#Scream: Curse of Carnage

[tomoleary]

Ryan Stegman, Scream: Curse of Carnage #5

[shibanagame]

Flash Thompson / Agent Venom commission art by Garry Brown 2021

[yanderenightmare]

would love to hear any thoughts you have of what you think sukuna was like with a darling 1000 years ago, in the past before he became a curse

Ryomen Sukuna

TW: noncon, death of reader, fluff to angst

fem reader

Back when you were both little, Sukuna was just a village clown – a little rascal old farmers would shout at after he’d set their farm animals loose, skipping down the dirt roads with a sun-swallowing grin as they chased him away with their cane in the air.

He was the one with the unruly hair, bruised hands, and scuffed knees who’d steal bread from the baker and set the temple on fire. The one everyone knew to suspect but who managed to slip away somehow, always scot-free.

And you were his little cheerleader. Always hiding your giggle behind two hands, knowing it wasn’t ladylike of you to encourage him.

But he’d pull shenanigans just to make you smile. Often acting scary, playing in the shadows before popping out with a roar, scaring all the other children around the campfire, and getting scolded by the teachers. He’d pout when put in a timeout, running away and pulling you by the wrist to keep him company while the whole village searched for the two of you long into the night.

He'd found a spot for just the two of you. A cavern behind a veil of green, with a crack in the ceiling that allowed the moon to spill in, just bright enough to still let Spiderlillies bloom. He'd make a small fire, and you’d play shadow puppets on the rock. You’d make pine people and play the villagers while he’d put bird skulls on his fingers and act as the village monster.

Your father didn’t approve of him. Especially as the two of you got older with marriage arrangements fast approaching. Like always, it was unladylike of you to run around with the boy who never seemed to grow up.

You’d always loved the same person, but it wasn’t up to you. And soon you’d been promised to someone else.

Sometimes, you wished Sukuna was just a bit different – or, at the least, that he’d act somewhat differently. Maybe then he’d been good enough for you in the eyes of others. In your heart of hearts, you can't help but think that he’s a little selfish for never having tried for your sake, but when he surprises you in the night with those devious eyes and that childish smirk upon his lips, you can never will yourself to say no – let alone keep yourself from smiling and leaping into his arms.

Even on your wedding day, you wondered if he’d come – if only to say one last goodbye. You even selfishly wondered if he’d apologize and tell you he’d wished he’d tried harder, fought, and insisted on being a man who truly deserved you – that he regrets he isn’t the one taking your hand.

But you were a fool.

Maybe it was best he hadn’t, you thought after sitting awhile – a silent tear rolling down your cheek. In your wedding robes with your heart breaking. The maids gush and think it’s just wedding jitters, and you allow them that understanding even though your wedding is the furthest thing from your mind.

Your mother tells you that you’re beautiful, and it’s but a small salve to your aching – but enough to make the tears stop. She wishes you good luck and leaves you with the maids.

It’s only a short moment later that you hear screams. Blood-curdling, dying wails – worse than anything you’d heard in your life.

You follow quickly and find the ceremony in a bloodbath. So many lightless eyes stare blankly toward nothingness, their fine-dressed bodies piled on top of each other on the floor, blood-soaked and ripped limb from limb.

There’s only one thing left standing. Splattered in red blotches and black markings you don’t recognize. It breathes like a beast but stands atop the carnage as though the kills were all for sport.

But somehow… despite the second eyes, you knew that face.

“Sukuna…”

He turned, and you saw the other side of him, a deformed mockery of his once so pretty face. His eyes had gone red, glowing like a wolf in the wild – four of them, you counted now. They all blinked at the same time when looking at you.

You flinched, looking back at the slaughter of your village. Breath shivering. “What have you done?”

 “I’ve ensured no one's left to stand between us- no one to take you away from me- no one to tell me I’m not good enough-”

That isn’t his voice. Those aren’t his words. This isn’t the man you know – not the one you love. Sukuna isn’t a murderer. This was… this was a demon.

You ran. Slipping in your drapes as you pushed yourself forward, heart in your throat with lungs bursting your ribcage. You make it out into the moonlight before he has you pinned in the dewy midnight grass.

He growls something, but you can’t hear it. There’s too much blood rushing past your ears, hot and deafening, as you shake your head – eyes squeezed tight while you claw and kick at the thing that has you pinned.

“Get away- don’t touch me-”

Two of his arms grab your wrists and push them down flat by your head. The other two grab your face – not entirely softly, but much softer than what you’d expect from a monster. 

“Are you gonna tell me I’m not good enough for you too?” His words waft onto your face, warm with the breath that feels so familiar – a taste you’ve swallowed so many times before. 

But it just can’t be him, you deny. “I don’t know you- I don’t know who you are-”

It angers him. His hands strengthen their hold, and you wince as he leans in closer with a sneer. “Sure you do. I’m that village pest you waste your precious time on. The one you can’t be caught with during the day.”

You shake your head again with a cry. “You lie. Sukuna wouldn’t do this. He’s not cruel- he’d never hurt me-”

“You hurt me!” He argues with a roar, cutting you off sharply.

There's a heavy pause.

His lips ghost yours with teeth, making you whimper caught beneath him before he continues kissing you with his words. “Whispering you love me during the night, with your hands and legs wrapped around me like a brazen little whore, before you go and marry someone else in the same fortnight. Who’s the cruel one?”

“It wasn’t my choice-” You deny then, finally acknowledging it’s him but still not daring to open your eyes.

“Tch-” He scoffs callously, bitterly disappointed and judging you just as viciously. “Is that how you console yourself?”

The hands he’d held your face with slipped down your neck, stroking your skin with streaks of wet blood and hot tears, traveling down the dip of your attire with fingers curling around the fabric before tearing it off you.

“Maybe you can seek refuge in that now, as well.”

You killed yourself that same night after he’d had his way with you.

You’ve been dead a thousand years now.

Every year, on the day of your death, he plants a Spiderlilly by his shrine to honor you. Sometimes, he gets the urge to rip them all up, but he just ends up shouting instead.

He can barely remember your smell, your warmth, your face, the size of your hand in his. But still, not remembering the exact feel of you just makes missing you all the more painful.

[vnards]

Mafia141 p.4

The boys react quickly, like they’re trained to do. You don't.

Ghost is able to tackle you to the ground before bullets start flying through the windows.

The sound of gunfire and glass shatters the peace, a familiar ringing to everyone but you. One moment you're focused on not spilling anything, now, with the mugs shattered on the floor, a heavy weight on top of you, and loud shots piercing in the air, you felt like you couldn't breathe.

The bullets seemed endless, embedding themselves in the walls and booths. Another body covered you, keeping your face pressed to the floor. There was crying. It’s coming from you.

After what felt like minutes, the shooting stopped.

Silence followed.

“Sit rep.”

The body above you finally lets you lift your head. You look around to see the diner in carnage. The plush in the booths were torn and shredded, some of the stuffing still hovering in the air. Everything glass on the counter were shattered. The cold wind came in through the broken windows.

“Good here.” A voice broke through the ringing in your ears.

“Johnny?”

“A'm right here.” He grumbled. There was a string of words that sounded like cursing.

Your heart is still pounding like a mallet as the boys around you began to get up.

You were being moved before you could even realize it. You were being lifted in the air and back on your feet like you weighed nothing before you could get your bearings. Simon’s eyes scanned you over as you were finally able to start moving your tongue again “W-what-“

“Gaz, secure the perimeter.” Movement followed his orders,  one of your “customers” move to Simon's order. Your confusion is hard to hide. “Go get your stuff. We’re leaving.” You look around at the two remaining men left in the diner; Simon, his hand on your back, keeping you steady and Johnny, the Scottish man with a Mohawk and his white dress shirt bleeding across his peck.

“You’re hurt.”

Both men looked to where you pointed, Johnny grumbled under his breath, “Fuckers ruined my new shirt.” He poked at the blood, some coming off his hand as he examined it.

Something about seeing him bleeding shocks you back to life, “T-the first aid kit is in the back. I can-" you move to go retrieve it.

Johnny caresses your shoulder “It’s alright, little bird, it’s just a scratch. I’ll be fine.” The vibrant blue in his eyes holds a boyish joy to them. “But I’ll never say no to you.” He winks.

The sudden flirtatious attitude from Johnny was whiplash compared to the carnage that surrounded you. “Not now, Johnny.” Simon scolded. It didn’t look like Johnny was sorry, “I gotta tell Price the meeting’s a bust.” He slides his phone out, trying how to not pissed the boss of about this. “Make sure she gets her stuff.” He was at least going to grant you that before bringing you into the mess that is tonight.

Johnny salutes, trying to break under the primal fear of the past few minutes that consumes you into being paralyzed in the moment. With Ghost and Gaz gone, it’s up to Johnny to keep you calm enough to not go into shock. His chest puffs up a bit, being given the opportunity to keep you safe and calm, but it’s not the time. “Actually, birdie,” Your eyes finally meet his, “I could use that first aid kit. Could you get it for me?”

A task. Something to help you move forward. You nod soundlessly and gave yourself a moment to calm your shaking hands, your barely controlled breathing.

First aid kit.

You enter the back of the room and head to the office where your stuff is. You’re mind is still a blank with static before you have a chance to realize you’re not alone.

Another weight, this time less gentle, slams you against the frozen storage and pins you there. The wind is knocked out of you as a body twice the size of you, unable to scream or cry in pain. “No one mentioned there would be a reward.” The stranger leered.

You try to speak again, but there’s a third body knocked into you. Your head is slammed against the door and everything hurts. You fall to the floor, no longer pinned against the cold door. Regardless, the world still spins.

You hear a struggle and the few moments of clarity you can get shows that Johnny is grappling with on the floor outside the office, his opponent in a headlock. The other man throws an elbow that connects and his grip falters, allowing him to get the upper hand.

The strange man swings again, this time an elbow to Johnny’s nose knocks off his balance, “You fucker!” He growls.

The larger man is able to tower over Johnny, taunting. You are so paralyzed in fear when you spot the shine of a barrel coming out.

A shot rings out. There’s yelling

When you open your eyes again,  the body that was towering over Soap was toppling over, dead weight. The blood pouring out of the hole in his skull a shocking horror to you. You finally start to scream.

The darker skinned man came forward in your field of view, “You’re okay, princess, you don’t need to be scared.” Too late. You slip out of consciousness.

masterlist

[huicitawrites]

Omen of the Cursed

Yandere! Ryomen Sukuna x Fem! Reader

TW: depictions of abuse, gore, mentions of suicide (non-descriptive), yandere

THE KING OF CURSES sits casually at the edge of the village well, biding his time. Two muscular arms support his weight on the cobblestone, while another relaxes on his knee, and his fourth is busy—clutching a decapitated head in his clawed hand.

Crimson stains adorn the tips of his fingers, and his feet are smeared with blood. Puddles gather in abundance throughout the village, and the earthy streets are littered with bodies and dismembered remains.

He has killed every single one of them.

He enjoyed it.

He relished in their screams and their agony: men, women, children, the elderly. They all sounded the same in the end, squealing and wailing like lowly pigs sent to slaughter.

At first, the village men tried to fight back, but once he claimed his first victim—his Dismantle technique turning a man into a mangled heap of flesh—they began to shriek and run. When they realized there was no escape, they started to beg.

Some cried for their children; others, for their lovers or themselves. It was amusing to observe how far they would go for survival. They offered everything they had: the village's meager gold, their wheat, their rice, their sheep. When they sensed his dissatisfaction, they turned on one another, offering up their wives, their children, their kin—one even stabbed his own brother and threw the corpse at his feet, declaring a desperate loyalty.

Yet, the King of Curses had come to finish what was started, he took their lives one by one, laughing maniacally in ecstasy and joy.

And so, he sits amidst his carnage—waiting.

The best was yet to come.

He tosses the head in his hand, its expression of horror still etched on the pale face as it rolls across the ground, leaving a trail of blood. He shakes his hand to rid himself of the crimson droplets before resting his four-eyed face atop it. His glaring eyes fixate on the village entrance, marked by a large, old Torii gate.

He recalls the day you abandoned him.

He remembers it all too well.

Ryomen Sukuna was born a cursed, unwanted little wretch.

Everyone believed it and treated him as such: the adults and elders in the village, who instilled their beliefs in their children. Even his own father abandoned him as a mere babe, leaving the village under the moon of Sukuna's birth. His mother, on the other hand, took her own life shortly after he learned to walk.

The villagers whispered rumors of a sibling he had devoured while still in his mother's womb.

Everyone despised him, and so young Sukuna began to despise them too—except for one.

You.

You probably knew of Sukuna as ‘an ill omen’ and ‘a cursed child forsaken by the very gods,’ but what surprised him was your disregard for the villagers' cruel words.

(He remembers the first day you met.)

“Hey,” your soft voice called to him in the village woods. He wore dirty, ragged clothes that contrasted with your colorful kimono. “Do you want to play with me?”

“Go away,” he spat, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, pretending to ignore you.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” you replied, rolling your eyes with a playful smirk. You crouched by the river, scavenging for the perfect pebble—a flat little rock. To your delight, you found a twin of it, and with both rocks in hand, you approached the bitter boy.

“Here, you have one,” you tossed him a pebble. “I’ll show you.” Your squeaky voice was impossible to ignore, drawing his gaze as you meticulously adjusted your stance. He recognized the blue fire coating the rock in your hand. His eyes widened, and a single thought sprang to mind.

