

Your hand delves into the box and pulls out a plastic egg softly as if it would snap in two. 

It’s cheap, made of thin plastic and fading in colors of the shade of pastel pink. Chipping. There’s nothing inside of it, just a bare piece of holiday joy that never meant too much to anyone beyond children. But with how you’re staring up at him, Simon thinks all the searching in the bins from the garage was worth it. 

“What’s this?” Your voice wraps him close, and your hand holds the object close. Simon shrugs, digging deep into your vision. 

“I’ve the faintest idea, Sunshine.” The giggle flies to his cold heart and he pulls you to his chest to still the raging of it. “My guess,” he raises a stiff brow, “intruder broke in, yeah?” 

“Did this intruder have ears and a pink nose?” You ask, noses brushing. “A hop in his step, maybe?” 

“Hell if I know,” Simon grunts, eyes flickering away before he can break before you. “Best get my gun just in case – you’ll ‘ave to find the rest ‘o the bastard things, though.”

You kiss him then, and he captures the back of your head, holding you to him as if you’d disappear if he let go. He doesn't know what you did to possess him so, to make his thoughts be only of you even when he’s halfway around the world. Were you an angel? A shred of light made physical? Perhaps an embodiment of all the good in the universe? 

Simon had no answer, as he usually did when it came to you, and you sighed into him, whispering redemption to his soul. 

You said you loved him, and he said it back with every ounce of him that was untouched by death. And then you pulled from him with a laugh that could throw away darkness and disappeared with promises of finding the remaining eggs. Like a loyal hound of hell, Simon followed, pulling on the comforter to slow you down so you don’t trip. He would always follow.

The vision of a good life starts with a view of the present. Who you choose to care about; how you make meaning of nothing but a shared morning and a memory of youth. Simon does not remember much of his childhood. Most of the memories are displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole. Cast away. 

Coated in fear and lies.

Some days he asks how he can still call himself Simon Riley – it’s the name of a dead man, after all…and then he looks at your beaming face, and his question is answered as fast as it was thought up. 

You deserve Simon Riley, not Ghost. Not a devil incarnate or Dead-eyed. A demon, or a monster. If there was even a shred of purity left in him, that was what he knew beyond doubt. 

Simon Riley was selfish, he admitted, and he was loathed to leave you…so here he would stay. Hiding easter eggs and giving veiled hints when you were close to one near the planted flowers in the backyard. There was a simplicity that the man bathed in – the blatant enjoyment of a plain life. 

With a chuckle in the back of his throat, Simon pushes off the back porch and makes a comment about how you were closer to the dead bird you had buried in the garden bed than an egg. A flick of your middle finger leaves him smirking, and he splays a hand over your back, angling your body farther north. The kiss left on his stubbled cheek makes him warmer than he wants to admit; cold eyes soften.

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it…but he was trying to be damn near close. Until then, the ring he had bought would stay in his office.

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @shoe1412, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @john-pricee, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce

[marytvirgin]

Inmense tenderness, last degree of sorrow

AO3

Captain John Price x reader

Summary: "You’ll come back,” you finally said, but he heard the pain you were trying to hide under fake positivity. “You promised you would.”

“Of course I will,” he quickly agreed. “Of course I will, I swear.”

You laughed softly against his ear. If he concentrated enough, he could imagine he was with you, standing in the middle of the kitchen as you cooked and he avoided getting close to the stove while you talked his ear off.

“I’ll wait for you, John. Just come back.”

He would move mountains to get back to you, but he couldn’t help but wonder when you’d get tired of always waiting. 

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, no happy ending (I'm so sorry), talks of domestic abuse (not by John), very brief talks of war, fluff, implied sexual content (nothing is actually shown), brief mentions of pregnacy, lmk if I missed something.

A/N: I'm so so sorry.

Sometimes the greatest act of love you can do for a person is to disappear from their life

Deep inside his heart, under the pain and the scars, he has a soft spot that he tried very hard to protect for a very long time. He kept it hidden, tended to it as much as he could so it would not go rough and hard like the rest of him. He really tried.

He failed.

John remembers it felt like waking up. Like the summer days when his father was not as angry as always and the weather was nice, when his skin got warm from the rays of sunlight that seeped through his window and he woke up naturally, not by yelling and things breaking. 

Like when his mother finally left that bastard, and the bruises on his skin started fading to never reappear. Not by his hands, at least. 

He was barely fifteen, the first time he talked to you. He was full of anger and his mouth felt like it had boiling coal inside, always waiting for the right moment to spit and burn. 

You were sitting down on the floor of the hallway, working on some project that to this day he doesn’t know what subject it was for. A small, shy boy was sitting next to you, one John knew his “friends” bothered a lot. You were smiling at him so brightly it made something weird spark inside his chest even then, but he had squished it, ignored how red his face must have gotten when you turned to look at him. That particular morning had started with yelling, but he had no idea that it was about to end. That day, he let it get to him too much, ran out of patience too soon. 

He picked the wrong day and the wrong person to let it out on, though.

“Fucking idiot,” he had muttered under his breath, low enough for other people to miss but loud enough for his target when he passed the boy. The boy had raised his head and winced, expecting the kind of beating that others gave him. John wasn’t like that. Hell, he wasn’t even one to insult. He was being like his fucking father.

But you quickly fixed it for him. 

“You shouldn’t talk to yourself like that, John,” you had told him, still with a wide smile that now had a sharp edge to it. He frowned at you, feeling the anger crawl up his skin. He knew you knew who he was, you shared so many classes it would be absurd not to. But he didn’t like it. He always looked at you from afar, he was fine like that, and this was how the first contact was going?

(He should have known it was doomed from the start.)

“Who’s talking to you?”

The laugh that came from you let him know instantly that he had fucked up. Badly.

“Were we talking to you when you came to bother us, John?” Your voice was deadly soft, like the chime of a rattlesnake. He gulped. “Do you not know any other way to try and catch attention besides being so fucking annoying?”

HIs face grew even redder. “Not quite as much as you, darlin’.”

Even he knew it was a weak comeback. The boy was trying to hide his smile, and instead of making him angry, it just made him feel humiliated.

“Not even on my worst day would I reach the level of stupidity you handle on your best day, John.”

The boy was full on laughing by then. John had just huffed, walking away while trying to hide his face. He vowed to take you back on it later.

(He never did. He fell in love instead.)

-

(“I need your help with something.”

“What makes you think I would help someone like you?”

“You wouldn’t hurt a fly, you’re too tender for that.”

“You’re not a fly, John Price. I’ll help you, just don’t forget that.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

He knew he was fucked then. You didn’t even ask what the “something” was.)

-

“They didn’t ask for that, John. Focus on the fucking point.”

At 17, with an abusive father in jail and a mother with sparks back at her eyes and a job in the local shelter that seemed to make her feel full of life, your tone had only made him laugh. 

“Mine is an interesting point though, sweetheart. You can’t deny that.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but he could see the smile that tried to escape from your lips. “Your good points aren’t going to pass the subject for you, John.”

It felt weird to him, how you called him by his name in almost every sentence. All the others in school just called him by his last name - which you had teased him endlessly for after you noticed-, the teachers too. Only his mother called him pet names, and it was always John from you. John, let me pay attention to class. Stop playing with the pencil John, you’ll break it. Are you okay, John? Can you come pick me up, John? You’re so annoying, John. 

(He would miss it later on.)

But it came from you, so it was okay. Any words he got from you were like a melody straight from Heaven, even more so if it was his name. He enjoyed it, no matter how strange it was sometimes. So he never asked, never mentioned it. 

“You’ll pass the subject for me, won’t you baby?”

You shoved him away, laughing at the puppy eyes he had tried to give you. “You need to get checked or something, I swear.”

But he could see it. He could see that warmth that spread through his chest and showed in his eyes reflected in yours every time you looked at him, all the way back then. He was sure he was not alone in the feeling, there was no way. And he loved making you laugh. 

“You’ve got somethin’ t’do tonight?”

You had raised your eyebrow at him just then, and for a second he truly felt he was fucking up. Something heavy and cold settled at the bottom of his stomach, tying up knots all the way to his throat. He held his breath. 

“It’s Friday. When do I ever, John?”

Which was true, and showed just how stupid he got when he was around you. 

(In truth, he didn’t need help with schoolwork. He could pull it off alone and not just do good, but great. But you didn’t need to know that, did you? It helped him keep up the charade of being slightly stupid just so you didn’t realize it happened only when you were with him. You made him feel stupidly in love.)

He could feel his cheeks heat up, pink most likely than not painting them by then. “Just checkin’. Wanna go with me somewhere?”

“Somewhere?” you had asked, but there was a soft smile gracing your lips as you did so. He knew he had won by then.

“Just say yes.”

You shook your head at him, laughing softly without taking your eyes away from his face. “Okay John, yes.”

What on Earth would take to make you keep looking at him like that? Doesn’t matter, he would do it. He would do anything.

So, when later came, he helped you pack food inside a little basket -requested by him- and grabbed a small blanket from the couch in your living room. You had frowned at him, amused, but hadn’t said anything. 

“Go grab a jacket,” he told you, rubbing your arm up and down. You nodded, but made no movement to go.

“Need one? I can look for one that fits-”

“I’ll be okay, love, promise.”

A hazy look came over your eyes, opening and closing your mouth without actually saying anything. He felt his face get hot again, suddenly nervous. He called you names when you were joking around, when he felt bursting with something soft that he knew the name of, but never otherwise. And never… never something that rang so true like love. 

“Go”, he whispered, trying as hard as he could not to kiss you.

You nodded, hurrying to your room while you let him stand there with his heart drilling in his ears.

.

“You brought me to see the stars, John Price?”

His face heated up again, fuck. It sounded so cheesy when you put it like that, but it was what he was doing. He brought you to see the stars, just to see if it would help him pay attention to something else even if you were close. 

(It didn’t. Everything paled in comparison if you were there.)

“Just tell me what you see, you’re such a nerd you must know them by heart.”

You punched his arm softly, making him laugh when he saw how shy you got. 

You laid next to him, on top of a thick blanket that he had packed inside his pickup when the idea had come to his mind. He could feel your hand millimeters away from him, sending a pleasant burn all the way to his chest. 

“You see that one?” you asked, pointing somewhere in the sky. He nodded, but couldn’t actually see what you meant. He just wanted to make you happy.

“That’s the Plough,” you kept going, as he tried his best to find what you wanted him to. “Or the Big Dipper, whatever you prefer. Everybody says it looks like a saucepan, but I like to compare it to a spoon.”

He hummed, nodding. He still couldn’t find it. “I think a spoon sounds nicer, love.”

You grinned at him, giggling softly. “You haven’t found it yet, John.”

His face got warm again, but he shook his head and gave you a sheepish smile. 

“Give me your hand, John.”

He immediately did, basking in the warmth that enveloped his skin when it touched yours. You moved it upwards, extending his finger so he pointed at a star that he had missed before, too lost in you.

“They’re seven stars,” you told him softly. He could feel your face almost touching his, making his breath hitch. “That one is called Alkaid, it’s the edge of the handle.”

“Of the spoon?” He asked you. He wanted to touch your face desperately.

“Of the spoon,” you agreed, laughing softly. Then, you moved his finger to the right, tracing a line that passed another three stars. He started to see what you were telling him before. “Those are Mizar, Alioth, and Megrez. The last one starts the bowl.”

“Mhmm?” he turned to look at you, grazing his nose against your cheek. He felt your skin heat up.

“Y-yeah,” you whispered. Then, you traced a circle upwards in the sky. “A-and those are Dubhe, Merak and Phedka.”

He was able to see the spoon then, and traced an imaginary line to mark it. 

“Tell me something else,” he pleaded, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you closer. 

“M-merak and Dubhe are p-pointer stars,” your voice was wavering, making him smile against your cheek. “If you f-follow their line, you’ll find the-the North Star.”

He kissed your cheek, amused by the nervous laugh you let out. “Keep going.”

“It will always sh-show you where the north is, so you don’t get lost.” You turned to him, not looking at the sky anymore. Your eyes were glazed over.  Much like his, he supposed. “All the others look like they orbit around it.”

He orbited around you. Ever since he met you, since he started talking to you, you were his entire world. Everything else vanished as soon as you arrived, and all the world felt empty and dull if you weren’t with him. You were his North Star, his Polaris. 

He moved his hand towards your face, rubbing his dumb against your cheekbone. You shuddered, making him frown. 

“Are you cold?”

You shook your head, but wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He pulled you closer, grabbing your hips so your body was flush against his. His entire being felt like it was on fire. 

“Can you look at me, love?”

A few beats passed. Then, you raised your head and stared straight into his eyes. Your pupils were blown, and even if he could see the hesitance in your face, you never looked away. He swallowed, suddenly nervous. But he needed to be brave too. 

“Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t say anything and, instead, pressed your lips against his. 

-

When he told you about his plan to enlist, you cried your eyes out. You didn’t get angry at him, didn’t ask him not to do it, didn’t beg or send him away. But you cried, and that was worse.

“I’ll still be here, love.” He was hugging you, cleaning your tears with no use as new ones poured out of your eyes as soon as he did. “You’ll still be with me, wherever I go.”

You couldn’t even talk,  sobbing if you opened your mouth. You pressed your face against his chest, trying to hide it from his sight. Something sharp pierced his chest when you clutched his shirt, as if you were trying to pull him close enough so he wouldn’t go. 

“I will come back to you,” he promised, rubbing your back in a poor attempt at calming you down. “ I always will, I’m lost without my North Star.”

But you shook your head, not accepting what he was telling you. He was beginning to panic. Would he lose you over this? After all you had seen him go through, was this your limit?

“Tell me something, please sweetheart. You’re killing me.”

You spoke, but it was so low he couldn’t hear you. When he was about to ask you, you pulled away and let him see your tear-stricken face. 

“You’ll forget about me,” you whispered, your lip trembling. “You’ll forget about everything but the army.”

He shook his head, desperation clawing at his insides. “I won’t, I never would.”

“But how can you be so sure, John?”

Because he can’t live without you. He thinks he could live without oxygen, without food or water as long as he had you.

Something that felt a lot like stupidity mixed with determination spread all over his insides, and he blurted it out as soon as it came to his mind.

“Marry me then.”

You reeled back, shocked. He feared he had fucked up, but he wouldn’t back down. He would have asked you sooner or later, so why not now? What difference would it make if he asked that day or in 10 years? 

When you realized he was being serious, you frowned. You were annoyed, he noticed. “This is how you’re going to ask me, John?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You ain’t giving me much choice, love.” He pulled you closer, cleaning your face of the last tears now that you had stopped. He kissed your forehead, inhaling your scent. “So, will you?”

You glared at him, but he could see how you were biting back a smile. “If you promise to give me a proper wedding and not at all like your proposal, then sure.”

So, a few months later, after he worked day and night to reunite a good amount of money to give you the wedding you deserve, the two of you got married. He would never forget how beautiful you looked in your white dress. 

When they finally pronounced you husband and wife, he was smiling as he kissed you. 

-

“When are you coming back, John?”

He was hearing your voice for the first time in months. He was somewhere in East Asia, in a country where nobody spoke his language and he had contact with the same 20 men every day. He hadn’t heard his name in the same amount of time either, it was always “Lieutenant” or “Price”. He missed you so much. 

“I’m not sure,” he answered, sighing. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall “this is getting more complicated as time passes.”

You stayed silent on the other end of the line, not knowing what to say. It made him uneasy, you always knew what to tell him. He felt like he was losing himself.

“I miss you,” he whispered, clutching the phone. “I don’t want to be here anymore, love.”

“You’ll come back,” you finally said, but he heard the pain you were trying to hide under fake positivity. “You promised you would.”

“Of course I will,” he quickly agreed. “Of course I will, I swear.”

You laughed softly against his ear. If he concentrated enough, he could imagine he was with you, standing in the middle of the kitchen as you cooked and he avoided getting close to the stove while you talked his ear off. 

“I’ll wait for you, John. Just come back.”

He would move mountains to get back to you, but he couldn’t help but wonder when you’d get tired of always waiting. 

-

“-John, are you listening to me?”

Did the windows always look so dark? Aren’t they supposed to be clear? He hadn’t seen one that wasn’t broken to pieces in a while, but he could swear that their entire purpose is to be able to see through them. There was no sunlight, nothing he could look at to distract himself from the hole inside his chest that had been getting bigger and bigger with time.

“Can you repeat it?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Just forget it, John.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at the window.

-

(“When are you coming back, John? I’m decorating the house, I need to chose between light green or light blue for the walls.”

“In a few months, love. I’ll do everything I can, I’m sure that I’ll love what you do with our home.”

“I’ll wait for you, it’s okay.”

.

“When are you coming back, John? I chose blue, I think it will look good with your eyes.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Okay. I’ll wait.”

.

“When are you coming back, John? It's been almost a year. I’m growing white hair without you.”

“I don’t know, as soon as I can.”

“Okay then.”

.

“Have you done any changes to the house lately, love? What have you been up to?”

“Nothing interesting.”

“Tell me about your days, sweetheart. I’ve been dying to hear your voice.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

.

“Are you coming back?”

“You know I am.”

“Okay.”

.

“Are the walls still blue?”

“I changed them to brown 3 years ago.”

,

The phone rang. You didn’t pick up.) 

-

“So you’re Captain Price now.”

It felt so wrong, to be sitting in front of you inside a café and talking when you two were married and had a fucking house together. Like you were strangers, or in the best case, barely friends. Hell, friends probably saw each other more. He hadn’t seen you more than five times in the last three years. He hadn’t been there when the tiredness invaded your features, when you got the scar that now divided your right eyebrow, when you got promoted at your job. Hadn’t been at funerals, at big events, at nights. 

“I am,” he sat straight, a deep tone coating his voice that you hadn’t heard in all the years you had known him.

“You’ll be home even less then.”

He didn’t want to, but he nodded. You weren’t wrong. 

You sighed, resigned. “I’m adopting a dog.”

You had talked about it with him since high school, and he had always said no. He didn’t feel like he had the right to say no that time, not when the base felt more familiar than the house you shared with him. 

“It’s not like you’ll be here to notice it anyways.”

Your words stabbed through his heart, making a knot form in the middle of his throat. He didn’t know what to do or say, he could see you slipping through his fingers with every second that passed and his grip was losing strength with every deployment the two of you had to endure. He didn’t want to lose you, but he was starting to think that there wasn’t much he could do at that point. 

When he was about to say something, his phone rang. Laswell’s name was displayed on his screen.

He tried his best to show his regret through his eyes, but you just shook your head and stood up.

“Pick up the call, Price.”

And you left. He wasn’t John anymore.

-

He had his arms wrapped around your waist, sweat and other things covering your skin as you laid naked in your bed.

He felt alive for the first time in years. He could actually feel your skin against his, still had the taste of you on his tongue. The meal you two had had before was still making him feel full, everything was okay for a moment.

“Is it ever going to stop?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. He caressed your back, tracing lines and patterns that made you close your eyes in bliss.

“I’ll see what I can do to slow down.”

You had smiled, sending that familiar warmth all over his body. He had smiled in return, squeezing your leg. 

“That’s all I ask.”

When he left for his next mission, he didn’t come back for two years.

-

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He froze.

He knew the day would come, knew it from the second he started talking to you. It was a matter of time before he fucked up enough to push you away and tire you enough to not come back. He knew it.

(He had wanted to be wrong so bad.)

“O-okay.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He was not going to stop you, he never would after the damage he could see he was doing in your life. You would be better off without him, he knew that from the start too. 

“I’ll let you know when we can meet up to sign the papers.”

You had walked out with his bleeding heart between your fingers. 

-

When he went to your lawyer’s office, with nothing but his own sorrow and guilt controlling his every thought, he could see in your face just how much everything was truly hurting you. 

The night before, he had thought about trying, about fighting for you just one more time. The idea of dying was never scary to him, but living without you would be no life at all. 

But as he noticed your red eyes, the tiredness that covered your features, he gave up. 

“You can keep everything if you want,” he had whispered, in fear of talking louder and the pleas he wanted to utter so bad escaping from his throat.

You had shaken your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I don’t want anything from you, Price.”

It was like a burning knife pierced his heart. You were truly leaving this time, he accepted. There was no coming back from this, he would lose you. Soon enough, he would have to learn to survive without you, not even calling it “live” because he knew there would be no such thing in your absence. He would get lost, without his North Star to guide him. 

But if it meant you would stop looking like that, he would do it.

“Alright then.”