‘Is this girl cursed like me?’

You threw the pebble expertly, and it bounced across the water’s surface three times.

“Did you see that?! Say it was cool, right?! Your turn now; it’ll be fun!” You jumped excitedly, pointing at the lake with a wide, joyous smile.

Sukuna snapped out of his thoughts and concealed his amazement. He didn’t want to admit it then, but it was a very cool shot. With a blank stare, he picked up the pebble at his feet and mirrored your stance. He held it between the tips of his fingers, took a deep breath, and unleashed his own blue fire. The pebble soared from his hand, bouncing farther and more times than yours.

You sparkled with wonder. “Say, can you teach me that? You can see it too, the blue fire!” Your tiny hands clasped his for a jolly handshake.

He remembers the burning embarrassment on his face, nodding and stuttering when you said, “Say… Let’s be friends!”

Back then, you were children who became great friends. You were so different, yet inseparable. You were a pretty daughter: kind, gentle, obedient, playful, and pampered by strict but loving parents.

On the opposite end, he was the village’s outcast. Shooed away from stores, despised by everyone. Parents forbade their children from being near him, adults mistreated him without remorse, and even the village priests scorned him.

Yet you laughed at his antics instead of scorning him. You cheered him on and even sewed him clothes out of spare cloth. You helped him flee when villagers chased him with pitchforks and torches and snuck him food or tea.

Like a moth to a flame, he basked in your warm kindness. As you two grew, he coveted your friendship, wishing for eternity with you by his side.

But as your teenage years approached adulthood, things began to change. While Sukuna detached from the village and its obligations, you became bound by expectations. Your mother filled your days with lessons on housewife duties—sewing, cooking, and manners—while your father began seeking suitors.

You wanted none of it; your spirit longed to explore the world, but your heart was tethered to your family, making it difficult to ignore your parents' wishes.

In a moment of desperation, he proposed an idea, but you laughed incredulously.

“So you say we ‘run away,’” you cocked your head. “I can’t just leave my parents behind. What kind of daughter would I be after all they’ve given me?”

He wanted to protest, to argue that he could take care of you, but you added, “Besides, we need money. A marriage would solve their issues. Yet…”

“I could marry you,” he blurted out.

The words spilled from his lips impulsively, and though he masked his bitterness, a knot tightened in his throat when you laughed.

“My parents would never give their blessings, they’d disown me first.”

“I’m not that bad of a choice.”

“Sure, a boy who steals and has no care or responsibilities makes a decent candidate,” you quipped.

He knew you meant no harm and understood the frustration behind your words. But he stood up and left, even as you apologized. You were speaking the truth. He was still an unworthy boy—weak, poor, a disgrace.

He couldn’t intervene as you left the village.

Three days before your departure, a foreign man appeared. Older, yet toned, with a staff in hand, he seemed a wandering monk- he later realized the old monk was a pesky sorcerer. He should have killed him back then.

The sorcerer interrupted one of your encounters, pointing his staff at you. His eyes sparkled with glee before darkening in disgust as they fell upon him.

Surely, he saw the monster would become - no, the one he was. The hate, the fury, the greed brewing in his dark heart.

The monk spoke with you, offering escape if you became his apprentice. Under the guise of holy work and financial compensation, your parents agreed to send you away.

“I’m leaving, then,” you stuttered, eyes cast down. You couldn't meet his dark crimson gaze, knowing the look of betrayal hiding beneath your stoic facade.

“I will come back to visit; I promise, Ryo,” you said, the pet name spilling from your lips with sweetness, but he huffed in response.

“I will be here waiting, [Y/n].”

Ryomen Sukuna left the same night you departed. He had nothing left in the village and without your presence, he could tolerate the shithole no more.

Two and a half decades passed.

He left as a cursed boy and returned as the feared King of Curses—Ryomen Sukuna.

As he stared at the Torii gate, his foot bounced impatiently, fingers tapping against the cobblestone edge.

Soon, a figure emerged in the distance—a traveler on a mule, donning a kasa. For a moment, he mistook you for the damned sorcerer monk, but he felt your familiar cursed energy. It seems you grew stronger through the years as well.

A wicked grin spread across his face, revealing sharp teeth and fangs. His four bloodshot eyes widened and pupils dilated in anticipation.

Finally, you crossed the gate.

“Welcome back,” the King of Curses greeted. “Do you like my welcome gift?” He gestured to the bodies and blood scattered throughout the devastated village.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you pulled back your kasa, revealing a solemn expression on a beautiful face. To Sukuna’s surprise, your eyes held no disgust, fear, or even anger, only a pitiful gaze that irritated him.

“Did you enjoy it?” you asked, ignoring his question. He huffed, wondering if you were attempting to seek a glimpse of that playful childhood friend.

The King of Curses laughed at your question, finding it absurd given the answer was obvious. “I found it most delightful,” he cooed.

Slowly, he detached himself from the well and stood before you. Even a few meters away, you could see the transformation he had undergone. He had become a beast—two extra eyes and arms, a mouth in his abdomen, a colossal build, and black curse markings embroidering his skin.

“It’s true then,” you sighed. “You’ve become the King of Curses, Ryomen Sukuna.”

“Tis how I’m called now.” It struck him as strange to hear his full name from you. “I must say it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“How many have you killed by now?”

“I’ve lost count, darling.” Your frown deepened, and Sukuna’s smile widened. He noted how tightly you clutched the reins and how your body tensed. “My father and mo—”

“I’ve killed them both,” he cut you off, grinning wickedly. “Their deaths were slow and painful.”

“Ah…”

Now it gets exciting, he mused, watching as fury consumed your expression. This was the response he craved—a little punishment for abandoning him, if you will.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you struggled to hold back sobs.

“I have come to slay you, curse,” you spat, mixing pity with spite. You clutched the cloak around you, prying it off to reveal white and red Miko clothing. You held a shakujō, likely a cursed tool.

This was not the first time someone had come to exact vengeance upon him, and it wouldn’t be the last.

However, it would be the last time you left him.

The King of Curses made the first move, closing the distance between you in the blink of an eye. He lunged forward, delivering a devastating blow.

You leapt from your mule, who perished instantly. Your body shivered from his overwhelming strength.

Sukuna continued his relentless assault. Blow after blow, all you could do was dodge—there was no time to parry or block.

In a fleeting moment of opportunity, as you rolled away and encountered his exposed back, you swung your staff, chanting, “Cleanse.”

A blinding explosion of cursed energy erupted against him, bright light streaming from the metal adornments of your staff.

For a moment, you thought you had succeeded—what a fool you were.

He was the King of Curses, after all; he was no longer ‘Ryo.’

Sukuna remained unfazed, standing with his back turned to you. Before you could gauge the danger, one of his lower arms seized your staff, crushing it into splinters. He turned, crimson irises meeting yours.

“Was that all, [Y/n]?”

He reveled in your shock, and before you could distance yourself, he conjured his own spell. “Cleave!”

Hundreds of cuts ripped through your skin, blood gushing from every wound. You choked and coughed, your body crashing to the ground in a futile struggle for breath.

“Does it hurt?” he taunted, voice dripping with venom. Lifting his chin, he added, “This is but a taste of how I felt back then when you turned your back on me, spurning me like everyone else.”

He loomed over you, body casting a shadow. The wicked grin evaporated from his face, voice turning serious. “I find the fear in your eyes delicious. It’s a satisfying punishment for what you did to me.”

Crouching down, he drew forth a hand ignited with cursed energy. Not the familiar blue you knew, but a clear white. You had never witnessed such a technique, your weary mind too occupied to marvel.

Sukuna hovered his hand over your wounds, and in a short time, you found yourself healed, yet the damage had already been done—the fighting, the murder of people.

The King of Curses encircled you with his four arms, lifting you as a husband would lift his wife. Despite the tenderness once present in the boy you knew, you turned your head to avoid his gaze.

He scowled at your rejection; your silent tears pierced his resolve more than any weapon. One hand cupped your cheek, forcing your gaze back to his monstrous face.

"Spurn me no more, I will not let you, not again", he warned, his fingers digging into your skin.

“You’ve become a monster—what their words condemned.”

“I’ve become a king.”

“-of curses.” You cut him off.

His many eyes narrowed, “So what? Human or curse, it matters not in the face of strength,” he said nonchalantly against your melancholy. “All that matters is that I am strong now and that we are reunited. Even if you spurn me, I will make you love me again.”

He sighed, his voice as soft as a whisper.

“The boy you knew may be gone, but you will learn to love the man he has become,” Sukuna assured, his four eyes gazing back at you with an affection that twisted your gut, making your heart race in fear. He began moving toward the Torii gate, carrying you as if you were caged in his embrace.

He inhaled your sweet scent— it reminded him of the home he never had, the one he desires to build with you by his side.

“Finally,” he lowered his face to yours, “we are together again.”

His lips tasted of iron and yours tasted divine.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Meet Cute

Meet Cute

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: Reader is surviving in the apocalypse alone, until she meets a stranger who needs her help, even if he doesn't want to admit it. This is a reimagining of when Daryl gets hurt trying to find Sophia in Season 2, in which the reader shoots Daryl instead of Andrea. This can be read as stand alone, but can also be read as a prequel fic to "Your Fault," describing how reader and Daryl met for the first time. (I'm so bad at summaries, please forgive me).

Era: Hershel farm era.

Tropes: Angst, Fluff (if you squint at it), Patching up someone's wounds.

Warnings: I mean, I don't think there's any. I'll say references to past trauma with survivors, but mentioned only once or twice and not detailed. Blood and gore, because the reader is patching up Daryl's wounds and of course zombies. Cursing, not a lot, but a few words.

Word Count: 4.1K (Oops) (Seriously did not mean for it to be this long.)

Note: There is minimal use of (y/n).  Any references to the reader besides the (y/n) is done using "your" or "you". I tried to proofread the best I could, nobody's perfect. If you don't like, don't read, but if you do like you're my favorite!

Internal monologue is done in italics and is in first person.

ENJOY!

******************************************

It was raining and you were having a bad day. You weren’t having a bad day because it was raining, you actually liked standing in the rain, feeling the cool water drip down your face and through your clothes made you feel alive in the best way. It was difficult to find things that made you feel alive, especially after two months in the zombie apocalypse.

You considered yourself lucky, the first day everything went to hell you had slept through it. Pulling a double at the hospital downtown knocked you out and you woke up to the screams and the pounding of feet in the hall of your apartment building.

By then the phones were gone, electricity to the city had been cut off and you were hopelessly alone. Not unwelcome, due to the fact that it had been you on your own since your father had died a year earlier, but still acute enough for you to notice. It took you a week to leave your apartment to try and scavenge for food, even then you were not ready for the carnage that waited on the streets of Atlanta. After another week you realized that you needed to get out, it was too dangerous to be there. The military had failed and there was nothing left for you in the city. So you packed your backpack and said goodbye to your old life. Finding the cabin outside Atlanta was fortuitous, especially after you ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere. That being said when you found it originally, it had its quirks. No windows, a door that hung off its hinges, blood stains on the wooden floors, and no running water all made the cabin less than ideal.

But after two months it was home.

You sigh to yourself as you reset the trap, hiding it underneath the wet dead leaves as rain dripped from the treetops above. Someone or something was getting into your traps. It was the third time in a week it had happened and you were starting to get annoyed. You suspected it was a walker, since you continued to find bits and pieces of squirrel in the forest around the trap.

You continue your trek in the half-circle one mile out from the cabin. It was a nice spot, dense forest with a small creek that ran through, small enough to cross, but enough water that you didn't have to worry about going any further to find it. The only time you left the cabin was to scavenge, but that took a few days of preparation.

Rain pattered softly over the fallen leaves, weaving in and out of the canopy above, and kissing your skin. Being alone never bothered you before, but the thought that you might be the last person on earth was different. It was one thing to choose to be alone, another thing to be forced into it.

The sound of shuffling and sliding leaves makes you pause, ears peeled. You did not see too many walkers where you were and figured that because you were in the middle of nowhere there weren't enough people to turn.

The shuffling gets louder and you duck behind one of the trees, drawing your pistol from the belt at your waist. It was a gift from your father when you moved to Atlanta to start your residency. Target practice every week made you a good shot and helped blow off steam when shifts at the hospital were tough. Unfortunately, you hadn't been able to find many bullets, which prompted you to carry a hunting knife on the opposite side of your waist. The only ammo stores you found were stripped down and desolate. Sometimes you worried what would happen when you ran out.

You hear the heavy exhale of the walker as it continues through the woods behind the tree where you are hiding. You peer around the tree trunk, watching it shuffle along. It's wearing dark clothes, blood dripping from its side as it hunches over and travels away from you. A crossbow is strapped along it's back at an awkward angle and every step it releases a heavy exhale.

You click off the safety. Probably the same walker that's been eating all my squirrels. You think to yourself as you aim the gun at the back of the walker's head and take in a deep breath. But just as you pull the trigger, the walker stumbles to the left and the bullet scrapes along the outside of the walker's skull.

Shit.

As it falls, it hits its head on a tree stump and lies still, face down. You come out from behind the tree cautiously, replacing the pistol at the holster on your waist and pull out the hunting knife. The walker doesn't move.

Okay. I can do this. I can do this-

You tap it with your boot. It groans once, but doesn't make an attempt to get up. Wait. If its groaning and not moving is it not-

You bend down and grab the back of the walker's shirt, avoiding the crossbow to roll it over, and suddenly realize, it's not a walker, it’s a man.