And he signed what he loved most away. 

-

Years later, he catches you walking hand in hand with someone he has never seen before, with a little toddler holding onto you and a big belly making your dress stretch over it. Your eyes shine like when he first took you to that field, when he had kept you warm and you had laughed at his stupid jokes. He hadn’t seen that spark in a long time.

(He was right. You’re better off without him.)

His chest still burns, his throat still gets tight, but it’s something he’s willing to pay if it means you’ll look like that forever. 

(What would have happened if he had managed to keep his own ring on your left hand? If the little baby was his? If he was the one about to be a father for the second time? Would the kids have his eyes, his nose? He bets if the two of you had a boy and a girl, it would be a kid for each of you. A mama's boy, a daddy’s girl. His eyes burn.)

You don’t see him, but even after so long, you’re the only thing he sees.

(The soft spot is still there, but someone else is protecting it now.)

[marytvirgin]

SOME OF YALL ARE JUST…

you know that angst is fucking delicious when you can feel your heart sinking in your chest. some of y’all are just too damn good, omg.

[marytvirgin]

Tastes like Tennessee Whiskey

– John Price x f!Reader (Death)

Male and female oral sex scenes below. If you're underage, read it consciously (because I know you're going to read it anyway).

Tell me what you think, you bunch of horny bitches <3

We are Price's little girl's. Just warning.

Tag list!

For the first time in almost three years, you were on vacation. Working directly for Laswell is tiring, the woman never stop.  You managed to draw her eyes to you after being under her command on a mission in collaboration with the ClA. After that, she never let you out of sight again, always trying to know what you, a young talent, had to offer.

There is no denying the reason for the curiosity of the American woman, you climbed the military rankings fast.  Always the best in the class, always the best in the field.  Your career had begun in the London Metropolitan Police (MPS), England, at the age of 18.  After working three years on the street as a police officer, you enlisted in the British army, being transferred shortly after to the Special Air Service. At the age of 26 you were already an SAS sergeant with a recognized name in the corporation. Sergeant Death is respected, feared, and by the younger talents – some who you help train yourself – revered.

So, due to all your hard work, your vacation is deserved. Your Tour of Europe had been planned for months, and you were finally enjoying your life. After walking around the city, visiting sights, and taking pictures as a real first-time tourist you had decided to go back to the hotel and rest.

You don't remember the last time you slept so much.

A vibrating cell phone is what woke you up. Scramuing your sleepy eyes, your hand blindly slammed through the mattress until you located the cell phone. With a grunt, you answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Sergeant." Oh, no, no, it is Laswell. "How's the vacation?"

"Great. But by your tone of voice, about to end." Sitting on the bed, you've sat your fingers in your hair trying to fix the mess of snag strands.

"I'm sorry." Laswell sighed, but she didn't deny what you said. "But I need you on the field."

"Laswell, look I-" would be the first time you'd try to refuse to go to the field for her. But damn it, you were really tired.

"Things got completely out of control" Muttering a 'tell me something new' you started to get out of bed. "if we don't solve this, there could be a new war."  Her words made you stop.

"What kind of war?"

"Worldwide."

"Bloody Hell."

There was nothing to think about. Laswell thought you were the best she could have on her hands, and you were; insightful, adaptable, confident. You belong to yourself, but Sergeant Death belongs to the United Kingdom. When you're called to the field, there's hardly a second choice.

"Where?"  You ask walking to the bathroom.

"Amsterdam."

Unable to control it, you let an incredulous laugh escape. This has to be a joke. If you don't go to work, the job comes to you.

"I'm already here."

"Great, and again, i'm sorry.” She sounded like she meant it. “Price and Gaz are on their way. You'll work with them."

"Oh..."

You'll work with them.

Oh...

Price...

Oh no.

...are on their way.

Indeed, oh fucking no!

Your back slammed against the bathroom door. If there was air in your lungs you would have missed it.

But all you felt was Price.

 Fucking John Price. Him and his massive body.

The man had waited for you to walk away from your friends to attack. Literally cornering you like a prey in the bar bathroom. Dark blue eyes, small dirty smile in the corner of the lips; You knew what he wanted even though he didn’t say anything, and you let him drag you into the bathroom without hesitation.

"Look at you..."

Hands slipped down your body, descending from the sides of the breasts to your ass, where the calloused palms tightened tightly pulling your hips against the Captain. You let your hands fall on his pecs for support, fingers crumpling the black tissue of his shirt. Even through the shirt it is possible to feel the definition of the muscles.

Fuck, you're thirsty.

"So beautiful. So sexy in that little dress with all these tattoos showing." He mumbled looking at you from top to bottom. "Such a confident little girl coming up to me in front of my men like that, making me hard in front of them..."

"Price-" He shut you up with a kiss.

Slightly dry lips squeezing hard against yours, killing your speech, stealing your air, leading you to insanity. You dragged your hands down the man's nape before grabbing the brown hair from the top of his head by pulling hard. His grunt died on his lips and welcomed your curious tongue; he has tastes like the old Tennessee Whiskey you bought for him before.

Slightly bitter, a sweet touch, an icy taste that warmed your whole body as if he were burning it.

You knew you were already wet in your panties; your pussy pulsing wouldn't let you fool yourself.

His lips came out of yours, making down a sinful path from your semi-open jaw to neck – the trail of the red lipstick you wear was painted on your own skin. A gentle groan came out of your mouth as you felt him lick the skin, gently sucking before letting slip with a drag of teeth. John walked away a little just to blow the wet skin.

"Fuck..." You murmured, raising a leg to his hips pulling him closer. "John-"

His hips turned slightly against yours, John was already hard against the jeans he was wearing. You let your hands explore, go through the back of his head letting your short nails drag on the skin, then drop them down to the broad biceps, until they reach the belt and unbuckle the leather.

"No, love. You won't prove anything before me." Price said to your confusion.

Looking into your eyes, the captain dropped himself on his knees. His hands raised the dress to your hips, a wild appearance gripped the blue of the captain's eyes. The man's big hands descended the damp panties by your legs, he smiled like a wolf upon seeing the wet stain on the thin fabric.

"Hold on tight." It was your only warning. Price threw your two legs over his broad shoulders and sustained your entire body as if you weighed nothing.

A crude demonstration of your strength. You're sure he could eat you upright, with your thighs choking him and hands clinging to his hair for your life.

God.

Your captain, you discovered, eats pussy the same way you lead a soldier; demanding, controlled, with a vigor that only he has.

"Oh my god..." The groan that escaped from your mouth was sinful.

He licks your centre by dragging his tongue up to your clitoris and lets it there while one of his hands joins his greedy mouth. His two fingers easily come in with how much saliva and natural lubricant that is in your pussy. He pumped out and in with experienced fingers, tongue and lips working on the mound of sensitive nerves sucking and licking vigorously. The man's free hand rising to your breasts, picking up the hardened beak between his thumbs. His thick beard dragging through the sensitive skin of your intimacy; you knew he was drenched by the sensation of facial hair crawling over your pleasure centre.

John Price treats women the way you like. Fuck, you know he's a beast in bed. Dirty, hard, almost cruel; enough to keep you walking like a newborn deer the next day.

You can feel something like a rubber band being pulled inside you. Pulling, pulling, until bursting.

Maybe it's the time you've been without oral sex like this – the way you like it – or maybe it's the feeling of having a man as powerful as him kneeling for you, maybe he's just really good, but when you come the world gets dark on the edge of your eyes.

You cum looking inside his blue eyes; your eyes turning to the back of your head, black covering your vision for a few seconds, legs trembling violently on his shoulders, your hands crumpling the man's brown hair stirs, your chest full of the muffled air of the bathroom.

When he back away from your pussy, you realized you were right; the man's beard was wet with your stain.

Gently, John placed each of your legs on the ground before rising. A dangerous smile on the corners of his lips as if he knew he would never leave your head, that no one would eat you like he just did in this bar with your friends a few feet away.

"You're so good, John..."  You murmured, passing your hands across the man's shoulders and nape before pulling and kissing him.

Your taste was on his tongue, your scent on his beard. He didn't mind trying to clean himself, instead he left work for you; and you swear that's the sexiest fucking thing you've ever seen.

Shortly after, you're the one who was on your knees. That’s how you came to the conclusion that John's existence is a humiliation to other men.

His cock is big, wide, pale skin with a few bulging veins, the mushroom head pink with a drop of pre-cum in the tiny slit. You've seen some pretty dicks, but that's your top 1. Price is your top 1.

Looking into John's eyes, you dragged your tongue from the base to the top, stopping at the beautiful head. With a little smile playing in the corner of your lips blurred with red lipstick, you kissed the sensitive region, enjoying the slight tremor that his hip gave to front.

So, you swallowed it, saliva flowing in your mouth, flat tongue over soft skin, deep cheeks as you carried it into your mouth until the tip made you choke.

"That's it, little girl."  John murmured taking his hands to your hair.

The compliment and touch caused you a slight tremor, a gentle groan dying in your busy mouth. Your head rising and falling at a quiet pace, tongue stroking the heavy cock in your mouth, hands smoothing what you still hadn't tried to swallow.

"Easy, love. Here, let me fuck your mouth, huh?" Waving as you can, a smile arose on his full lips. "Atta girl." He grunted.

Fuck, that's it, the sounds he makes.

John leaned your head further back and pushed you deeper into your knees; one of his hands went down to your throat; then he pushed. You felt him breaking the barrier of your throat and descending slightly deeper. Deep enough to cut your air, to make your eyes roll, so your throat would shape the shape of the Captain's cock.  You realized, with a needy groan, that the hand John put down your throat was to feel his dick coming down there.

Jesus.

"Be careful not to choke, little girl." John murmured pulling back, loving how flexible to him you had become. "Take a deep breath, eh?" One soft smile on the lips of the man made you sigh.

Damn, he's a dream. And you realized you might have an oral fixation – for him.

"Come here." And you go.

Gradually the slightly salty taste of the pre-cum was getting stronger. Just like John's stronger thrust– not that you care.

"Where do you want me to come, little girl?"

In response, you started shaking your head again, only feeling satisfied when your lips stained the base of his cock with red lipstick – marking him there.

He cummed with his cock inside your throat, deep where only he has come before.

John, you discover too, when come throws his head back with eyes closed and lips half open; a deep, loud groan resonating in his chest.

His taste comes to your tongue when he slowly withdraws from your mouth, and you conclude that you’re right before: Price really tastes like Tennessee whiskey.

And you, oh lord, could spend the rest of your life proving it.

"All right, Sergeant?" Laswell's voice takes you from your memories of your last encounter with the captain.

"Affirmative."

You're fucked.

Your thighs tightly pressed together are enough proof of it.

-------------------------------------------

Tag Lis:

@hurt-no-comfort-for-life @violet-19999 @theperksofbeingrowen

@carlyi @thunderhawk727 @moonshine147 @uwu-i-purple-you

[marytvirgin]

Whiskey saga (Price x f!reader)

Dude (mate, according to the british slang guide), I'm a female Brazilian girl writing in English while trying to use British slangs...

i'm-

Gimme some slangs and their meanings! Help a friend write something for you

[marytvirgin]

I'm literally in love with you, love ur fics

Awnnnnn you're so cuteee! Thank you, sweetheart ❤️

[marytvirgin]

We need part 2 to I like my whiskey the way I like my men !!

Thank you in advance <3

I promise that I will try my best! The plot is ready, I just have to write it!

And thanks ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[marytvirgin]

I like my whiskey the way I like my men

- John Price x f!Reader (Death)

Reader have tatoos... Lots of them.

I'm thinking of using this as a plot for a fic. Tell me what you think.

Be added to the Tag List!

PART TWO!

You didn't expect your night to be like this. But oh boy, this is better than you expected.

Tight black dress with thin straps with an opening on the right thigh that almost shows the strap of your black panties. Loose hair around the face, silver earrings on the ears and dog tags hanging between the neckline of the breasts. High-hein boots stiletto. Bare arms revealing the skin covered in black and white tattoos, some specific spots colored in red – patterns of roses, knives and guns cover the entire length of both arms.  On your back, the large "La Muerte" tattoo appeared through the neckline of the dress.

And this type of clothing, which shows so much of what makes you you are not ideal to be close to a superior. But how were you supposed to know he'd be there just that night?

Captain Price.

A living legend.

You didn't notice him at the bar, too distracted by your companions of the night. All old army friends, gathered at a table in the centre of the bar. At this point, some men had already approached your desk trying their luck with any of you. You laughed while listening to them. Beautiful boys, but too young for your preference.

You like those who wouldn't piss you off for minimal and childish things, those who knew how to deal with women, really deal with instead of just trying to wet their dicks. The guy who'd go down on a woman and make her legs tremble; fuck your brain. Yes, that's your type.

And usually that means older men.

"Girl!" Your friend, Dani, poked you with a suspicious smile. "There's a man here who's very much your type!"

"Where?" You asked, smiling too.

Dani was that one type of friend who almost a hundred percent of the time showed you the guys you'd spend one or even a few more nights with. She knew you well enough and seemed to have a radar for good fucks. A sixth sense that benefited you – a lot.

"On your six. He's with some beautiful friends too. You must take a look!"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Uh-oh. I'm sure you'll climb him like a fucking spider monkey. "

Shaking your head, you laughed. But the laugh died in your glass when you turned to look.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Sitting two tables behind yours was a group of four men. With his back to you was what appeared to be a mountain of muscles, the hood of the sweatshirt pulled over your head. Next to him was another strong man, fair skin and a mohawk on top of his head – this one was smiling. The other man was the smallest on the table, but still strong. This one has black skin, low cut hair and an extremely fun smile dancing on his lips – as if enjoying an inside joke with the mohawk guy.  All extremely familiar to your taste.

But it was the last man you noticed that made you choke on your drink and turn to your friend, your eyes wide while coughing.

He's big, the second largest on the table. Well-combed brown hair, soft beard spread across his face, bright blue eyes, medium lips. The leather jacket makes him look even bigger. Lord, you still remember the serious and soft voice he has.

Dani is right, you could really climb Price – if he let you.

"Fuck!"

"Girl, what-"

"That's Captain Price!" Your voice came out half-shouted, half-whispered.  "He leads the task force 141!"  Dani eyes go wide as she recognized the name.  "That's 141!"

You've been on the field with Captain Price before, the man is a force of nature when leading. You had saved Price two years ago in your first deployment with him, and then worked as the man two more times. Not only that, but you know the big man too, even if you can only see his back. He is Lieutenant Ghost; you had been deployed to him in Al Mazrah three months earlier. Extremely confidential mission, hand-picked team. And he had picked you.

Those are two of the men who had your respect to the maximum level.

"The captain?

"Himself!"

"Oh… "

Wait… oh Lord.

"Were you talking about him?!”

"I think so. Can you judge me?  He's your type." She smiled as her eyes were wide-eyed. "Why don't you go there? Say hi, ask him how he's doing..."

"Are you going crazy?!".

"Whoa, I don't see the problem.  With all this desperation, it seems like you have a crush on the man… "

You do, but she doesn't need to know that - she already knows, probably. This bitch.

"Dani, he was my captain in three deployments! Not to mention the lieutenant! The man can kill me if I bother him, really! " Ghost is not at all bad, just silent, focused, not so funny.  Fucking dangerous.

Dani frowned and stared at you for a moment.  You took it as a victory for her to drop the subject.

"In addition, our field of operation is the same. Both of us are SAS. That would go against the rules of our book.”

 It's a shame.

A smile opened on Dani's lips, not the kind you like. "I dare you to go there and buy a drink for the captain. In front of him, so he knows it's you."

May God kill you now.

There it was. The word "dare" moved you.  You have a problem not knowing how to lose or not proving that you were capable of something. She knows that. Your weakness. You've almost been arrested because of this before, got yourself into so much trouble in your recruiting time because of dares. But...

You think that if you defied death so many times that you've come to the point of being compared to it, you've even won the callsign Death...

You can do that.

"You are a cunt! Challenge accepted. "

Dani's laugh was too high for your taste, attracted looks you didn't want. Drinking your other friend's tequila shot, you got up and started walking to the table of 141. One by one, the men at the table have put their attention on you – it's not their fault, your clothes and tattoos make it very difficult to ignore you.

Fuck, you can't do that!

"Sergeant Death, some time without seeing you." Price greeted you as soon as you got to the table.

"Captain." You nodded lightly. "I've been busy. You know, Laswell loves me." Price opened a smile and pulled the chair free from the table for you to sit on. "Lieutenant Ghost." You waved to the man a little more serious.  "Boys." The other two at the table waved, looking shocked.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Price asked, arching one of the eyebrows. Eyes gleaming in the dim lights of the bar.

God.

Help.

"A dare." You said before you could hold it. Better be honest.

"What was the dare?" Price asked, leaning his elbows on the table, leaning slightly towards you.

Oh. That move, you've had guys do it before. Same look, same inclination. God help you not to be misunderstanding the situation.

His left eyebrow rose slightly. The man's movement made a wave of confidence spread through you, a predatory smile opening on your red-painted lips revealing pearly white teeth. Your eyes moved across the table briefly taking in the reactions – all but the lieutenant had a slight glow of surprise in his eyes.

"Buy you a drink and make it clear that I did it."

"Damn it. She really went to this." The mohawk guy whistled softly at the darkened skin guy next to him.

You sat slightly leaning to the captain's side, passing one of the tattooed arms over the back of your own chair. The neckline on the breasts more prominent. Through the corner of your eyes, you saw Dani and the other women at the table spinning their jackets over their heads – Dani let a wolf whistle escape.

"So, what are you drinking, Captain?" Price chuckled as he looked you deep into your eyes.

"Whiskey."

"Hmn... "

With a shake from your hand, you called the waitress to the table and asked for another two doses.  The waitress, knowing you well, smiled blinking one eye when you whispered to her what whiskey you wanted. As soon as she put the glass on the table, John picked it up and tried the drink. The man's eyebrows rose in surprise for taste.

"Surprised, sir?"  You laughed lightly, really enjoying having impressed the man.

"I didn't expect you to know good whiskeys, I admit."

"You want to know my secret?" You asked, leaning slightly forward as the cup hid your growing smile. Price waved confirming. "I like my whiskey the way I like my men... I like them older."

The rest of the dose went down your throat, burning your stomach along with the tequila. You rose from the chair still smiling like a wolf that cornered his prey and supported a hand on the shoulder of the man looking into his eyes.

"They always taste better."

Price's eyes darkened slightly, his expression shifting to something slightly wild. Fuck, your body's heated up – and maybe it's not the drink responsible.

"See you around, sir."

You left the table, listening to the whistles of the two men you didn't know while they were messing with the captain.  Looking over your shoulder, you noticed that John had not turned his gaze away.

Maybe he is the wolf now...

And you're the prey about to be cornered.

Fuck, you can come, Captain. I’m waiting for you.

[marytvirgin]

Snow painted in red and orange - John Price x reader

Reader saves Price from a mission that went south.

English is not my first language. Sorry for any mistakes.

Enjoy!

Explosions and gunshots were the only things that could be easily heard. You knew things were out of control, but you didn't think it would all go south the way it did.

A team had been formed for this mission about a month ago. Captain Price was the man in command of the fifteen soldiers, below him was a lieutenant – Lieutenant Nantes – and then you, Sergeant Dip. The operation in Scotland had one objective: to invade and take down a possible weapon trafficking point that was being used by Russians.

The first few weeks were difficult, in addition to all the trouble with reconnaissance and exchanging information, there was also the relentless winter cold. The mission began with a hike of kilometres through snow to reach the perfect spot for the makeshift base.

Time has formed bonds between the soldiers there. Ridiculous jokes were made all day and snickers were always exchanged during perimeter patrols. Soldiers who had never seen each other were now field friends. Battle brothers. But one person in particular attracted you the most. The captain of the operation.

John Price.

The man is kind, and this unusual kindness in your line of work led him to tell you a little of his field stories. The man talks a lot about a boy named Gaz, who is kind as a child but tough to break, as well as saying that one day the boy will be a much better captain. Soap, a talkative and ridiculously funny Scotsman who is capable of demolishing a country in a few hours. And Ghost, silent, taciturn and a true soldier – “nothing can stop Ghost,” Price said with audible respect in his voice.

And you think that's cute, especially when the kindness is extended to you accompanied by a soft smile and extremely careful baby-blue eyes. Knowing the Captain made you respect him, but knowing John made you want to be one of the few people he holds close to his heart.