SHIT.

"Hello?" You poke his chest once, twice, but he doesn't respond. "Um- Sir? Are you okay? Can you speak?"

Why did I just call him sir?

The man groans softly, but does not open his eyes.

SHIT.

You hadn't run into many people in the apocalypse. Saw them from afar, but never approached one. Your father had instilled in you that desperate situations bred a new kind of person. No one could be trusted. The one time you had run into a group, you learned that the hard way. You shake it off and look down at the man on the ground.

He's covered in a layer of dirt and grime, a necklace of walker ears hangs over his dark green tank top, a large hunting knife hangs from his waist next to a child's doll, and blood soaks through the side of his shirt.

Why does he have a doll? Is he like one of those truckers on the highway that has a teddy bear strapped to the front of their semi? Because that's kind of weird.

You stepped closer to examine where the blood has stained his shirt along his side. He's really hurt.

You raise your head to look around the forest around you. He doesn't have a pack, his camp must be nearby. Which means that there might be others that come looking for him.

You look back down at the man where the bullet scraped through his hair, watching the blood trickle down the side of his head. You think about leaving him there. I don't know him. I can just walk away no harm done-

You bite your lip. I can't do it. I can't leave him here. You curse your conscience. Now I just have to haul him the entire mile back to my cabin, without waking him up or hurting him.

Great.

*******************************************

Dragging him back to the cabin through the woods and up the front steps took over an hour. You were too afraid to drag him back quickly, afraid that it would do more harm than good especially because you were unsure how bad the wound on his side was. He hadn't woken up, a bad sign, but you were optimistic.

Guilt momentarily fills your chest. You wouldn’t have shot him if you knew he was still alive. You probably would have just let him go on his merry way. But then you think about how he stumbled.

If I let him go, how far would he have gotten? Maybe me taking him is better than the alternative.

Staring at him laying on the hardwood floor made you wonder if this was a bad idea. You didn't know him. He might have a group somewhere and he might be faking to find out where you lived.

If he is faking he is certainly committed. You mused gazing down at him again.

He was older than you, by a few years at least, with brown hair that stuck out in different directions. Your eyes sweep his clothes, nose wrinkling at the strand of walker ears around his neck. His clothes were dirty, covered in dirt and dead blood. You had taken great care with his crossbow, setting it down on the small wooden table that you usually ate at, noticing how clean it was.

He must really care about it.

You couldn’t help but notice how small the man looked laying on the floor. And it made you feel more guilty about shooting him.

You walk away to get your medical bag, it was on the makeshift kitchen counter on the right back wall. The cabin was one room, in one corner there was a giant cabinet filled with whatever cans you could salvage, in another there was a wooden counter with a non-working sink, a small fireplace sat on the left wall, and in another there was a small twin sized bed covered in mismatched blankets. You had been prepping for winter, moving further and further into town to salvage what you could and storing chopped wood against the inside wall by the fireplace. The thought of winter scared you more than you’d care to admit. Especially with the squirrel traps giving less and less each day.

I wonder if this is the person stealing all my squirrels. You frown to yourself. Maybe I shouldn't help him.

You hear a strange sound behind you and as turn around, bag in hand, you notice that the man isn't on the ground anymore. He's standing, crossbow drawn, pointed directly at your chest.

Great.

"Where the hell am I?" The man growls.

Your chest tightens in fear. By the time I reach for my gun he’ll shoot me.

"It’s okay." You force the tremor from your voice, trying your best not to look frightened. The bag drops to the ground  and you hold up your hands in front of you in a gesture of surrender. "You're at my cabin. You're safe."

"Why?" His eyes narrow as he takes another step forward.

This was such a bad idea. Granted I also would have that reaction if I woke up in a strange place.

"I'm a doctor. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You collapsed and I noticed you were bleeding."

He backs up towards the door without turning around, eyes wild, body tense, ready to spring.

"Wait please. I feel really bad-"

The guilt is back now as you look at the scrape along his head and the blood soaked shirt.

"Why?" The man narrows his eyes.

 "Because I-" You scrunch up your face in embarrassment. "I thought you were one of those things and I shot you. I'm sorry."

"You shot me?"

"Yes. I mean, you stumbled at the last second and I missed, but I'm also pretty sure that you hit your head pretty hard."

"What?"

"It felt wrong to leave you there.”

“I don’t need your help.” He spits.

“You’re probably right.” Your hands are still palm up in front of you. “But I thought it would be stupid if you survived this long with those things out there and then died from an infection. That's pretty pathetic." You smile sheepishly at your attempt at a joke to lighten the mood, but he doesn't smile.

Well the good news is if he leaves I'll never see him again, and I'll be able to forget about this entire awkward exchange. Who am I kidding? It’s going to haunt me at night, right up there with the time I tripped and ate it on the way to the microphone at my 8th grade talent show.

"I don't want your help." The man says again as he turns to go, but groans when he feels the muscles on his side strain with the movement.

"Please." You breathe. "It'll take ten minutes then you can leave and we never have to see each other ever again."

His eyes are still narrowed. They skate across your body sizing you up. “Are you alone?”

The question makes a cold shiver travel down your spine. It's the question that made you avoid other survivors, the question that made you tie your hair up under a hat, wear oversized clothes to hide your body, and a scarf to hide the bottom half of your face.

“If I say yes are you going to attack me?” Your throat is thick when you ask it.

He shakes his head.

You watch him curiously, but even though he’s pointing a crossbow at your chest you don’t think he’s lying. “Then yes.”

The man stands there for another few seconds. “Five minutes.”

“Fine."

He makes no move to lower the crossbow.

"Is it okay if I move or are you going to shoot me?" You raise an eyebrow.

The man sighs and finally lowers the crossbow, which you take as confirmation that you can pick up your medical bag.

What am I doing? I should have just let him leave. You think to yourself, watching the way his eyes dart around the cabin.

You both stand there awkwardly for a second. “You can just sit on the bed. It'll probably be easier than the chair.”

He sits down, but places the crossbow next to him on the bedside table, as if preparing for you to attack him.

You tried to remember the training you had for dealing with unwilling patients. Of course when that happened the hospital let them leave, but you didn’t want him to leave. You felt guilty for shooting him and you felt guilty for dragging him all the way here. And despite not knowing him, you were worried.

He could barely move without it hurting, what would happen if he left? One of those things were sure to get him on the way back wherever he came from.

You pull up a chair, so close to him that your knees are almost touching, and place the bag on your lap, looking through for your supplies.

“How long have I been here?”

“A little over an hour. Took me a while to drag you here. You’re heavier than you look.” You smile up at him, but he continues to frown.

“Are you really a doctor?”

“Why would I lie about that?” You shuffle through the bag, placing the supplies on the bed.

“I don’t know.” He shifts. “You don’t look like a doctor.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“No. You're just-“

You wait for him to think of it, but he doesn’t finish his sentence.

Okay.

“This is going to hurt just for a second.” You soak the cloths in the antiseptic and raise one to the side of his head. The man flinches away from your touch with narrowed eyes. “For this to work I’m going to need to touch you.” You say softly with a gentle smile. You were under the impression that he wasn't mean, rather he just wasn’t used to other people.

He leans forward, looking away from you to give you access to the side of his head. Your left hand brushes away the strands of hair from where the bullet scraped along his head, dabbing with the cloth along the shallow wound. You were happy to note that it didn’t need stitches, but you still wanted to clean it out. The man doesn’t wince when the cloth touches his skin.

“I’m y/n by the way.”

He waits a beat. “Daryl.”

You continue to clean along the wound, concentrating on getting as much blood and dirt away from the opening.

“Have you been out here alone this whole time?” Daryl asks.

“Yeah. How about you?”

“No.”

Guess he doesn’t say a lot.

When you finish with his head, you start to reach for his shirt, but Daryl jumps hand twitching towards the crossbow.

“It’s okay." You smile at him.  "I want to look at your side. If you could just take off your shirt-"

“No.”

“But I have to see it-“

He frowns at you. Finally, Daryl pulls up his shirt only enough for you to see the wound on his side, but no further. Just under the cloth of his shirt where it stops, you see remnants of pink scar tissue.

You try very hard not to look at the pink scar tissue, but you were curious. Was that why he didn't want me to take off his shirt?

He’s not looking at you. In fact the only time he made eye contact with you was when he was holding the crossbow.

“You might need to lie down for this one.”

Daryl eyes you again, before finally he lays down on his side, still not looking at you. The wound on his side is deeper, two piercings that go from the front of his abdomen and through to his back.

Did he shoot himself with the crossbow? How is that even physically possible?

“What happened?”

“Fell.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I think I’m going to need to pour the antiseptic in this one and it's going to hurt. You can hold my hand if you want.” You put your left hand on the bed as a peace offering. He doesn’t take it.

Or not.

As soon as the liquid touches his skin, Daryl fists his hand in the mountain of blankets, clenching his teeth together.

“I know I’m sorry.” You can't help but touch his arm and he flinches back away from you. “But now it’s clean and you don’t have to worry about infection.” You go through the motions with the stitches, pulling the needle through the skin smooth and steady, surprised that Daryl does not react to the needle. You reach for a bandage to cover the affected area. "Okay, so keep this clean, don't raise your arm up too high or the stitches will rip, change the bandage in a day or so. I'm going to give you one to take with you. Do you want some painkillers? I think I have some in here somewhere."

"No."

"Okay." You stand up and move out of his way so that he can get up from the bed, before beginning to look through the bag for a spare bandage.

Daryl stands there for a minute with his crossbow dangling from his right hand as if he's not sure what to say.

"Here." You hold out a bandage.

"Don't need it."

"Are you sure?"

Daryl nods once.

"Well if you rip your stitches or decide you want another bandage, you know where to find me." You can't help but smile at him. 

As much as you were afraid of him at first, you couldn't help but like the interruption in the monotony of your day. And despite his gruff exterior, you liked talking to him. Which was surprising given the fact you hadn't liked talking to anyone else in the past.

He doesn't say anything, instead he starts to walk to the door of the cabin, but he stops. "Thanks." Daryl doesn't look away from the door.

"You're welcome. Be careful out there."

And then he's gone, leaving you in the still silence of the cabin once more.

********************************************

The next few days pass as they usually do. You check the traps, scavenge for water, read a book by the fireplace at night, but every time you leave the cabin you hope to see Daryl again, hope that he'll come back because he needed that bandage or maybe will just come by to sit in utter silence.

That last bit seemed the most in character.

You didn't want to admit to yourself how disappointed you were in the silence that followed his exit. Not because he spoke that much, but even his presence in the cabin made whatever this was easier. Before you relished in the fact that you were alone, but now after you met him, it felt too quiet.

However, you had noticed more dead in the area over the past few days and that made you worry.

What if Daryl never made it back to wherever it was he was going? What if he had gotten attacked as soon as he left? You tried not to think that, because Daryl looked capable enough to survive in the apocalypse. Definitely seemed capable when he held a crossbow to your face.

You jolt awake to the sound of someone frantically knocking against your door.

What?

You tighten your hand on the hunting knife under your pillow before you sit up in bed. Maybe I dreamed that.

Someone kicks open the front door of your cabin.

Definitely didn't dream that.

A ball of fear lodges in the back of your throat as you grab the gun on your bedside table, holding it up between you and the dark figure standing just inside the doorway.

"Y/n?" A familiar voice shouts.

"Daryl?" You lower the gun watching the dark figure turn to barricade the door.

"We have to go."

"Daryl what's wrong-" As soon as the words come out of your mouth, you hear the moaning and shuffling of the dead  followed by the pounding of hands against the door.

Fear makes your entire body freeze. You had been in Atlanta long enough to watch the chaos, watch what happened in the streets, the memories of what you saw keeping you awake more than one night, memories of the masses of bodies swarming survivors and the ungodly screams that followed.

"We gotta go.” He grabs your wrist and hauls you out of bed.

In case of an emergency like this, you always slept fully dressed. You clip your belt around your waist before putting the gun back in the holster and throwing your oversized jacket on over your t-shirt. Your pack is on the floor by the back door. The medical bag is small enough to shove inside the black backpack.

“Come on!” Daryl grabs your hand and pulls you out the back door, dragging you through the woods behind him.

You glance over your shoulder. The moonlight above illuminates the mass of walkers that surely would have destroyed the small cabin and you inside.

He came back for me. The thought makes a surge of gratitude warm in your chest. He didn't even know me and he was willing to fight his way through dead infested woods to save me.

Daryl shoots one that stands in your way, glancing behind him to see the mass of walkers that follow, before letting go of your hand and reloading the crossbow.

“Where are we going?” You shout running behind him, gun drawn.

“Up ahead-“ He responds over his shoulder.

You break out of the tree-line onto a road, where a motorcycle waits haphazardly on the edge of the long grass.

He jumps on the motorcycle revving the engine once, looking up at you expectantly. You don’t hesitate. You kick your leg over the side and wrap your arms around his waist to secure yourself. Daryl's muscles tense as you do, but the motorcycle shoots off, the sound of the engine masking the moans and shuffles of the dead emerging from the trees behind you.

You drive for a few miles, far enough that you put your face into Daryl's back to block the onslaught of wind that comes up over the road.

As soon as Daryl hits the interstate he weaves through the broken cars, before finally parking in the median. The world sounds quieter without the roar of the motorcycle, you notice as the smooth silence of the night returns.