However, despite his soft eyes, you know he is a fierce man. Unstoppable. Would you dare call him untouchable. For those reasons, the despair that grips his throat at the moment almost suffocates you.

Almost.

You managed to break into the enemy basement the night before, kill whoever was there and plant bombs – without them knowing – and get out. What you didn't know, thanks to a terrible failure of your INTEL, was that a convoy of enemy soldiers was arriving that very night. You had less than half your soldiers and ammunition, yet you were still standing and fighting.

Well, part of you.

Your lieutenant went down with a bullet in the head a few hours ago. With the lieutenant dead, you and Price were the leaders of the remaining soldiers. The sun was almost down after more than 15 hours of fighting, the day had come and gone, and you were still fighting to survive after hours of trying to get a damn signal with the UK headquarters.

The real problem at hand and the reason for your despair? The Captain had been hit in the leg a few minutes earlier. The man you call unstoppable and untouchable was touched on your watch.

You were retreating when you were spotted and another wave of bullets fired at your team. Price got hit protecting your six while the rest of you took cover in the trees, managing to throw them off long enough to pull away from the fight.

The ceasefire is always brief, but long enough for you to count your survivors – five of you – and manage to call evacuation and move again. That had been nearly two hours ago. It was only a matter of time before your enemies found you again. And of course, your Captain dies on you.

“This is Sergeant Dip, headquarters listening?” You called on communications, hand pressing into the thigh of the man lying beside you. “Hey Price, eyes on me sir.” You shook the man lightly.

His blue eyes looked tired, exhausted even. It wasn't for less. All that fucking cold and lack of sun had turned all of you white as sheets of paper. Limited food, nights of sleep disturbed by patrol shifts and freezing cold fucked y'all over. You would leave there with a good few pounds less.

You are pretty sure that you will consider moving to the Sahara after this month

“This is Agent Laswell.”

Taking a deep breath and resting a gloved hand on the captain's cool cheek, you sent the other three soldiers to cover the perimeter.

“What is the status of the evac?”

“Evac is 10 minutes away.” You cursed, tightening the makeshift tourniquet around the captain's leg. Your fingers passed under the man's eyes, removing the snowflakes that fell there. “How's the situation?”

“Ten soldiers out. We are five now. The captain was shot in the leg, he's still conscious, but he's lost enough blood to be concerning. With this blood loss, he is at risk of hypothermia.”

“Can he still walk?” A deep voice carrying a British accent asked over communications.

“If by walking you mean being carried by me, yes, he can.” Price grunted and you smiled. "Sorry sir. You know I would literally carry you if I had to.”

It wasn't a lie. You were preparing yourself to do this.

"It would be an honour, you know. I can lift 120 kilos in the squat. You will be easy.”

“Muppet. You are a goddamn little Muppet.”

You managed to get him to talk. Excellent. Conscious enough.

"Almost there. Let Price know Squad 141 is coming.”

The message was enough to get you all moving again. Taking a deep breath and summoning the last of your strength – apologizing as well – you grabbed the man and slung him over your right shoulder. With a grunt, you got to your feet and started walking quickly.

“Did you hear that, sir? Your boys are coming to save our ass!” A small laugh rumbled in the man's chest.

The truth is: you really enjoyed the man's company. And with the captain the way he is, the operation was in your hands now. And no one will fall under your command.

The three soldiers followed your order to watch the rear, all eyes wide with adrenaline and the will to live.

You heard the helicopter before you saw it. A little ahead, outside the line of frozen trees, the aircraft landed perfectly.

“The rescue has arrived, sir!” Three men appeared. Two stayed at the door and one came running to you.

“Thank the fucking good God!”

You yelled, shifting the captain's weight onto the man who came straight at you. He looked to be quite young. Black skin, lean, muscular build, and a worried look. This must be Gaz.

“Everybody to the heli!” The big masked man shouted the order. “We got you covered!”

None of you hesitated to run for the protection of the heli.

"Sergeant?" One of your men said doubtfully when he saw you dropping to one knee and reloading your gun.

“That bunch of whores were lucky I was carrying the captain.” You said aiming at the tree line firing the first shot. One down. “But now…” You fired a few more shots, not missing a single one. “…you can fucking come.”

“Fucking hell, Dip!” You listened.

A tired smile crossed your face as you used the remnants of strength in your arms to hold your M4. You shot like you had an eagle's eye, seeing every target clearly even as the helicopter swayed. You didn't miss a shot, even if your weapon wasn't a sniper and the scope was a red dot.

“Steamin’ Jesus.” You listened, in a thick Scottish accent, as you picked up the detonator and held it up for all to see.

“Do you want the honors, Captain Price?” The man shook his head amidst the mess.

“Negative, sergeant. The operation is yours now. Finish it.”

“Fucking yeah”

The explosion painted the snow in red and orange.

“Sergeant Dip…” You heard Price's tired voice over the noise of the helicopter's.

"Yes sir?"

“You said when we got out of there you would tell me where the callsign Dip came from.”

“Ah, shit…” A small smile played on your lips. “Dip came from Dipshit."

…the silence was almost disturbing.

"I want to know why?"

Your smile widened.

“I was a recruit who stressed my superiors a lot. They said Dipshit looked suitable."

Price laughed.

[marytvirgin]

↬ 5 – If only you had wanted me.

"They wash your wounds with their tears. My tears must fall when theirs dry." — Romeo and Juliet.

In the corner of the darkened room there is a masked figure attentive to the details of the place.

Eyes shielded by white lenses moved across the television attached to the wood panel, the three-seater brown leather sofa. On top of the small coffee table in front of the sofa there is a gun and a pack of cigarettes next to a lighter of appearance old. The kitchen is small but well organized. The only two visible doors are closed, despite the fact that the resident of the place is already at home.

Alice tracked him there as soon as possible. Fortunately, she didn't need to invent any lies to quickly get out of Wayne territory, just like he did with Dick, Bruce dismissed her shortly after both were checked by Alfred. Then, as Dick was in his way back to Bludhaven, Alice took off on her motorbike without prodding.

Her trained eyes moved to the door to the obviously occupied bathroom as soon as the handle was turned and opened. That was obviously the same man she'd been following less than an hour ago. His big, muscular build was all she analysed, but what caught her attention were the scars that covered his entire torso down to the hem of his sweatpants that hung on his narrow hips. The man suddenly stopped in the middle of the room just as he stopped rubbing the bath towel over his head. Immediately Alice realized that he, even without looking, knew that someone was there uninvited.

— Nice place. — Alice commented, still hidden in the shadows of the place.

The big body relaxed slightly at the sound of the female voice. A shuddering breath escaped her soft lips as the scent of the man's bath products reached her. All very familiar.

— It's too tidy for a safe house. — The man's muscular chest rose and fell, he still held the towel tightly over his head obstructing the view of his face. — Denial is a really hard thing to deal with. I mean, being forced to accept something is awful. I've been through this twice before today. — Alice stepped out of the shadows with hesitant steps and watched as he tensed at her last word. — So after five years of pain and failed attempts to move on with my life, I found out the hard way that my dead boyfriend might not really be dead after all. — Alice stopped five paces away from him, her feminine fingers tingling with the urge to touch the man's scarred skin. — Look at me.

When the man didn't move, Alice asked again in a shaky voice. The man hidden by the soft cloth has to be him. Have to. She can't be so affected, even years later, that she hallucinates. Those movements, that familiarity.

It has to be him.

As the towel was slowly removed from over the male face, Alice felt her own eyes water at the sight. Strands of once dark brown hair are now as black as coal, and near the forehead is a medium band of hair as white as snow. The eyebrows have also darkened and now look more toned — there's a new small scar that divides the left eyebrow into two parts, giving it a dangerous look. The nose has changed a little, there is a slight inclination to the right side — perhaps the blow that cut the eyebrow was the same one that broke the nose. Lean cheeks and high cheekbones, a square, razor-sharp jaw with a cleft in the chin — she can remember the feeling of resting her hands there when she was younger. Medium pink lips slightly dry, cupid's bow well drawn — soft.

And the eyes, dammit, they're almost the same.

Gray, blue, green and brown were what were there before. But now, when she looked into the man's eyes, Alice found that those eyes almost glowed in a magical way. The grays and blues seemed to get lighter, the green ring of the coloured iris was lit as if exposed to black light, and the auburn had never been so crimson before. Hesitant, Alice took a step forward waiting to see if he would move away, not receiving any kind of negative reaction she walked again until her female body was almost touching the man's.

—Jason? — Alice's voice was nothing more than a watery whisper.

A small nod led her to touch the pale scars of the other's skin. Slowly her hands reached Jason's shoulders and that's when she pulled him into a hug. A hug that waited five years to happen. Hell, she'd wait forever to touch him again if need be.

Slowly, Jason dropped the towel on the living room floor and wrapped his arms around Alice's waist as well. Her fingers crept up to the nape of black hair where Alice pulled the male face closer, the female breaths ragged and quick. Jason was as quiet as he could, the shock of finding his one and only love had come three years ago when he'd broken out of the League of Assassins and sought her out for the first time since coming back to life. That day when he saw her leave the Gotham University campus, Jason thought he would die again with the speed his heart was beating. Alice held him close for a while before pulling away slightly and bringing her hands to Jason's face.

— You are alive... — Alice murmured, looking into Jason's eyes.

— I am. — The man's eyes roamed the face of the woman he loves even after everything. — You shouldn't be here.

Outch.

—How long? — Alice ignored the dismissive phrase he directed at her.

— As soon as I died, Ra's Al Ghul himself had his League followers take me to Nanda Parbat and put me in the Lazarus Pit. And then I was back to life. That's the short version. — Jason explained with a resigned sigh.

— That was five years ago, Jason. — Alice took a step back. — Why didn't you come back? If you had come back, I would have…

— Would have done what? — Jason interrupted, frowning hard. — Hmm? Take me to Bruce? To a fucking therapist? Moved out with me? Oh yes, what a wonderful idea! You would have done everything but the one thing I needed! — Alice flinched again when he practically shouted the last sentence.

— I would have helped you get well again. — Alice completed the sentence before cut by the angry brunette.

— You couldn't do that.

— How can you be so sure? — Alice asked, trying to ignore the way the pieces of her heart broke again at Jason's lines.

— Because you didn't. — Jason ran his fingers through his hair and turned away from her. — You didn't kill him.

Alice took a deep breath at the statement. Jason couldn't even say the clown's name.

—I wanted. I tried.

— But he keeps breathing, he keeps hurting and terrorizing and killing innocent people, and you keep letting him live! — When Jason screamed again, Alice finally realized that death didn't just affect him physically. Jason had never yelled at her before he died, but now it seemed like an easy thing for him to do.

— My parents died and I had nothing. So Bruce, Dick and Alfred took me in and I got a family. And then you came along. I had it all when I had you all. But you died, Jason! — Alice raised her voice looking hard at her ex-boyfriend. — You were my fucking safe place, the person I dreamed of having a future with, but you died! And again I had lost someone I loved, only this time I still had my family. Killing that monster would take that away from me. You can't judge me because I was and still am afraid of being alone! Having nothing again! — Both faced each other like two rabid lions. — Killing him wouldn't bring you back!

— But that would stop you from doing the same to other people.

— Let's be honest here, Jason. — Alice took three steps forward speaking through gritted teeth. — Bruce and Dick are the altruists here, not me, not you! I already lost my family once, it won't happen again, even if the rest of the world burns to ashes.

Jason looked surprised by the revelation. Years ago that sentence would not have been said by her, however the world is cruel and at some point you learn to be cruel too. As most people would, Alice will keep everyone else's family safe as long as her own is not at severe risk.

— What you don't understand is that if you'd come back to me, not Bruce or Dick or Alfred, but just me, I would have stayed with you, stayed for you, even if you weren't the same anymore. I would have stayed because that's more than anyone else in the world would have done for you. — Alice's bright tears escaped her crystalline eyes and ran down her cheeks until they fell from her chin. — I would have done all that and more if you'd only wanted me the way I wanted you.

Without waiting for an answer — which probably wouldn't come — Alice turned her back on the expressionless man and left through the same window she used to enter. She just ignored the heartbreak she'd left in the apartment along with the man she'd once known. For the next two weeks there were no alarming activities in Gotham and the little things that happened Alice left up to Bruce. In those days there were no signs of Jason, and Gotham for what could be the first time in history did not have a case of homicide followed by robbery registered by the police. Everyone was too quiet, including Black Mask who had recently sworn the Red Hood to death.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, and peace in the city is no exception. Alice jumped slightly when the cell phone started to vibrate on the vacant sofa seat, Bruce's name was what convinced her to answer the call, only to find that one of the nightclubs protected by the Red Hood had been attacked and a hostage taken. Despite her reluctance to wear the costume, Alice got up and did, after all what would she say to Bruce? "He's Jason, I've known for a few weeks now, but I haven't told you and I don't want to meet him"? It certainly wasn't a good idea, even if she had doubts that Bruce didn't know yet. It didn't take long for both of them to jump down the train bridge to stop the mercenary quartet from finishing the job, ie killing Jason.

— What took you so long? — Red Hood, or Jason, asked as soon as he saw her. Sarcasm dripping of his voice.

— Shut up and fight. — Bruce ordered starting a fight with two of them at the same time. Jason and the only woman in the other group got into a violent fight while Alice went for the man with the bat.

The Huntress ducked, dodging the long weapon and jumped, turning her right leg towards the man's face. He was momentarily unbalanced, but his training quickly gave him stability. Alice easily defended the blow that should hit the region of the ribs — where the cut made by Jason was still sensitive — but his next move hit the back of the vigilante's knees throwing her back to the ground. Ignoring the lack of air for survival reasons, Huntress rolled to the side avoiding the stick that would hit her in the face and immediately planted one of her feet on the dirt floor, making a 360-degree turn, knocking him down just as he had done with her. Immediately, Alice touched the newly acquired device — with the famous Deadshot, aka Floyd Lawton, an anti-hero who acts as an informant for her at times — and triggered the automatic crossbow. Knowing that the amount of shots is limited, she made of everything to hit the mercenary without errors in a non-lethal way, however the man is relatively good at what he does and with little difficulty managed to deflect all the small arrows.

Alarmed by a loud noise, the Huntress jumped forward, dodging the car that was thrown at Bruce and that narrowly missed hitting her too. When she got up, the tip of the staff hit the side of her face, throwing her back to the ground. Amidst the vertigo, she cursed her choice not to pick up the throwing knives when she left the house. As she watched in slow motion as her own blood oozed from the cut in her mouth and dripped onto the dusty floor, Alice remembered the Glock clipped to the back of her utility belt. Even knowing that Bruce will be angry with the use of the firearm, Alice took one of her hands to the place hidden by the purple cape and grabbed the gun. In a matter of three seconds she is already on her feet with her heart pounding in her ears pressing the trigger three times on the chest of the man who was about to hit her again.

Alice dropped the gun and ran towards him, the first blow threw the stick that glowed blue — the fucking stick was glowing blue — on the ground disarming him. The second punch hit where the bullets had been previously embedded in his armour. In the third hit she trowed her kevlar-protected elbow in his face cracking his helmet. On the fourth blow Alice took the mercenary's stick and used it to hit him in the face again, the blow was strong enough to knock him back to the ground with his knees even hitting the side of his head.

Damn, the guy was bent in half like he was being fucked. Alice thought, watching the strangely contorted body on the floor, That must have knocked some vertebra out of its place, this one will never walk again.

Alice tossed her staff aside, seriously considering getting one as well, and walked over to the two men who had finished their fights at the same time as she had. A feeling of familiarity washed over her as she saw the two of them standing side by side like they had years ago before everything went wrong.

— I must admit I missed seeing you in action. — Jason's voice filled the momentary silence.

Before an answer could be given, one of the mercenaries returned and fired a laser beam towards them.

— Watch out! — Jason screamed, stepping in front of Alice and getting hit instead.

Both were thrown a few meters back, Alice blinked slowly in bewilderment after being hit in the face by Jason's helmet. The two squirmed on the ground as Bruce tackled the mercenary, failing faster than expected. Alice lifted her face from the ground recovering only to receive another fierce kick. When she looked up again, she saw Jason immobilized by the mercenary who was ready to blow his head right there.

Jason's name caught in her throat along with a desperate scream.

— Let him go. — Batman ordered standing up holding a high voltage taser. — And it's better to stay away.

At that moment that Alice realized that Bruce knows who is under the helmet and that if she hadn't found out on her own she would probably have been blindsided for quite some time as Bruce would obviously keep it a secret and possibly take her off the case.

How typical.

— A Taser? — The mercenary practically mocked. — If you shoot, you'll fry us both!

— No! — Alice exclaimed, standing up right behind the two men.

— Maybe that's what he wants. — Jason muttered before shoving a device into the mercenary suit's single eye.

Jason was immediately released as the other man was electrocuted by the object, not long after his head exploded. Alice, who was just a few steps away, was showered with the splattered blood. She stood still, feeling the thick liquid of iron smell and taste run down her face, hair and attire.

Slowly, Alice brought a trembling hand to her mouth where she weakly wiped away the blood that covered her lips. Alice had seen people die before, but knowing that Jason had done something like that scared her in a way it hadn't in years.

— You should thank me for killing just one of them. — Jason said staring at the dead man's headless body. Behind him, Bruce stood in shock. — They're all murderers.

— And you are what? — Batman scolded, squeezing his hands into tight fists. Alice thought of several answers, but the one that stood out the most was the word son.

— I'm cleaning up Gotham. It's so much more than you've ever done.

— You're stealing Black Mask's territory and killing everyone who gets in your way!

— Black Mask is only part of the plan. — For some reason, Jason’s answer sent a fearful shiver through Alice’s body, who by then was just a spectator to the two men’s conversation.

— Plan? You're turning into a Crime Lord.

— Yes, I am! There is no way to stop crime. This is something you never understood! The only way is to control it, and that's what I'm doing, I'm controlling it. — A part of Alice can't disagree with Jason.

— You want to dominate them with fear, but what do you do with the ones don't fear you? You finish them off!

— Tell me what happened to you, I'll help you! — Bruce’s proposal stiffens Jason’s body slightly.

— Too late. You already had your chance.

— Jay… — Alice called quietly, only for the man almost beside her to hear.

Alice looked at him ready to approach, but Jason shook his head in denial before throwing a smoke bomb on the ground and running away.

When the smoke dispersed, Alice stood in the same place, trying to understand how things got that way. What did they do wrong to deserve this. And once again in her life, it was as if Jason had slipped through her fingers and there was nothing she could do to get him back.

Jason needs space. He needs to go his own way… But Alice can't breathe as they walk at his pace.

[marytvirgin]

↬ 4 – Unexpected familiarity.

"May the feelings that appear in your heart be like those in my chest." — Juliet, Romeo & Juliet

Alice's body trembled slightly on the hard surface of the wooden table, a fine layer of sweat glistened on the sleeping young woman's healthily pale skin, fists clenched occasionally, eyes moved frantically behind closed lids. That definitely wasn't a good night's sleep.

While lost in the world of dreams — or nightmares — the man who was definitely not invited to enter analysed all the decor in the room, paying special attention to the wall of photographs. Most of the people in the photos were familiar faces, there were photos of Alice with Dick at different stages of her life, photos with Alfred, photos of her late parents, photos with Bruce — surprisingly in some of them the Wayne was smiling. In others there were people he has never seen before, in one of these photos with new faces there was the man with black skin and a handsome smile that he had taken hostage in the hospital on one of the previous nights and when he realized that there was certainly a closeness between the two, his face became he wrinkled in scorn and jealousy beneath his helmet.

As he looked further to the side, something caught the man's attention, a picture of him and Alice hugging, her lips glued to the jovial face of the other teenager, drawing a happy smile from him. Red Hood ran his calloused fingertips over the picture taken by Dick and smiled wistfully at the things he would do to change everything that happened. With extreme care, he removed the Polaroid photo from the wall and put it in the most protected pocket of his combat gear. As he turned to where Alice was asleep on top of college books and notebooks, he noticed the woman's agitated state. Jason couldn't stop himself from touching her face, but before his gloved fingers could touch her skin, Alice woke up from the nightmare. Realizing instantly that there was someone in her room, she took one of her hands to the Glock pistol stuck under the table, unlocked it and pointed it at the shadow next to her. All in less than three seconds.

— What the fuck do you think you're doing here? — Alice got up, the brunette's sky blue eyes never leaving the spot where the intruder's face should have been.

— Hmm, I didn't think you had a gun. — Red Hood said, crossing his arms over his broad chest without being intimidated by the gun barrel close to his own face.