"Why did you come back for me?" You ask him, as you get off the seat before you can stop yourself.

Daryl lights a cigarette, not meeting your eye. "You helped me."

"After I shot you."

"You missed." He shrugs.

You snort. "I did." You look out over the desolate interstate where cars are haphazardly parked and empty luggage cases spew clothing onto cracked pavement. "So what now?"

Daryl blows out a lungful of smoke. "You could-" He stops.

"What?"

"Well." Daryl shifts his feet, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"Daryl?" You try to catch his eye worried that he's going to tell you to go away, that he's going to say goodbye right here right now.

"My group is supposed to meet up here." He doesn't meet your eye. "If you want you could come with us, but you don't have to." In the moonlight you swear you see his ears turn pink.

"Well," You sigh looking around. "How else am I going to repay you for saving my life? Might as well stick around."

"We're even."

"No. I think saving someone from zombies trumps suturing a wound. Plus, somebody's got to make sure you don’t shoot yourself with your crossbow again."

Daryl frowns. "I didn't shoot myself with my crossbow."

"I think that you did and that you're too embarrassed to say anything. But don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

He continues to frown at you, but it only makes you smile wider.

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

***********************************

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this, be sure to read "Your Fault!"

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Being Kidnapped HC (ft. poly!Mates Bat Boys)

Warnings: I’m on a bat boys kick 🙃 has nothing to do with the fact that i'm missing my ex and now just want a strong male (or three) to take care of me lol, blood mentioned, violence, protective boys, polyamorous, drugged reader (faebane)

Summary: Bat Boys rescue their mate

It’s bound to happen

No matter your own power, there will always be others in Prythian who think kidnapping you will give them some sort of leverage over your winged mates

Others kidnap you to experiment on you. Why is it that the Cauldron gifted you three mates? Many wanted to know what made you different than the other fae who only have one mate

Whatever reason they had, it kept you constantly on your toes when you didn’t have one of the boys by your side.

Even in Velaris you were always on guard. You could never be too careful

Many were close calls where you were able to escape

The worse cases were when the boys had to intervene

One of Az’s shadows always accompanied you everywhere you went. Finding you was never a problem for them. There was nowhere in the world they wouldn’t be able to find you

That always set whatever worry you may have at ease

What you never looked forward to was the bloodshed that would follow

“Just take me back. Take me back and I’m sure you’ll be forgiven.” You’d try to talk your captor out of whatever plan they had in store for you. Give them a chance to change their minds.

Usually that earned you a slap across your face and vile words thrown your way

You’d have no choice but to sit back and attempt once more to pull at your restraints. Faebane still flowed in your system. There was no way you could use your magic, let alone your strength.

No way to telepathically contact your mates because of the Faebane

But you can feel the comforting coiling of Az’s shadow around your wrist

And slowly, the shadowsinger appears in the room you are kept captive

The guards assigned to watch you are easily killed by Azriel who doesn’t bother looking at them. Concerned eyes concentrated on you. “Are you alright, sweetling?” He frees you from your shackles and cups your cheeks in his scarred hands. Something dark flickers in his eyes when he spots the red mark on your face from where one of your captors had slapped you.

You could hear the sound of battle going on the other side of the. Well, mainly screams as your fae captors were torn limb from limb by Rhys and Cassian.

The splattering of blood against stone walls hits your ears. You can only imagine the carnage

They tried to shield you from most of the violence but you knew that this offense would not be taken lightly from your mates. Only seeing red and hungry for the flesh of whoever dared to lay an aggressive hand on you.

When quiet finally reined, the door opens to reveal Cassian. Wordlessly, Azriel hands you over to Cassian's strong arms. You don't care that he's covered in blood and gore. He's smiling widely at you.

"Sorry we took so long." Cassian would apologize and hold you closely to his barrel chest. He cocks his head over to the doorway. "Rhys has the boss. I'm sure he'd appreciate your help with him."

Azriel, like always, leaves you with a kiss to the cheek before he leaves.

"Shit, they really banged you around. . ." You catch Cassian curse under his breath.

"Nothing I can't handle." It wasn't the worse abuse you'd been dealt with. "Their punches were as light as a feather."

Snorting, Cassian places his lips against your brow. "You wanna go watch the interrogation?"

"Fuck yeah I do."

Just because you were accustomed to it, didn't mean you wouldn't be petty as fuck

later when they got you home, Rhysand refused to let you out of his arms. You were cleaned up on his lap. Rhysand had a few specks of blood on his face that he didn't bother to wipe away. When you take it upon yourself to reach up and clean it, he turns his face into your palm and kisses your fingers.

Safe and sound, surrounded by your bat boys.

[sicutpuella]

Knock. (angst & fluff)

It was this scene again, etched into her mind like a relentless curse. She could smell the acrid stench of burning wood and rotting garbage, mingling with the desperate cries and screams of her neighbors. She was nine again, small and terrified. Her head throbbed with a dizzying pain, the bruising ache from when a piece of plywood had crashed onto her.

A deafening roar shattered the air as another explosion tore through the neighborhood, sending shockwaves of fiery devastation in all directions. Flames danced hungrily, consuming everything they touched. The stench of burning flesh was unbearable—thick, nauseating, and infinitely more horrifying than charred pork or beef. It reeked of something profoundly evil and utterly revolting, a scent that clawed at her soul and churned her stomach into knots.

The black smoke invaded her lungs, a suffocating grip that squeezed tighter with every breath. She choked, each inhalation a desperate struggle against the oppressive heat and toxic fumes that swirled around her, burning her throat and searing her insides. The smoke was so dense it felt like it was wrapping around her, binding her in a lethal embrace.

Amidst the chaos, her vision blurred with tears and pain, she saw dismembered limbs scattered on the ground, charred beyond recognition. The grotesque sight of lifeless bodies, twisted in unnatural positions, added to the overwhelming horror. Blood pooled on the scorched earth, dark and glistening under the flickering flames, a grim reminder of the carnage.

"Mama… mama…" Her voice trembled, a pitiful cry swallowed by the chaos and destruction. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against the cacophony of terror. She tried to move, to find her mother, but the fear paralyzed her, roots of dread anchoring her to the spot.

Suddenly, she jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. Her heart raced as her eyes darted around, adjusting to the dim light of the enclosed room. The air was still, the silence heavy and almost oppressive. There was no fire, no smoke—just the lingering terror of her nightmare, wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud.

“It’s all a dream… just a dream…” she murmurs to herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her trembling body. She’s alive. She’s awake. The nightmare was over.

She forces herself to stand, her legs shaky beneath her as she makes her way to the shared kitchen. The images still haunt her, vivid and terrifying, refusing to fade.

"A nightmare, huh?" Ghost's low, husky voice cuts through the silence, startling her. His sudden presence, as always, is unexpected yet oddly comforting.

His voice softens, though it still carries that rough edge. "Nightmares been getting to you again?"

“I thought you were on guard duty,” she replies, trying to sound dismissive but failing to hide the quiver in her voice.

Ghost leans against the wall, his massive frame dwarfing her in the small room. The proximity is both intimidating and strangely reassuring.

"I was," he says, his tone gruff but laced with a softness he reserves only for her. "But I thought I'd check on ya. You haven't been sleeping well lately."

She looks up at him, meeting his gaze. There's a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, barely perceptible but enough to make her chest tighten. He's a fearsome soldier, renowned for his combat skills and unwavering presence on the battlefield. Yet, here he is, his demeanor softened, his concern for her palpable.

“I’m fine. Just a dream. That’s all.” She gulps down the water, the cool liquid doing little to quell the tremors running through her.

Ghost's expression darkens as he watches her try to brush off her troubles. “Yeah…” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “and I’m the King of England. Those nightmares are taking a toll on you.”

He’s heard her wake up in the night more times than he cares to count. Each time, he hears her whisper in her sleep, gasping for breath in the aftermath of the nightmare. He knows the dreams haunt her, more real and terrifying than she lets on.

“Respectfully, Sir… I think you should let it go.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow behind the mask. “And respectfully… I think you should talk to me 'bout these dreams.” There’s a raw edge to his voice, a hint of pain beneath the brusqueness. “We’re supposed to watch each other’s sixes. How can I do that if you shut me out?”

“Don’t.” She raises her palms, a defensive gesture, but her voice wavers, betraying her inner turmoil.

"Don’t what?" His gaze remains fixed on hers, intense and unwavering. "Don’t care? Don’t worry? Don’t try to help?”

A sigh escapes his lips, heavy with frustration and a touch of vulnerability. In this moment, he isn't Ghost, the fearless soldier, but just a man trying to understand. His voice softens, “I’m not good at this feelings stuff… you know? But you’re important to me. And, hell… I worry about you.”

“Tell that to the woman you kissed at the pub!” she snaps, the words out before she can stop them. Her eyes flash with hurt and anger.

Ghost’s eyes widen behind the mask. Shock and guilt etch across his face, though mostly obscured by the skull covering. He stumbles over his words, a rare occurrence for the usually collected soldier. “I can explain,” he starts, but she shakes her head, cutting him off.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she mumbles, trying to maintain a semblance of indifference. “I’m not your girlfriend, right?”

And that… that truth cut deep. She wasn't his girlfriend. Despite the electric chemistry crackling between them, despite the longing glances and the lingering touches, they had never crossed that line. But Ghost couldn't deny the storm of emotions raging within him.

He had kissed the woman, hoping it would ease the ache in his heart, hoping it would dull the sharp edges of his feelings for her. But now, faced with the reality that she had witnessed him with someone else, all those emotions crashed over him like a relentless tide.

He tries again, his voice betraying a crack of desperation, "that woman… she meant nothing to me. She was a distraction. She was…”

But he trails off, the weight of the truth bearing down on him. He had used that woman as an escape, a way to hide from the relentless pull he felt towards her, a futile attempt to silence the longing in his soul.

But now, he can't hide from the truth any longer.

“Let me deal with my nightmares on my own.”

And that stings, too. The way she keeps pushing him away, refusing to let him in, refusing to let him share her burdens. He wants to be there for her, to hold her through the darkest nights, to chase away the demons that haunt her dreams. Yet she keeps pushing him away.

“Why do you push me away?” His frustration spills out, mingled with a raw vulnerability that he rarely shows. "I want to help, damn it. I…"

He hesitates, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. "I care about you. More than I should.”

“And you shouldn’t.”

Those words cut deeper than any bullet ever could. Yet, he presses on, his voice heavy with emotion.

“Why not? Because it’s not what we signed up for? Because it’s not what’s professional?” He steps closer to her, his voice barely a whisper now. His gloved fingertips graze against her cheek, the touch gentle, as if afraid she might vanish before his eyes.

“It’s not professional. I can’t have you risking your rank.”

“To hell with my rank!” His gruff voice reverberates through the room, his hand now firmly cupping her face.

“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve stitched me up, patched me up. You’ve saved my damn life on innumerable occasions. I owe you that and more.”

His gaze holds hers, pleading for understanding, for acceptance of the truth he's finally admitting. "Maybe it’s not ‘professional’. Maybe it’s messy and complicated. But it's real, damn it."

He brings his other hand to her face, cradling it gently, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. The leather of his glove contrasts starkly against her soft skin.

"I’m done pretending."

His voice is rough, filled with a desperate intensity. The walls he built around his heart, the barriers of restraint, finally crumble as he speaks the words he’s been holding back.

"I don’t care if it’s not ‘professional’. My heart is already yours. And I don’t want it back."

“Am I… interrupting something?”

Gaz’s eyebrow is raised as he uncaps his water tumbler.

Ghost's eyes widen in realization, embarrassment flushing his cheeks beneath the mask. He turns towards Gaz, annoyance and surprise lacing his voice.

"Bloody hell, Gaz! Can't you knock!"

[6lostgirl6]

Yandere Alphabet - Demon!Dean Winchester

TW: Toxic Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Controlling Behavior, Hints of Physical Abuse, Hints of Verbal Abuse, Kidnapping, Mentions of Murder, Isolation And Spanking As Punishment, Cursing, Manipulation. A/N: Please inform me if I did not tag something correctly. Please know the difference between fictional and reality. While fictional, these types of relationships are extremely toxic, especially in real-life. If your relationship is showcasing these toxic behaviors, please seek help from someone to get out safely. Reblogs are heavily appreciated!!

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

He’s a physical lover, and he doesn’t give two fucks about PDA. He’ll kiss and touch you whenever and wherever he likes. He always gives you heated, passionate kisses while grasping all over your body and pressing you up against him. When he’s really affected, he’ll growl while kissing you, and his eyes will flash black on occasion.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Very messy. Demon Dean, at this point, is a malevolent being and will resort to more grotesque methods when it comes to his darling. Even if it means killing innocent people who look at you the wrong way or dare touch you, well, try. He’ll break the person’s bones before they even lay a finger on you.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Depending on how you react to the situation, his treatment of you varies. If you behave, he'll treat you good by his definition. However, if you react badly, he's going to not react well. Yes, he’ll mock you, because we need to remember that he may love you, but that doesn't change his nature. He has a cruel sense of humor.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

He’ll make you come with him on his killing sprees. You’re not a fan of blood; that’s too bad. You’ll just have to get used to it, because that’s all you’re ever going to see besides him. Blood and carnage.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Demon Dean still has some of his old traits from when he was human. He doesn't like expressing his emotions until he trusts you enough. Which would take a long time. However, when he finally trusts you, he’ll be more open about his feelings for you. He still keeps things close to his chest, though he might never speak with you about it. 