It's not that he doubts the ability of the woman facing him to hurt him if she needs to, he knows how committed she was years ago and how much more she must be these days — the blows from their first meeting still seriously hurt —, and he also remembers telling her shortly before he died that "if you have to permanently knock someone down for a living, do it". And even years later, Jason knows that if she needs to kill someone to live, she will. He made her promise that she would, that she would do anything, even break her mentor's greatest rule, to stay breathing.

— Believe me, that's not the only gun I have in my house. — Alice arched an eyebrow.

Despite appearing calm, her heart was racing. Even with her eyes focused on the man and any movement he could make, Alice was mentally tracing possible ways to reach one of the help buttons installed by Bruce as soon as she went to live alone. The headboard of the bed never seemed so far away.

— Now, answer my question. — Despite the given order, the criminal just stood there, staring at the woman in front of him, wondering how she managed to look prettier than she was before everything went wrong for them. Alice frowned, confused at the lack of reaction from him, but still kept the weapon firmly in her fists, ready for action if necessary.

Hood uncrossed his arms and raised them, taking a few steps back towards the window, and as much as she wanted to fire the gun or try to hold him there until Bruce arrived, Alice was aware of the disadvantage she had at the moment. A gunshot on the outskirts of Gotham would not attract much attention, but there in a prime area, in an expensive building that once belonged to her parents, Alice was fully aware that it would cause a fuss that would not help at all.

— What do you want from me? — Alice asked again, lowering the gun.

That seemed to affect the Red Hood somewhat, the stout man's steps stopped for a moment and the head protected by the red helmet turned slightly to the side.

— You didn't hurt me as much as you could have in the hospital, other than talking and acting like you've known me before. And now you're here, in my private apartment, seeing my face without the mask, having the opportunity to get me out of your way, but you've done nothing. What sick game are you trying to play? Who are you? How the fuck do you know who I am? — Both remained immobile for a few seconds until the man moved again to the window and left the place without answering anything.

Frustrated, Alice jammed the gun and tossed it onto the study table filled with her college materials. She walked over to the bed and sat there, resting her face in her trembling hands. Only after a few minutes did she get up again and looked around the room, and it was at that moment that her light eyes stopped on the photos pasted on the wall, more precisely on the vacant place where the most valuable photo she had should be. In complete desperation, Alice began to search the entire apartment in search of the last photo she took with Jason weeks before he died. When she realized the photograph wasn't there, Alice's fists clenched at her sides, without hesitation she reached for the button hidden behind the bookshelf and pressed it. It didn't even take ten minutes for Batman and Nightwing to walk through the open window and into the messy room.

— He was here.

The batcave was silent despite the two people inside. Since the break-in at Alice's apartment two nights ago, tension had arisen among the batfamily. What made the situation worse was that the Red Hood, in addition to knowing that the Huntress is Alice Hinxton, daughter of the Hinxton couple — deceased multimillionaire businessmen — now knows about Jason Todd and all those with whom she lived. Connecting the dots and discovering identities had become extremely easy, and the consequences of this are unimaginable.

Since then the search for the whereabouts of the Red Hood was not taking breaks, Dick decided to stay in Gotham until he managed to arrest the criminal and Alice was forced to stop college classes for safety. All of them — excluding Barbara Gordon — were locked inside Wayne Manor during the day and at night they patrol the city.

— Bruce. — Alice called abandoning the prototype of her new suit.

The blue-eyed man muttered something making it clear that he was listening to what she was going to say, as he always did. Their relationship has always been something special, even before Alice's parents were murdered by the Italian mafia when she was just eleven years old. For being a great friend, being often called godson by the brunette's parents, Bruce did not hesitate to welcome her at the Wayne mansion, as he did with Dick years before and as he would do with Jason shortly afterwards.

— What are we going to do? — Alice questioned in a low tone. Bruce turned a chair he was sitting on and looked at the brunette. The answer wasn't verbal, but the way Bruce faced her is the same one he always used to assure that everything was going to be ok, although this time they weren't so sure.

— What we do best. Dress your suit. — Bruce said turning to the batcomputer. — At any minute now, we're going out on patrol.

Alice nodded briefly before picking up the outfit and heading to the batcave changing room. Upon returning dressed and ready for combat, with all weapons and accessories attached to her body, Alice can hear a conversation echoing through the cave.

— Who did you bug this time?— She asked, smiling playfully at Bruce.

— Black mask. — Alice grunted with the answer.

Oh yes, how she hates mafias and her bosses like to play gods.

— He sounds pissed off. — She smiled contentedly with the mobster's screams.

— Our problem is the guy who ordered the droid, he's called the Red Hood. — A calm female voice explained when the male screams were silent for a few seconds — I don't care what it's called, do you idiots have any idea how many buyers I had for that? A list of dictators, puppets and freaks longer than my arm! Millions thrown in the trash! And whose money was it? He was yours. My money! Mine! It wasn't in my plans. He was going to guarantee me entry into international trafficking, now I have to keep picking up crumbs in this shitty city called Gotham! And it still gave me problems with the Bat that ripped the drug out of the robot's head! I could at least sold it as scrap metal! But Batman got it! Yeah, Batman likes to collect.

— I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. — Bruce grunted in rebuke at the comment.

— Look, that idiot, Red Nose… It's Red Hood. Screw it. He is dead. Take care of him.

— Believe me, you're not the only one who wants him off the radar.

— You, new guy. Sir! Don't be nervous, boy. But if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to take your eyes out. Give me the details of overnight shipment. Yes sir.

— Finally. — Alice murmured starting to stretch her arms and legs.

— There are ten boxes of various SMGS, SPGWS with five thousand .45 calibers, your favorites. And two boxes of RPGS. Everything is already bought and paid for, so it's just a delivery and not a purchase. But due to recent events, I took the liberty of increasing security at the landing site.

— Holy crap. — Alice breathed out in shock. Bruce grunted as he tracked said drop location before rising from the large, comfortable chair.

— Dick is already on his way to the delivery point, an operation that will take place today at 11 pm. We will have an hour to put together an action plan.

Stealthily lowered onto the roof of one of Gotham's many business district buildings, Alice watched the black helicopter approach the helipad and deftly land in the indicated spot. Taking the binoculars away from her eyes, Alice put a hand to her right ear.

— The truck has just arrived. I counted only two passengers, they being the pilots, from my angle I can only see four men to receive the armaments.

— From where I'm standing I can see ten more. — Nightwing completed hiding in the building east of where she is.

— There are only two ways out: through the sky or through the building. Wherever the Red Hood is now, he's sure to try to leave with the helicopter. — Batman's voice was a tired baritone.

— Speaking of which, it would have been a good idea to bring the batjet with us. — Huntress grumbled as she watched one of the men enter the helicopter to check out the merchandise. — In case we need to get in, it's a lot easier from where I am to… — Alice broke off when she noticed suspicious, agitated movement inside the air vehicle. Soon after, the pilot and co-pilot were violently thrown to the floor of the helipad by the only man who had entered. — He's stealing the helicopter!— Alice shouted, rising when shots were made towards the helicopter.

Batman acted quickly by throwing a device designed to cause engines to fail on the tail of the helicopter. Sparks and smoke billowed from the engine before the Red Hood's control over the vehicle's steering was lost. Seeing the ship spin wildly in the air, Alice bent down and picked up the pistol that she had carried there without Bruce knowing, and fitted the special ammunition cartridge. Raising her arms in front of her body, Alice gripped the gun firmly and aimed at the man still in the out of control helicopter. As the Hood leapt onto the roof of the building next door, Alice's index finger pressed the trigger. For the vast majority that would have been a wasted shot, but for her, it was perfect. The small tracker lodged itself in the back of the criminal's helmet even as he rolled on the ground before starting to run away from there, abandoning the weapons and the helicopter that Batman and Nightwing were trying to prevent from crushing the cars and people that were still passing through the city.

— I'm in hot pursuit. — Huntress warned, tucking her gun into the newly attached holster on the back of her utility belt, and threw herself off the building.

Using the cape as a glider, she managed to cross the avenue over the top and finally landed on the building where the Hood had been a few seconds ago. The pursuit was discreet until the other two vigilantes joined the race. Going from complete buildings to buildings under construction and explosions caused with a fire extinguisher, the four ran constantly. Rounding the corner of an old building, Alice watched the Hood remove his gun from its holster and turn towards them.

— Damn it! — She exclaimed, turning to the two men who arrived behind her and pushed them back, taking everyone out of the way of the bullets.

— This guy is good! — Dick said after realizing that the Hood shot them from the top of a blimp at a good distance, with enough winds to change the paths of the bullets and still moving. And yet, he did get ir right.

— Yeah, he's showing he's good. — Bruce said before throwing himself off the building.

Alice grabbed Dick by the muscular waist and threw herself behind her former mentor, passing from the top of the airship to a new terrace. Once they landed, Alice looked up quickly enough to watch the Red Hood cut the cable Bruce used to try to hang him by his foot when he jumped off the building. Dick gasped behind the vigilante just as she stopped suddenly at what she had just seen. That familiar movement fitted a piece of the confusing puzzle Hinxton had in her hands, which in the heat of the moment had gone unnoticed by her.

— He's not good, he's very good. — Dick stated again. From where they were, the three watched as the Red Hood jumped from where he was and grabbed a steel cable and skilfully hung it until he landed on the small train station covered by a glass and metal structure. — That was impressive.

— I didn't find it that impressive. — Batman sneered before following the other man.

Resisting the urge to ask Bruce to back off before things got out of hand, Huntress ran and jumped in after the other two men, with Dick right behind her. As soon as she landed on the cold floor of the train station, Alice looked around, wondering at the sudden silence. With no sign of the Hood in sight, the three stood still, until a sequence of beeps sounded in the station, drawing everyone's attention to the bomb stuck in the metal structure of the place.

— Get out of here! — The three started to run.

Alice in a moment of "survival mode" removed the hook from her waist and shot towards one of the iron columns. Upon squeezing the trigger again, she was dragged backwards farther than Bruce and Dick could manage. Alice didn't even realize that the explosion had already happened, the fear she had of bombs turned her off from the world for a few seconds. When she returned to control of her own body and looked forward, Alice saw Dick injured on the ground while Bruce faced the way that Red Hood used to scape.