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Oh, he’s pissed.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

No, your relationship isn't a game to him. But getting you to fall in love with him will be like a game, and he'll triumph. It’s only a matter of time. Demon Dean wouldn't like seeing you try to escape; it would automatically anger him. He’ll lash out at you.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Your worst experience with him would be your fights with him. He's scary when he’s angry, especially when it's towards you. He’ll practically scream in your face and manhandle you. Another thing would be him forcing you to see his killing sprees. He doesn't trust you enough to leave you on your own, so you'll have to witness his brutality.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

When it comes to your future with him, you’re stuck with him, and not even death would separate you. He’ll secretly try to uncover a way to turn you into a demon. You'll be isolated from hunters; demons wouldn't dare approach you. He’s the only thing you’ll ever need; nobody else can help you.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Extremely, however, it’s not because he’s insecure; you simply belong to him and are completely off-limits. Coping, what’s that? He’s going to lash out in a violent way at the person attempting to flirt with you. He left people bloodied to a pulp on the floor before, and he has done worse.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

It’s discrete, but he’s a little softer around you, and he would let you get away with small things that he wouldn’t tolerate if it were another person. As a demon, he’s not afraid to show you how deep his love runs for you. He’s clingy and always has a hand grabbing you somewhere. He’s very possessive, and he tends to keep you to himself.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

When it comes to demon dean, there is no time for courting or lightly approaching you about his feelings. When he kidnapped you, there were no romantic gestures or heartfelt confessions; you simply belonged to him, and you need to get used to it.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Of course, Dean treats you differently compared to others. He’s less rough around the edge, and he does try to control his temper better around you. You’re his, and he doesn’t mistreat what belongs to him. 

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Depending on what you do, however, he'll simply tie you to the bedpost and keep you there until you learn your lesson. He would never intentionally hurt you, but he will force you over your lap and smack your ass until you’re begging for forgiveness. Trust me, he wouldn’t make it fun for you.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

The better question is: how many rights would he allow you to have? All you need to do around him is eat, sleep, and look pretty for him. Misbehave, and you’re going to be chained to the bed again.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

He will have zero patience with you, so you better behave for your own sake. He's not afraid of punishing you, however he sees fit, because you didn’t listen to him or try to escape. Therefore, try not to upset him too much.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

No, he would never move on. If you died or were killed, his rampage would be talked about in Hell for centuries. If you manage to escape, it won’t last long. He’s going to get you back, whatever it takes, so enjoy the freedom while it lasts.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Ha! Hell no. However, after being cured, he will feel horrible for how he treated you. He’ll feel ashamed that his darker feelings for you were brought to light. He really does love you, but the demonic side of him has horrible ways of showing it.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

His transformation into a demon allowed his yandere tendencies to be brought to the surface. He doesn’t have to hold back his urges anymore, and why would he want to?

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Of course he doesn’t like it; he prefers you being obedient and rather docile. He would never admit this, but he would want you to be happy with him, even as a demon. If you try avoiding him, he’ll keep bugging you and forcing you to talk to him. He lacks patience, so your screams and cries will only make him angrier the longer you keep having tantrums.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Demon Dean would never hurt you intentionally, especially by abusing you to make you cooperate. Sure, when he lashes out, there may be a few accidents, but that’s all they are. Accidents. 

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

There are two things you could use: his killing urges and/or feeding into his ego. If you want to play the waiting game, you would have to gain his trust enough to allow you to be out of his sight. Simply pretending to love him won’t be enough because he’ll see right through you. When he goes on his killing sprees, leaving you behind for once will be your chance and only chance to escape. You better protect yourself; he will find you.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

No matter how much he cares about you, he will hurt your feelings at times, especially when he flirts with other women in front of you. When he’s extremely angry or has the itching need to kill something, you need to stay out of his way. He will lash out at you with hurtful words and potential bruises.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Demon Dean cares about you despite who he is, and he doesn’t like upsetting you. You’re not much fun with tears in your eyes. As a demon, you’re the only one that makes him feel things—feelings he used to hide within when he was human. Anyway, he would go to the ultimate length to win you over. He’s not going to beg on his knees for your love, but he’ll show you how much he worships you in his own way. You want him to kill someone and bring you their head? He'll do it.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

After Dean became a demon and left with Crowley, he didn’t take you with him at the time, no matter how much he wanted to. However, you’ve never left his thoughts, no matter how much he tried to drink your sweet voice away. You haunted him for months until he finally snapped and came after you.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

If Dean was never cured or you never managed a way to escape from him, he’ll find a way to break you and make you depend solely on him. Make you finally see that he is the only thing that would kill to keep you safe. One way or another, he’ll make you fall for him.

Taglist: Comment to be added/removed!!

@prettywhenibleed @britany1997 @rottent33th @slaasherslut @huntressandlioness1 @wraith-posts @schizonephilim

[the-kr8tor]

Stem the Tide

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 5.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW injury, TW death, CW vomit mention.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

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CHAPTER 8 >>> CHAPTER 9

There's water in your lungs.

Hobie's injuries scream at him to stop swimming, but he doesn't, not until he swims you to safety. He has you placed on a piece of the revenge, a shattered part of it, all splintered wood and sharp edges that dig into his skin.

The storm has subsided, the sea monsters went back into the water, the thought should ease him but he'd rather have the beasts within eyesight if possible. The sky is still dark and blue, the sun is just about waking up to the carnage floating on the depths.

His other half is paddling away from the trenches where the creatures could lie in wait. Eyes gradually searching for his crew but his main priority is you. You who haven't opened your eyes, you who haven't breathed nor moved. He worries, grief calling for him once again.

The fear of losing you is the only thing keeping him moving.

His arms ache as he tries to restart your heart. Pounding and pushing into your chest, doing his best not to crack any of your ribs. Chapped lips breathing life into you, inflating your lungs, chest heaving up but you don't expel the water. He ignores the freezing water; it's almost as cold as your skin, still it burns him with every touch he gives you.

You haven't breathed on your own for a long while.

He curses himself, wishes that he got to you faster but with all the jaws coming towards him he had to dodge in the water and with all the strong currents he let you drown. Fuck, why wasn't I fast enough? He thinks, guilt chewing him.

“C’mon, Scuttlebutt. Fuckin' breathe.”

Hobie sees land ahead so he paddles faster.

He sucks in air, then blows into your icy mouth. Pumping and pushing, his muscles are threatening to give out.

“Not you,” tears brimming in his eyes, the sun peeks in the horizon, illuminating your lifeless face. “Please, not you too.”

A large wave almost sweeps the two of you off the raft, he protects you with his own battered body. The wave helped, the makeshift raft beaching on the sandy shores of the unknown island.

He pounds his palms continuously on your chest. Thump, thump, thump. The sound echoes in his ears like death knells.

Nothing.

Your lips are turning an unnatural shade. He doesn't focus on it, instead Hobie leans in, breathing into you once again, moving his head down, he listens intently for a sign of your heart beating.

He can't even hear a faint beating.

“Fuck!” He continues the cycle, palms compressing on your chest, mouth giving you air straight from within him. “Open your goddamn eyes!”

Hobie yells your name, full of anguish and denial. He won't give up because if it was you in his shoes, you wouldn't have.

His sobs wracked his body, yet he does it again and again and again. He can't even look at your face anymore because if he fails, he doesn't want to remember your lifeless face, instead he'd want to remember you smiling, smiling at his crew, smiling at whatever joke Pav said, smiling at him.

He'll do anything to see it again. The crew can't lose you.

He can't lose you,

“No!” In his desperation, he hammers his fist harshly on your chest.

Nothing.

He does it again. Thrashing and drumming.

Nothing.

Hobie closes his eyes, leaning down to breathe life into you one last time. He's tired, too tired to continue. Lips lingering on yours, he holds onto you tight, refusing to let go.

You wake up to lips pressing on yours and salty water rising quickly from your lungs.

Gasping and coughing, you feel calloused fingers push your body to the side as you vomit out all the water. Eyes stinging, hands digging into the sand.

You hear relieved laughter behind you, hand gripping to your shoulder, the other rubbing gently on your back.

Spitting the last salty water out of your body, you fall back on the wooden raft, eyes adjusting to the sunlight. Hobie greets you with a tired smile, fatigued yet he still finds it in himself to grin from ear to ear.

The sun blankets behind him, bathing him in its light, piercings shining, and like fate's practical joke, there's a halo behind his head.

“Please don't tell me we both died and now we both ended up in the same place.” You joke with a hoarse voice. Tongue still tasting salt. “I can barely handle you while alive and now I have to be with you even in death?”

He laughs, the sound louder than the waves on the shore. “That's the first thing you say after almost dying? Miles is right, you use humour as a crutch.” with a shaking hand, he cups your cheek, laying his forehead against your own, resisting the urge to lay his head above your chest to listen to your heartbeat, just to make sure he isn't hallucinating.

You exhale against his face, breath fanning his eyelashes, it's enough proof that death has decided to give him reprieve.

“We're not dead?” You close your eyes, savoring his presence. Hands clasped around his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

He's not dead.

“No,” he leans away, relief under his sigh. “We're alive.”

You chuckle, ghosting your thumb across the gashes on his cheek. “You did good.”

Hobie shakes his head with a smile, rolling on his back, he falls on the sand softly, arms spread out. The once white sand turns into a shade of pink under him, reminding you of his injuries.

“I did good.” Eyes closed, hand reaching towards your side, he grasps your blouse in his palm like you'd fade away if he lets go of you for even a second. The cloth is warm on his skin, realizing that you're injured.

Your cough and groan was enough to ignite his adrenaline once again.

With a hand, you stop him from moving frantically. You inhale a sharp breath, “We need a fire going.” Sitting up on your own, shivering from the cold. He observes with his hands hovering over you.

“Alright, just stay here, I'll light it.”

“No, let me help.” Your wheezing says otherwise.

Hobie grasps your chin, lifting it to face him. Your skin is on fire, he smiles at life coming back to your body. “You drowned,” he doesn't want to say the other word or it might come true. “I think that trumps over a couple of stab wounds.”

“A couple?!” You blink in surprise. “Hobie—”

“Just a few slashes. Stay here, don't cause trouble, trouble. Captain's orders.”

“You're so fucking annoying.” You flop down on the raft, gripping your weeping wound, teeth chattering.

“You could say ‘thank you’ for once.” he teases in an attempt to bring back normalcy. Staring at your sand crusted hair, seafoam draped around you, he's glad he didn't give up in saving you just for him to get a glimpse of this view.

You stare at him through wet lashes, a small pout on your warming lips. “I'm losing blood, captain.”

The simple sentence gets him to clamp up, face suddenly serious.

“Bring me a coconut!” You yell, pout replaced with a small smile. You hide your wincing with a bite of your lip, drawing blood. Looking at him upside down, he has his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

“You're insufferable.” He quotes you before immediately jogging over towards the tropical forest behind you.

“And I, you.” You whisper into nothingness, touching your lips with the pads of your fingers.

—

The fire cackles next to you, the flames dance in your vision just like the fire that devoured the revenge. Smoke fills your lungs again, you cover your nose with your arm, eyes closed, trying to forget what happened. What you did.

Hobie holds a circular pendant tied to a stick, the metal glows red hot, the engraving of a wave twirls as he moves it closer to you.

You clutch the back of your head, it still stings when you press down, at least you're not freezing and wet anymore thanks to the fire next to you.

“How do I do this?” He asks, eyes flicking to your pained face.

“Just place the metal on top of my wound for a few seconds then take it off immediately. I don't want a piece of metal in me.” Your voice is muffled by your arm.

“Show me.”

Lifting up your blouse, you hiss, fabric sticking to the angry wound, revealing where the bullet pierced you. “He nicked me so there's no bullet to take out.”

“Less work for us then. Ready?”

“Yes, just use the plain side. I don't want it to leave a mark.”

“Bad news, scuttlebutt. It'll leave a mark.”

“Not what I meant. The wave, I don't want it to leave a shape.”

“I know.” Without warning, he places the bare side of the pendant on your wound. Skin sizzling, you bite into your arm, yells tamped down. Other hand gripping into his elbow. It's an unimaginable pain, you can't believe Hobie survived through two of these.

He flings it away, careful not to add to your pain. “You alright?”

You heave, a tear escaping from your eye. “I guess I deserved that.” Looking at him through half lidded eyes, he gives you a weak smile.

“You would've flinched.”

“You're right, I would've flinched. At least I'm honest about it.” You let the air kiss your searing skin. Letting your head fall on the tree trunk behind you, He watches you like you're already dead. “It was a joke, Hobie—”

“What happened to you? Below deck?” He shakes his head, glaring at your neck. You instinctively hide it under your hand, it's still tender to the touch.

“Had a run in with a very bad man. I got him though…” you nudge him with your foot. “I'm—” you can't find the right words. “I'm sorry about the ship, I had to defend myself, I didn't know the fire would—”

“The ship was already gone the moment Mathias found us.” Those grey eyes look at you intensely, remnants of the storm still leave traces behind them. “Don't apologize, you got him, that's all that matters.”

“I burned him alive, Hobie.” You blurt it out, confessing your sins. “I shot a man. I–I don't…It matters that I did that.”

He sits closer, leaving the searing metal next to him on the fire. Holding your knee, he tentatively touches your hand before he reaches for it fully. Skin meeting skin, hand holding yours, the same grey eyes soften for you.