— Damn it, Nightwing! — Alice ran to her older brother and bent to see the ankle that was already starting to swell. — Batman, we have to get out of here now!

— Let's go. — Bruce muttered with an odd frown on his face. Less than a minute later, the batjet was landing there, ready to take them to the batcave.

It was only when she was sitting in the aircraft seat that Alice recognized the familiarity of many things she had seen that night. Luckily for her, before everything got out of control, a tracker had been implanted in the man.

Alice could only sit there, silent and guilty. Guilty for having no intention of telling Bruce about anything. She would personally go after the man who had been keeping her awake lately.

It's time for the games to stop.

[marytvirgin]

↬ 3 – Hunting season.

"He who is struck by love you cannot forget the treasure of your heart. Goodbye. You cannot teach me to forget." — Romeo, Romeo & Juliet.

If someone had asked Alice a few hours ago how she intended to end the night, the answer would certainly not be to be pinned against the wall of a hospital by an unknown man with unknown intentions — and as a bonus to be suffocated — but if there is something that vigilante years have taught the only living Hinxton that nothing goes as planned, especially in a city like Gotham. With agility, the Huntress locked one leg and pushed both bodies close to the wall, as soon as there was enough space the brunette approached the two flexible ones from her own chest and threw them down, taking momentum to throw the Red Hood to the ground, thus getting rid of the suffocating grip.

— So this has been a really exciting fight. You've improved a lot. — The helmet-modified voice filled the room. Both were with one knee on the floor, using their hands as support, so they could catch their breath.

— I have to tell you that this is not one of my better days.

The stinging taste of blood running from her nose into her mouth was starting to get sick, and the pain from the freshly received blows was starting to get really annoying. Despite that, the ranger held her ground, even as she felt thick blood trickle in and out of the way thanks to the long cut in the rib region that the Red Hood made with one of the ridiculously sharp knives she kept strapped to her sturdy thigh. However, that certainly wasn't the worst beating she'd ever received from a masked idiot.

— How much longer are we going to do this?

— I honestly could spend the rest of my morning here, playing with you, squeezing you up against walls…

— Disgusting. — Huntress interrupted, her face contorted in a disgusted expression. — Now I really want to spank you.

— As I was saying before you interrupted me, I have business to attend to. — The man rose to his feet. — But before anything else, I think I should warn you that if you don't have the guts to shoot to kill, this hunting season is not for you, Huntress. — Without leaving time for the vigilante to react, he drew his gun and pulled the trigger, firing three bullets that hit the chest of the path that the vigilante was using. Alice gasped for air, the pain dull enough to make her disoriented.

With the impact of the bullets, Alice took a few steps back, unbalanced by the lack of air and without realizing it, she reached the limits of the floor and ended up falling through the same place she used to enter the hospital. Before she hits the grassy ground of the public building, a cable similar to the one she and her former mentor use to hang from buildings in the Gothic city, wrapping around the vigilante's waist, preventing the brutal fall. The Huntress's body swayed before hitting the glass walls of the first floor sending her crashing through the shards, and unlike the first time this had happened that night, the brunette groaned in pain as she landed hard on the ground floor. Rolling on the floor, Alice let go of the cable and avoiding look to the people there. No one dared move under the sharp aim of the vigilante, but out of the corner of her eyes she sees that some unsuspecting people who thought they were hiding were filming the whole scene. That was being the first time that the famous Huntress is seen in such detail.

Trying to act calm Alice got to her feet and started to walk with a limp towards the exit door of the hospital, even daring to wave mockingly at some employees of the health unit. Once outside, the brunette managed to run painfully until she found shelter in the dark parts of the city, with her back against the red brick wall of a dirty and smelly alley. Alice activated the communicator, contacting the batcave.

— Miss Hinxton, to what do I owe the honor? — Alfred's voice filled the communicator.

— A cut that's bleeding heavily, and a few other bruises count?— Alice asked, pressing the cut in the ribs with a pained moan.

— The Batjet is already on its way. — The softness in the man's voice gave way to concern. — I'll prepare an infirmary.

— Thank you, Penny-One.

Alice walked to the batcomputer after being treated by Alfred and changing her damaged suit for one of the clothes that remain in the old room she used to wear at Wayne Manor. The night's events were being broadcast on some of the many televisions scattered around the cave, from Batman's confrontation in Gotham Harbor, the chase through the city, the destruction of a chemical plant the day before and to the brunette's dismay, the invasion to Gotham Central Hospital that ended with a headless body — unfortunately Frank was telling the truth when he claimed “he” would kill him — and the videos of the mysterious vigilante, Huntress, being hurled through the room's glass walls. An overnight failure.

— That information brought me to the city. — Dick stopped beside Bruce and connected a USB stick to the computer. — I'm glad I'm always on time. — Dick blinked, a shitty grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

— Oh, shut up. — Alice disdained bumping her shoulder with her older brother. — You could have given a phone call, it would certainly save us from some nasty surprises.

— At least I offered help, you're the one who turned it down. — Alice scoffed, rolling her eyes. — Take a look. I got this video from an informant. — Dick put the video on playback. As soon as the zoom was applied, everyone could recognize the figure running over the roofs of some Gotham buildings. — He said the guy's been doing some sinister stuff.

— My 'guy' said something like that.

— The one who died in the hospital?— Dick mocked receiving a scolding look from Bruce.

— Yes, that one, and his name was Frank. He wasn't a big deal fish, but he was a manager who knew his stuff. He warned me just today about someone new in town, someone who is taking over the criminal world with ridiculous ease. And also about the eleven, now twelve deaths, carried out in a two-hour period that resulted in the headless bodies strewn across Gotham. — Alice informed, leaning the body on the table of the Batcomputer. The images of the bodies of the other managers resurfaced in the brunette's mind, drawing a disgusted frown from her.

— Red hood. — Bruce muttered, staring at the computer again.

— Well, that's what they call him. — Alice shifted uncomfortably. — Could be that clown bitch.

— But this one is way better at hand-to-hand combat, and from what you've told me, the guy's as good with guns as he is a sniper. — The youngest in the place looked at the two blue-eyed men.

— Believe me, he's excellent at what he does. Still felling it. — Alice remembered the strange phrase of the Hood. He spoke as if he had known her before, but Alice chose not to say anything so as not to make Bruce even more worried. — I honestly don't think he wanted to hurt me back there in the hospital.

— Imagine if you wanted to.— Dick commented, passing his eyes over his sister's wounds.

— I'm not that bad, stop exaggerating, you bitch. Dude was just... fucking huge. A fair fight for him would be Bruce, not me.

— Many criminals have used this disguise. — Bruce interrupted their conversation and drew attention to the real problem.

— But one of them is pretty special. — Immediately Alice’s posture became something more rigid. — But ate the moment he's trapped.

— And the moment he steps out of that filthy hole, I'll be told. I miss our meetings. — The brunette's speech made her receive scolding and cautious looks from the two men.

— That's not like him. — Bruce denied leaving Alice's statement behind. — Trafficking has increased a lot, but crime has decreased.

— It really did. — Alfred nodded as he descended the metal stairs carrying a tray of tea mugs balanced elegantly in his hand. — Master Bruce has managed to sleep three hours in the last two days. I even thought it was a holiday.

— Didn't think I'd live long enough to see that happen. — Alice mocked, smiling at the butler. — Back to the subject…

— He Is locked, and locked very well. But maybe we should visit. — Dick turned to drink one of the mugs that Alfred brought and with that he ended up letting go unnoticed the fact that Bruce got up already wearing his hood again as he headed for the Batmobile.

Upon noticing the elder's departure, Dick left the mug on the tray and started to run towards the vehicle, but before entering he turned and looked at the brunette, who had not moved. — You do not come?

— You know I can't do this. — Alice denied, crossing her arms carefully, a sad smile grew on the brunette's lips.

The first time Alice crossed paths with the Joker after Jason's death, she ended the night with a lot of blood on her hands, and despite not having killed the monster that starred in her main nightmares, the still Batgirl at the time made a point of causing a lot of pain and leaving countless scars on the clown's pale skin. Alice takes pleasure in remembering the scene she created by putting a hook through the Joker's shoulder and hanging him in an abandoned factory in Gotham, she tortured him for long hours with a damn crowbar and more.

The clown must thank Bruce for finding him after Alice refuses to tell him where he left the murderer's broken body. Since then, every time she puts her hands on him, she repeats the same action, as a ritual to alleviate her own pain and hatred. She wishes she could kill him and always comes close to doing so. But inside Arkham Asylum she couldn't do that since Bruce wouldn't allow it, so there's no reason to go there. Alice can't look at him and not feel crazy, not feel like she might kill him, not feel like she wants to kill him.

— Take care. — Alice waved at the two. Side by side, Alfred and Alice watched the vehicle speed out of the cave.

The next two hours were spent in conversation and laughter that had waited months to be released. Attending Wayne Manor after Jason's death became such a difficult task for Alice that despite having lived there for many years, she couldn't look around without remembering what she lost.

Sometimes in the dead of night she sits on top of the Clock Tower alone and wonders if she will ever stop loving Jason, missing him, if she will ever stop imagining what they could have done together; she knows the answer. She knows because every time she remembers him her heart still races, her chest still tightens, she still smiles at the happy memories in her mind, she still cries from the pain of losing him.

She probably always will.

Before following Alfred out of the cave, Alice stopped in front of where Jason's old suit is kept and stared at the damaged material. A small, painful smile played on the brunette's lips as her mind formed an image of the one and only love wearing the garment with pride. Alice could almost smell the perfume, listen to the sound of his voice, fell the touch of him.

— See you later, Jay.

[marytvirgin]

MASTERLIST

DC UNIVERSE ↬

Homicide Love - Jason Todd x OC

↬ Synopsis 0 – Prologue ↬ 1 – Part of the journey is the end. ↬ 2 – Questions with incomplete answers. ↬ 3 – Hunting season. ↬ 4 – Unexpected familiarity. ↬ 5 – If only you had wanted me. ↬ 6 – Prayers to whoever is listening. ↬ 7 – The probability of the answer being "maybe". ↬ 8 – Who is laughing now?

Call off Duty ↬

ONE SHOTS:

Snow painted in red and orange - John Price x Reader

WHISKEY SAGA: (Tag list!)

I like my whiskey the way I like my men - John Price x f!Reader (Death)

Tastes like Tennessee Whiskey – John Price x f!Reader (Death)