“Let it matter then. But don't let it in, don't let them try to kill you a second time. Bury their bodies if you have to but don't mourn them.”

“Can we do that? Bury them? Not metaphorically, even without the bodies.”

“Yes, if you want to. I'll help you dig.”

You nod, gliding your thumb along the ridges of his hand. After a beat, you swallow a lump in your dry throat. “I can still hear his screams.” avoiding his eyes, you look down at the grains of sand, your tears leave patches of darker soil in its wake.

Hobie squeezes your hand. “I'll quiet it down for you.”

“How?” you look at him, eyes questioning, eyes weeping.

“I'll talk over it, make you listen to something else other than the screaming.”

You give him a tight lipped smile, forced, tears threatening to fall. You can't ignore their faces anymore. “Finn, Ned and—”

“We'll bury them too, and we'll mourn them. They deserve that much.”

“They deserve more, Hobie. Much more.” he pulls you in, seeking comfort from each other. Arms enveloping you. You let him take you in, his scent replacing the smoke clinging to your lungs.

“They do,” Mindful of each other's injuries, you lay your head on his uninjured shoulder, face buried on the crook of his neck. He does the same, nose kissing your skin. “they deserve better.”

He finds that his arms are molded to fit you.

“The others? Do you know they're alright?”

“I saw them escape, that's all I know.” You lean away, looking at him with worry. “We'll find them, but knowing Gwen they'll find us first, yeah?” he cups your jaw. “We'll get out of here, I promise.”

“I'll hold you to that.” You nod, leaving his warmth, back landing on the wood, letting yourself fall back to your old ways.

Hobie still has his hands shaped to fit you. “We have to survive first.” He taps your shoe. “Do mine next.” He lifts up his shirt, showing you all the angry gashes like a prized trophy. “Then our scars will truly match.”

—

Shoes discarded on the sand, you wade through the seafoam with Hobie. The sun glares, puffy clouds shielding you from the heat. A breeze passes by, seagulls squawk above.

“We could eat those.” He pipes up, kicking something under the sand.

“The sand?”

“The birds, thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” Leaning down, he grabs something red buried in the sand. “Help me with this.”

You stretch your shoulders, careful of your own injuries. Copying his stance, you both pull. “How do we even catch one?”

“Pistol, a spear or a trap.” He does all the work of pulling while you're still aching. His injuries still hurt but he'd rather do all the work than let you strain yourself. “Trust me, after eating fish for three days straight, you'd beg for something else to eat.”

“You think we'll be stuck here for three days?” you tug in sync, pulling it with all your strength.

“Maybe more—” he scoffs, finally hauling the fabric out. “It's our sail. Bloody hilarious.” the crimson lay half buried in the sand, tattered.

Ned would hate seeing it like this.

You trace the stitching around the edges, remembering how his expert hands once weaved around it.

“Oi” he brushes his knuckles on your hand to get your attention. You feel his broken skin briefly. “We could use this as our roof.”

“Mm-hmm, you do that and I'll continue searching around the shore. Maybe my satchel got washed up too” you let go of the cloth, already walking away.

“Nah, I'll come with.” He bunches up the sail in his arms, drowning his entire body in red.

Crimson like the eyes of the beast.

You shake your head, giving him a faint smile. “We can't stay together the entire time we're here. We'd drive each other crazy.”

Hobie catches up to you, wide strides and long legs sauntering over to your side. “Good thing I'm already bonkers.” he passes by you, looking over his shoulders to see your wide eyes looking at him. “Hurry up before the sun sets.”

You shake your head, jogging to walk by his side. “I bet in three days we'd start killing each other.”

He snorts. “I beg to differ.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

After a minute of walking along the beach, you find a washed up crate. Hobie opens it with the butt of his gun, punching a hole straight through. You pray that it's medical supplies or at least food.

He laughs, clutching his side, leaning on the box. Beckoning your confused self, he drapes his arm around your shoulder, showing you the contents.

You blink confused at the brown bricks. “Is this tea?”

He continues to chuckle like he heard an inside joke that you're not privy to. Taking one in his hand, he weighs it, surprised that it wasn't damaged by the sea water, he thanks whoever packed it well.

Opening the packaging, he brings it close to your nose. “Here.”

You flinch back, burnt skin tugging on your side. “What the hell! I'm not smelling that!”

He laughs louder, you wonder if his injuries ache too. “Just smell it and tell me what you think it is.”

“No! What if it's solid shit?”

“It's not! Solid shit? Really?” His broken lips hurt as he smiles wider. “Do you not trust me?”

You suck in your teeth, “fine, if this is shit I'm drowning myself.” With apprehension, you lean forward to sniff. “Is that?” You sniff again, this time with a laugh. “Holy shit!”

“It's bloody chocolate.” You grab his hand, smelling the sweet treat. “Guess you got your wish. An entire crate of ‘em too.”

“I can't fucking believe that it hasn't melted yet!” He hands you the entire bar and you grin. You both guessed that one of the navy ships was carrying it. “We only need a crate full of alcohol and we're good.”

Hobie clasps your arm, “We can stay here forever if we do find one.”

“Fuck off.” You say in between laughs. “I'm not staying here forever—” your smile falters, fear enters your body.

“What?” He turns around, following your line of sight.

A body, there's a body washed up on the shore. It's draped in a blue uniform and seaweed, seagulls land near it, tentatively pecking.

“Stay here.” He murmurs, draping the sail on top of the crate. You grasp his hand before he leaves your side. “Y/N, stay here.”

“No, what if he's still alive?” you hold on to him tighter.

He nods, eyes roaming your tensed face, your shoulders are straight, eyes staying on the body. “Alright, but walk behind me, yeah?”

You nod.

With every step, your fear encapsulates you further down to your feet, the warmth on your soles keeps you alert. Yet, your hand stays on the cold hilt of your dagger.

Hobie kicks the corpse, it stays unmoving. A group of crabs start to scavenge the body, pinching and taking skin.

“He's dead. No need to worry.” He looks at you over his shoulder, glancing at your tight grip on the dagger.

“What if we're not the only ones here?” your breath shudders at the thought.

“I'll sweep the island—”

“We'll sweep the island.”

He doesn't protest, knowing you won't take no for an answer. “Fine, just—” grabbing your hands, he fixes your hold on the dagger, guiding your fingers around the hilt. You freeze on the spot. “There, better.” He tugs at the weapon, it doesn't budge in your hold. “Now they can't take it from you. Don't let them take it away from you.”

“I won't, I promise.”

—

The island is small, smaller than you thought it would be. Green foliage and tropical trees cover half of the island. Dry leaves crunch under your foot, critters slither and chatter under the tall grass, making you conscious of where you land your feet. The rays of the sun peek behind the tree tops. Exotic sounding birds sing above the branches, their rainbow feathers fly overhead, leaving a breeze to flutter against your cheeks.

You almost run into Hobie when he stops abruptly. He whistles out, reaching blindly behind him to grasp your hand.

“Come on.”

Surprisingly enough, you don't let go, locking your fingers around his, letting the warmth course through your skin.

You hear rushing water.

“We're fuckin' lucky.” He pauses, watching you peek from behind to see what's in front.

You're in awe at the small waterfall, misty water cascading like unfurled silk; it splashes cool water down into a plunge pool. Before you know it, Hobie's stripping down to his knickers.

“Woah! A bit of a warning!” You cover your eyes quickly.

He hoots before you hear a loud splash.

Hobie calls your name, you can hear his smile from how he utters it.

“It's fresh water! We can drink this!” He yells over the sound of the waterfall.

“I'm not drinking your bath water!” You still avoid him, glancing all over the place except for where he swims.

“The water isn't stagnant! It's clean! Come over here!”

“No!”

“I'm not fuckin' naked, Y/N! Just fuckin' come here.”

With a stomp of your foot and a click of your tongue, you glance at him, avoiding staring at his bottom half.

“Someone else could still be here, Hobie and you're relaxing!”

“No one's here, trust me. We've swept the entire place, there's no one here. Jus’ us” He floats and you immediately look away. Laughing, he lets the water wash over him.

“Well I'm glad you're having fun!” You say sarcastically. “But I'll walk around so you don't get stabbed in the water.”

“I can finally teach you how to swim! Get in!” He teases, knowing you won't actually swim with him while he's practically in his birthday suit.

“Nope!” You walk away but still staying close to him. “Maybe when you're not naked I'll reconsider!”

“Suit yourself! Wait!” You pause, “Stay close, yeah?”

Nodding, you wave with the dagger.

You walk around the area, avoiding colorful flowers that you're too afraid to touch. Hands grazing the top of the tall grass, you gasp when a familiar plant catches your sight.

“What?!” You hear Hobie shout, “you alright?!”

“I'm fine!” You yell back. “Keep floating like a turd!”

He laughs, a second later you hear splashing.

—

You sit on the banks of the pool, tired muscles sagging into the dirt, your pockets are full of medicinal herbs. You're just glad you found the right plants that can help to stave off infection. If only you had a mortar and pestle then it'll help with digesting the bitterness better.

Drawing swirling patterns on the dirt with your dagger, you don't look at him, only flicking your eyes to see if he hasn't drowned from napping in the water. He floats aimlessly, skin glistening under the sun, toned chest and scars in full display. You huff, moving your eyes away from his body. Yet your mind wonders where he got them, it's better to think about it than letting your mind wander back to what happened on the revenge and your almost death.

The slight sting of your injuries helps keep you awake at least.

“You hungry?” You almost jump when he suddenly appears on the edge of the pool, arms tucked under his chin, grey eyes looking expectantly at you.

“A little. You?”

“Starving. We're gonna need to make a shelter soon.” Hobie twists in place, head resting on the ground, face staring up at the afternoon sky.

You scooch closer, he smiles when your upside down face fills his vision. “Do you know where we are?”

“No, I'm guessing we're in one of the thousand islands. We were near it when we—Just be glad that we didn't land on a cannibal island.”

“There's no such thing.” He reaches up, wiping the sweat off your brow. “Right?” you almost lean into his touch.

“We got attacked by a bloody sea monster, ‘m sure there's an island somewhere with cannibals.”

“True.” You shrug, trying not to remember what the beasts look like or even sound like. “Did you piss your pants too when they came up from the water?” Teasing, you fall into relaxation with him.

“No, I shat myself.” You laugh loudly. Hobie thinks he has the best seat in the house. “Can't fuckin' believe they're real.” He can't believe you're real.

“Still feels like a dream. Someone has to know those things exist.” The sun illuminates the side of your face, lighting up your features. He can't help but reach up again with the same excuse to wipe your face. “Thanks, I'm sweating a lot.”

“Really? I haven't noticed.” You roll your eyes. “Maybe if you take a dip then—”

“Nope.” To his dismay, you move away from his view. “Come on, fishman, we need to get started on shelter.”

“I just said that.” He stands up, groaning along the way, you look away. “and really? Fishman? That the best you can do, stinky?”

“Stinky?” You cross your arms on your chest, hearing clothes shuffle behind you. “What are you five?”

“Could say the same thing to you,” his face suddenly appears on your shoulder. You yelp, groaning comically, briskly walking away in annoyance. “Wrong way, scuttlebutt.”

You turn heel, trudging in a different direction while he chuckles.

—

Standing in knee deep sea water, the sun beaming down, soft sand under your toes and your stomach growling to be fed, you stand near Hobie whose trousers are folded up to his knees. The water laps at your legs, warm enough to be comfortable but cool enough to keep you in the water. Tiny fish weave around your legs, their fins brushing your skin.

“There!” you point too fast that you pull a muscle but you pay it no mind when Hobie misses the fish again with his makeshift spear.

“Fuck!” The spear is sticking out of the sand, Hobie who is equally starving kicks the water, it splashes all over your blouse.

Great, you're hungry and wet.

You huff loudly, frustrated like the man next to you. “I'm hungry.”

“I know.” He says flatly. Taking out the spear, he aims again.

The fish wiggle in the water like it's mocking Hobie.

“Maybe we can survive eating chocolates and coconut for the rest of our days?” You wipe the sweat off the back of your neck. “Or I can start catching some crabs.”

“Fuck this!” He yells, drawing his gun, he shoots at the fish, the bullet hits the water like a tiny cannonball, splashing you again.

It's a bullseye.

You scream when he grabs the still bleeding fish. Hobie smiles wildly, yelling triumphantly.

You both jump up and down in the water giddily.

—

The fire roars in front of you, your dinner needs some seasoning but it's better than sleeping hungry with only chocolate to fill your stomach. Times like this you miss Finn's cooking, and him.

Hobie looks at you through the fire, he's thinking of the same thing. Wishing that he wasn't.

“What kind of fish is this?” you break the quiet to stop your thoughts.

“The edible kind.”

“You have no idea do you?” Narrowing your eyes at him, you scoff.

“Fuck if I know.” Hobie shrugs, scrunching his nose.

“You're a pirate.” You stop chewing.

“Yes and? I'm not a bloody fisherman.”

“I thought you'd know, because you're in the sea most of the time.”

“Fishing was James’ job not mine.”

“Kinda wishing James was here then.” You murmur but he still hears.

“Give me your bloody fish, you ungrateful bastard.” he reaches towards you and in turn you pull your fish away from him.

“No!” he chuckles at your reaction, shaking his head before silence drapes over the peace you've both created.

You keep munching on the plain mystery fish. Hobie was kind enough to catch (shoot) another fish so you don't have to share one. It's flaky in your hands, now you smell like sweat, blood and fish. The greatest smell combination in the world.

You chew, “I need new clothes.” and a bath but you'll never admit it to Hobie.

“That bloke has some,” he points with his chin at the dead body, laying further at the beach.

“Ew, I'd rather stay in these.” You grimace, looking down at the tattered and singed cloth that's holding on to its last leg.

“I don't mind that, I can actually see your elbows from here.” he smirks, trying to look flirty but with him chomping on a fish head it ended up looking more hilarious than cute.

“My elbows? Oh you pervert.” Yet there's heat behind your cheeks even when his own cheek is covered in fish scales. “Should we bury him?” you change the subject.

“We should or it'll stink,” he flicks his grey eyes at you, the simple act wakes up the butterflies in your stomach, or maybe that's the fish. “like you.”

“I don't stink” a lie of course.

Hobie laughs into his half eaten fish. “I can smell you from here.”

“No you don't, that's the fish!”

“What's the difference?”

You flick a fin at him, it hits him on his head, sticking to his hair. Laughing, you take another bite, something hard almost breaks your tooth. You stop giggling, spitting out a round metallic thing.

Realization hits you, Hobie peeks at your hand,

His sudden loud guffaw makes you throw the bullet at him. He dodges it, still laughing hard and with a fish fin stuck to his hair.

“This is why fishermen don't shoot at fish!” You end up cackling too, finding his laughter contagious. “I almost bit into it!”

He guffaws louder, hiding his face and you get a full view of the fin on his hair. You shake your head, standing up to sit next to his shaking form.

“Stop moving! Let me get that thing off.” You grab it, throwing it into the fire.

His laughter subsides, staring at you with those stormy eyes. He sniffs, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to say something that could hurt or for him to say something that would make you leave. But you don't and he stays silent. Just reveling in each other's presence.

You read his expression, his lips still hidden under his hand but his eyes say everything. You don't want to ruin the night but you have to tell him or it'll eat at you, not letting you sleep and you ending up looking at him with pity and grief. You don't want that, you want to continue to look at him like you've recently found out from Miles, with reverence and fondness that's out of your reach.

“I'm sorry.” Your words don't hurt him but your expression brings a pang in his heart. “About…everything.”

“‘s not your fault.” Grief knocks on his door and he refuses to answer. “Nothin' to be sorry about.”

“Feels like it is.”

“You're not the one who killed them.” Grief tries to barge in on him, he blocks the door, still refusing to let it in. “There's nothin' to forgive.”

“Still, I'd like to apologize. They were good men.” Against your own better judgment, you take his hand, he doesn't flinch away, even twisting his hand to hold yours properly.

“Do you want to say goodbye? To them?” he murmurs like he isn't sure of it himself.

Hobie refuses to let it in, not again, not in front of you.

“Yes, but we'll do it once you're ready.” You whisper to him like the world could hear his secret.

Hobie sighs. Heart aching, he doesn't want to say goodbye, if it was up to him he'd never—

“Hobie?” You call his name softly, “If you need help with silencing the screams,” a shaky breath escapes you. “I'm here.”

He frowns, seeing her face and not yours for a brief second. Changing tune, he takes his hand away. “Thanks.” It's your turn to frown.

You inhale, “I'll go grab us some water for uh cleaning our wounds. I'll clean them before bed.” Walking away, you leave him alone with his thoughts, he hopes you turn back around, but you don't.

—

Hobie takes first watch, torso exposed to the sea wind, letting it calm the searing pain of his injuries. He observes for any boats or ships on the horizon, even hoping for a box full of medical supplies to wash ashore.

He rubs his heavy eyes, it's supposed to be your turn but he lets you sleep in, after everything he'd let you rest as long as you need to. Looking over his shoulder, the simple act makes him wince. He stares at your sleeping face, calm and angelic under the warmth of the fire, and he can't help but feel jealous. You're situated under the shabby shelter, protected by the red sail that's fluttering in the breeze. Foot twitching, you scrunch up your nose in your sleep,

Chuckling, he turns back around to face the beach.

There's still nothing but seagulls flying above the water and crabs digging into the sand.

Yawning, he shakes his head wildly to keep awake. So he decides to walk around the beach, stretching his throbbing muscles.

As Hobie kicks the sand between his toes, he finds himself standing next to the navy man's corpse. He stares at the lifeless eyes, lips blue, skin so pale it blends in with the sand. The crabs still eat the remains, pinching and taking bits. He scoffs, knuckles shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms.

He doesn't deserve to be buried, Hobie thinks. And he definitely doesn't need her pity. So he takes the man's legs, slowly dragging it down to the shore until it floats. The rush of waves wakes him up, cold water dousing his lower half. Hobie pushes it away roughly, letting the tides take it, letting the sea claim it like it has claimed his friends.

He watches it slowly drift away, yet his anger doesn't subside. The fire in him is still burning ever brighter. He mentally promises the crew he lost that he'll avenge them. That he'll get Mathias, even if it kills him.

Your screams bring him back to reality. Bolting away, wading through the water, the sand hinders his sprinting, he quickly runs to your side.

“Oi, oi!” Hobie watches your terrified face morph into relief when you see him. “What's wrong? Crab in your knickers?” He stops his joking when tears slide to your cheeks, your entire body is shaking. His chest heaves at your sobbing. Voice cracking when he utters your name, Hobie lets you breathe, holding on to your shoulders firmly.

You stare at him through the tears. “I–I dreamt that you left me here.” His façade breaks into two. “And I w–woke up and you weren't here. I thought—”

“I would never. I won't leave.” You continue to weep so he holds you, not to make you stop but to help steady you through it. He'd hold onto you every minute of every day if he has to.

It's frightening how well you two fit together, limbs tangled around one another. Like a pair of wings, one cannot fly without the other. And that terrifies you through the embrace.

“I'm s-sorry, I really thought.” You find your place atop his chest, face buried on his skin, his scars kissing your cheeks. Hands gripping to the small of his back, your nails almost digging.

“‘m here, ’m not leaving you, promise.” Hobie intends to keep it, not for your sake but for his.

[tomoleary]

Mike Mayhew - Scream: Curse of Carnage #1 Frankie's Comics Variant Cover Painting

[jumbojazzcats93]

COTTON MOUTH - GHOST

Summary - Ghost discovers something about himself

Warnings/Tags - MDNI, Blood kink, blood, mentions of sex, violence, injuries, Header by @/loganliqueurdrag on TikTok, banner by @/saradika, @glossysoap @violet-phantoms @gremlingottoosilly @lordlydragon @grizzersmamma @ivymarquis @quietlyignoringyou

Nerves were frayed. This operation was taking way too damn long. These might've been the most elusive terrorists the squad had dealt with, and as it turned out, the reason for that was because they were already dead. A bigger fish had come along and taken a bite, if you will.

Upon finding the dead group of men there was silence.....

Silence and then - "FUCK", followed by a slam.

Ghost whipped around at the sound to find Soap and Gaz huffing and grumbling in frustration, rubbing their faces and eyes, shaking their heads. Price was relaying the details of the carnage over comms with closed eyes and a tired expression. And y/n... had removed and thrown her Kevlar helmet across the room; crouching down with a groan that bordered on a scream and covering her face with her hands. "Two months!", she shouted holding up 2 fingers and looking up. Ghost persed his lips behind the mask as he looked down at her. "Two months of running around this dry-ass, sandy-ass country. Bouncing from base to base and camping out on black ops only fo-" "Right, then." He cut in. "Tha's quite enough whinging." He scooped up Y/N's Kevlar and grabbed her by the vest straps standing her up. "Gotta pull gaurd until the extraction crew gets here." He held her helmet out for her until she took it, "Le's head up front, than yeah?", and strolled to the previous room.

Hours had passed. The extraction crew had been delayed, saying something about how the wind was too strong for flying. Apparently, this mission was cursed down to the last detail because 5 hours into the wait, Arabic whispered through the walls of the building. Tension flooded the room. The hope that, whoever these people were, they would just pass and keep on moving was a shared one, but after almost 15 minutes, that hope was buried in the sand as a knife ripped into the door in an attempt to somehow work it open. 15 more minutes after that saw the bodies of their "bigger fish" laying among their target terrorist group.

Sighs and heavy breaths filled the small building in the aftermath of the fight. Ghost looked over his team. Nothing more than a few cuts and bruises was a relief. Perimeter checks began once again as Price radioed in to Laswel to report the state of events. He found y/n carefully feeling at a knife wound. A shallow, clean cut down her bottom lip and chin. She licked her cut lip, Ghost watching as she looked him in the eyes and collected the blood in her mouth, spitting it out onto the sand. His stomach tightened and he wondered if he had hit his head because something was deeply wrong with him for the arousal that wracked his body. Traces of blood stained her mouth and as she grinned at Gaz over some sarcastic joke, his stomach tightened again... along with his tactical pants.

The sight of her grinning and spitting blood was doing something for him in ways he knew was so demented. He imagined her naked and on her knees with his blood in her mouth, on her lips as she teased his cock with her tongue; a bloody bite mark on his thigh the source. He turned away. The image of her licking blood from her lips was going to taint his mind for a long time.

[skylarsblue]

✦Meeting & Flirting W/ The C.o.D Men✦

~✦Part Two✦~

✧Alejandro, Rodolfo, König, Alex✧ ✦GN!Reader, mostly fluff, mild descriptions of wounds/combat/war, random call signs and some use of y/n, minor sexual tension, inconsistencies with canon timelines because I'm better than the games(/j), I started this before König was called a colonel, poorly translated Spanish & German that I apologize for (correct me please-)✦

✧Alejandro Vargas✧

Civilians let out screams and ducked into houses to hide. Tan colored vans and trucks lined the streets of Mexico as shots were fired. The moments of quiet were as worrisome as the sounds of gunfire in a situation like this. Alejandro cursed as yet another man declared their ammo low. They were running out, at the rate they were going, they’d need to pull back. Alejandro was a stubborn man, however, and bowing down to a cartel would’ve done damage to the credibility of his men, along with his own ego. “Colonel, there’s a car coming in. Unmarked.” His radio crackled with the information. “Aye, watch it. Keep looking. Does it look like the enemy?” Alejandro replied, getting a negative in response.  As if there wasn’t a risk of fire being brought out, the car stopped in the middle of a paused stand off. Out of the vehicle stepped one person, dressed in a way that stood out completely. “What in the hell is this?” Alejandro hissed as he watched the civilian look around. They were wearing a mask of porcelain, decorated elegantly with gold paint, almost like a statue of crying Virgin Mary. He locked eyes with them, and they…motioned for him to pause. “What do we do?” The soldier beside Alejandro asked. “Sir, I think I know who this is.” His radio called. He watched as the stranger turned to confused members of the enemy, raising their hand to the sky. Three fingers, two, and then one. The cartel’s side of the street blew up and the stranger ran for cover. “Mierda! What the fuck is happening?!” A soldier exclaimed. Alejandro’s radio triggered again with enthusiastic laughter. “Resistance sir, the one I’ve been telling you about!” The colonel took a breath. “The one run by civilians? How’d they set this up?” He asked roughly, aiming his gun to take a shot. “They’re smart, sir. That one you saw? That’s their leader. A talk with them would be a good idea, they’re a powerful ally, a stronger bond could prove useful.” Alejandro looked across the field in awe as the stranger took out a few more cartel soldiers. They then looked at him, giving him a nod and a salute. For the first time that day, Alejandro smiled. “A strong ally indeed.”

(I make them speak mostly English so I avoid making mistakes in Spanish, I'm sorry-) It had been a month since that day, and three weeks since Alejandro & Rudy had properly met the mysterious masked individual. They'd proven themselves rather charming, even if a bit suspicious. Alejandro had been rather excited to meet the individual who'd managed to secretly gather well-trained civilians to aid them against the cartel, pulling stunts like they did before. Though their real name was a heavily guarded secret, much like their face, they did have a name of sorts to associate with them. Los Lares, in reference to Roman mythological deities that provided protection. Their leader, the masked individual, known only as Padres, though occasional nicknames popped up from individuals they were close with. Alejandro had done his best to assess whether they were trust worthy or not, they did the same to him. And after two successful mini missions, Padres agreed to show Alejandro, Rudy, and some of his men what they'd been hiding. "Well would you look at this..." Alejandro said quietly as they drove through a small village. Guarded heavily with armed civilians was a tiny town commandeered by Los Lares, rather than the cartel. Kept safe from the carnage in the rest of Las Almas. The car rolled through slowly, allowing them to gaze at buildings without bullet holes, covered in colorful decorations. Children ran around playfully, adults standing around and talking, some small market carts on the edge of the street that gave out fresh food and household items. Music playing over speakers. Not a single skull balaclava in sight. Rudy pulled over and parked by a building at the end of the long street. The shell of a church it seemed. Outside of it was Padres, running around with children on their tail. When they noticed the men that had pulled up, they declared for the children to play on their own for a bit. Alejandro couldn't stop his smile as he continued looking around, eyes falling back on them. "This is what you meant by Sanctuary." He said. "Si, I made it myself. No violence occurs here, no fear. How it should be." They explained. "Rodolfo. My second in command, Emil, wanted to discuss things with you, if you wouldn't mind." Padres said, motioning to the man behind them. Rudy looked at Alejandro, who nodded. Rudy walked off after that and left them alone. "I see why you were so secretive now." Alejandro stated, watching them nod. "It usually takes a lot longer to be allowed access here. But I knew you'd be trust worthy." They explained as they leaned against the jeep he'd arrived in. He crossed his arms and leaned on the car as well. "And when did you decide this?" He asked. Padres chuckled and blinked at him past the holes of their mask. He wondered how eye contact alone could make him feel so warm, tingly. "I met your gaze during that gun fight and I could tell. You have the light of angels, querido." They purred. Alejandro chuckled quietly and shook his head fondly. "¿Coqueteando? ¿De verdad?" He asked in a hushed voice, leaned in slightly. They raised both hands in mock surrender. "I see a lot in your eyes, Colonel. Many, many things. Tu disfrute es uno." They teased. Alejandro ran his tongue over his teeth. "Si? I see things in your eyes too." He replied. Padres tilted their head and silently urged him to elaborate. Alejandro let out a breath and smiled. "Peligro. Mucho." He exhaled, senses lit aflame when he saw the distinct signs of a smile hidden behind the mask.

Alejandro enjoyed when he had time to visit the sanctuary Padres had created. There was so much joy around and peace filled the air, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like his shoulders could relax. That he could be at ease. In his visits, he often saw families, children running around with big grins, hearing the innocent laughter always brought Alejandro joy and a sense of longing. He'd always been the familial type with a large soft spot for kids. It showed in his actions, like currently, as he let two boys hang off of his arms like some playground equipment. They giggled and squealed in jovial fun as he hoisted them higher, though he set them down gently when their mother's face grew a bit apprehensive. It was when a little girl, leading a group of children, asked to play hide & seek that things really got to be fun. Alejandro found himself hiding under a table in one of the homes, another child at his side. He held his finger to his lips as they giggled away behind their hands. Both of them seized up when evenly spaced footsteps made themselves present, too heavy for a child. Alejandro had a quick flash of memories that made his body tense up, watching the table cloth be lifted. But it wasn't an enemy, nor a child, but instead a porcelain mask with a smiling individual underneath. "Room for one more?" They asked in a whisper. Alejandro blinked before he snickered and nodded. Both he and the child carefully scooted back to allow Padres more room. "Isn't our hiding spot good, Padres?" The child asked excitedly. "Si, Rosa, it is. I almost couldn't find you both." They replied in a tone akin to a praising mother, something that made Alejandro's chest ache. "What gave us away?" He asked them, smiling wider when they glanced his way. "Your boots, colonel. Your laces were untied, they poked out from underneath." They answered, prompting Alejandro to look. Sure enough, his left boot lace was untied. He sighed and shook his head at the rookie mistake, still grinning however. A beat of silence passed before a rush of tiny footsteps came in, prompting the three to be extra quiet. "Got'cha!!" The little girl declared as she lifted the table cloth. Rosa screamed and laughed, quickly getting up to run away. Both Alejandro and Padres stayed, watching Rosa make a swift get away from her friend running after her. Leaving them both alone under the table. "You are good with kids." The self-appointed commander said fondly. Alejandro melted at the sentiment alone, it always felt like one of the highest level compliments when someone said it. Even more so coming from them. "Gracias, Padres." He said, only for them to shake their head. "Y/N. My name is Y/N, when we are alone, you may call me that." They said softly, leaving Alejandro surprised. The shock wore off quickly and a pleasant tenderness filled the air, showing in their shared gaze. "Losing the mystery, aye?" He asked. "No, merely trusting you with my secrets. I trust I made a good decision?" They replied. Alejandro nodded. "Now I just have to get that mask off of you." He teased. They gave a quiet laugh. "I can't wait..."

It was always nice to celebrate after a successful mission, especially one as high stakes as this. With a large threat neutralized, it seemed like a big party was the right answer. There was a large hand of help from Los Lares, and the citizens who called the refuge home saw it only right to allow Alejandro's men into their sanctuary, to indulge in their victory with loud music and home cooked meals. Alcohol as well, of course. Alejandro stood on a roof and watched the streets below, lit up with colorful lights and bustling with music. He felt his shoulders relax as he watched his soldiers mingle, laughing loudly, raising toasts to their lost brothers & sisters. He took a swig of beer as his gaze shifted to the sky, full of twinkling stars. He went to take another drink, only to find the bottle empty. He debated going back down to grab another one, only to feel a hand rest on his lower back. He flinched and looked over, met with a familiar mask and a kind gaze. "Need another, colonel?" Y/N asked softly, holding up an open beer. Alejandro chuckled and took it, setting the empty one on the roof's edge. "Gracias. How'd you know?" He asked. He turned his body to watch them, even spaced steps taking them to a couple of supply crates. They took a seat and shrugged, he could feel their calm smile in their aura. "Lucky guess. You weren't down there, spotted you up here and I figured you'd like some company. Was I right?" They asked with a head tilt. He walked closer with an exhale. "Yes and no." He answered. They silently encouraged him to elaborate, tilting their head to look up at him as he came to stand in front of them. "Oh?" Alejandro chuckled and set the beer down beside them. "I was looking forward to your company." He admitted. Even in the low light of the moon, he could see their pupils expand. "Such a charmer, Mr.Vargas." They teased in a hushed tone. He rose his hands with a quiet laugh. "Interesting choice in company, however. An individual with no face for you to name." They said. Alejandro's face softened. There was a short beat of silence that seemed to last forever, finally a peaceful moment without the worry of being killed, allowing him to admire them properly, despite the mask. He then remembered their promise, the words spoken to him to keep his morale high when things were looking bleak. So, though he was careful, he rose his hands to their face, cautiously grazing the edge of the mask with his fingers. "Is that right?" He whispered. They didn't move back or scold him, merely kept his eyes locked with theirs in a look that sent shivers down his spine, even as he edge the mask up. It was pulled away and in an instant, they were exposed fully. Alejandro let out a breath and forgot to inhale afterward. Their smile caused his lungs to constrict in tight thorns. "Well? ¿Algo que decir, coronel?" They asked, and though their tone was cool, he could see the flinch of fear. The anxiety of rejection. He took his free hand to brush over their cheekbone, feeling warm skin instead of cold glass. "Peligrosa… peligrosamente hermosa." He whispered back. They snorted. "How cheesy..." They teased again, tilting their head up to meet him halfway.

✧Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra✧

Rodolfo’s eyes cracked open, he let out a short wheeze. He wasn’t all there, but he was keenly aware of a large commotion outside. He could faintly recall his mission and how he ended up with the throbbing in the back of his head. An RPG hit the building he was in just right and it knocked him out cold. Astigmatism disrupted his vision and his limbs felt heavy. He winced when a light came from the side, the sun, beaming through as the broken door was shoved off. He blinked, and there was someone he’d never seen before. They weren’t really dressed for battle, wearing a decorated porcelain mask with a rifle strapped to their back. Rudy’s hand twitched for his gun before they hushed him, placing their hand on his arm. “Tranquilo ahí, cariño. I’m on your side.” They said gently before turning their head to shout some orders at an unseen person. They turned back to him and cautiously turned his head, clicking their tongue sympathetically as he whined. “Took quite a hit, huh? Don’t worry, we have help on the way and your friends and mine have almost cleared out the enemy.” They took out a flashlight, shining it in his eyes When his pupils responded normally, they put the flashlight away and called out some more orders. Rodolfo decided to try and sit up but he barely moved before nearly falling back on the floor. They caught him by the back of his neck. “Easy, pretty boy. Don’t make yourself worse.” They said, gently guiding him to sit up with their support. Rudy blinked and groaned. He got a better look at them now, pushing past his dry mouth to try and speak. “You…you are the ally Alejandro mentioned…” he grunted. Their eyes scrunched, indicating a smile. “That’s right, dear. And I’ll get you out of here. You can trust me on that.” They promised.

Rodolfo carefully scratched around the edge of a bandage on his head, huffing when Alejandro lightly flicked his hand, scolding him for fidgeting with it. "I'm healing fine." He said quietly, glancing at the map on the table in front of them. "Still, shouldn't mess with it." Alejandro replied with a caring pat to his shoulder. They were waiting in a planning/common room in the main base of their new adversaries, a civilian led resistance against the cartel. Rudy recalled the way they carefully held him steady when they'd found him, after he'd been knocked unconscious. Alejandro swore they were trustworthy, and so far, they'd definitely been helpful. Alejandro stood more straight when the door swung open and Padres entered the room, a few of their men behind them. The two of them overheard the leader scolding a civie-soldier for not eating breakfast before they turned to the two friends. They were dressed more casually than the other times they'd met. Looking liked they'd just been dragged out of bed, actually. And although they seemed sleepy, still in slippers even, they still bore their mysterious porcelain mask. "Apologies, my alarm didn't go off." Padres apologized in a gentle tone. Alejandro chuckled and shook his head. "You all there yet, Padres?" He asked, smiling when they waved their hand, approaching the table. "I can still explain my plan to you, si." They replied before yawning, Rudy smiled as they went to cover their mouth for the sake of manners, despite the face covering. Their eyes landed on him and he could see the signs of a smile in their gaze. "Ah, chico lindo, how's your head?" They asked. Rodolfo felt his cheeks warm at the nickname, they hadn't been subtle when he first met them either. "Fine, just sore." He replied. At that moment, the quiet mutterings of a man who'd come in for some coffee hit the room. A soldier named Ramirez. Whispering about Rodolfo's skills, trying to imply he wasn't a true soldier for being wounded "so easily", which made another snicker. Rudy didn't show a reaction to it, Alejandro scowled, but both men jumped when Padres gasped. With skilled precision, they flicked their slipper from their foot and caught it from the air, launching it in the direction of Ramirez. A perfect headshot as the slipper smacked the back of the soldier's skull. Alejandro and Rudy shared a look, recalling their own experiences with the all feared chancla. "Debería darte vergüenza! These men give their life everyday for the sake of our country, they were fighting before you were given your status in my army, show some respect! You will not disrespect this man again, do you understand me?!" They shouted, finger pointed. The man shrank, rubbing the back of his head. "Si, commander." Padres put their hands on their hips. Ramirez approached with their slipper, which Padres snatched from his grip, dropping it on the floor so they could it back on. "Now apologize for your insolence." They demanded, pointing at Rudy. Both Rodolfo and Alejandro watched with wide eyes as a grown man, tall and buff, turned with his head down like an embarrassed child, muttering an apology. Rudy swallowed and let it go, unable to look away from the mysterious individual who'd defended him so valiantly. They'd been so gentle and sweet. Rudy felt his mouth grow dry and his stomach twist as they sent Ramirez away with a wave of their hand. With a breath and a headshake, they turned to face him again, smiling once more. "Now, let's get this done, alright?" They asked. Rudy nodded, not missing the teasing glance Alejandro gave him.

It was sweltering, as expected for a Mexican Summer. The speedy movement and adrenaline of avoiding gunfire only added to the discomfort. There were still cartel members outside, but at a distance. There was quiet for a moment, excluding Rodolfo's breathing being hissed through his teeth. A bullet had skidded past the back of his hand, tearing through his glove and leaving blood running down his arm. He was sat on the floor of an abandoned house, jacket discarded and shirt sleeve rolled past his elbow. "I know it stings, but you'll be alright." His ally, Padres, spoke softly to him past their mask. He nodded and leaned his head back against the wall, watching them dig through a bag for medical supplies. He held his hand up to lessen blood flow, letting it run across the dips in his muscled forearm. "How is it that every time you find me, I'm bleeding?" The man asked with a playful tone, smiling slightly when they snickered. "Well, mi tonto y querido soldado. It's because you're a reckless fool." Their thumb pressed into the area around the wound, making him wince, looking them in the eye. Their gaze was sharper than before, although not malicious. "You are so smart but so, so very stupid sometimes." They shook their head, taking away the pressure from his hand, holding it cautiously now. "You're swift, you're experienced, you're intelligent. But you're hot headed, and sometimes you get too focused on a goal to realize you're stepping on a land mine. It amazes me you're not more battered than you are." Their concern was warranted and their praise was met with warmth in his face. He swallowed and looked back at them again as they examined his wound, slowly rising their gaze to him again. He could see the signs of a gentle smile in their eyes. They hushed him soothingly when his hissed at the sting of disinfectant. His hand twitched involuntarily from the odd feeling on his nerves. "You have a point." He sighed, looking at their surroundings for a moment. He let out a short laugh after a few seconds of silence. "At least you're always near by to fix me up, no? I seem to heal faster when you're caring for my wounds." He muttered, feeling his stomach twist with an exciting bout of nerves. He wasn't much of a flirting type, and he tried to keep it subtle enough in case he'd been misreading. Padres chuckled fondly as they pressed down a bandage around his arm, kindly wiping away the blood. "Not the first to have told me that." They said fondly. With one last look at his hand, the clicked their tongue as they took in the damage. "Your hand will likely be difficult to use for until it's healed. We'll need to speed up that process." Rudy rose an eyebrow, confused. His eyes widened when they lifted their mask slightly, just enough to expose their mouth. It was hard to remember to breathe as a care kiss was placed over the bandage, he swore he could feel the burn of their lips past the layers, seeping into his wound and sending shocks in his blood. "Stay vigilant, chico lindo, I need you in peak condition."

(tw; war and brief mentions of wounds) Rodolfo panted heavily as he vaulted through a broken window, feeling perspiration on his skin from the heat of fire and exercise as he continued to sprint through a broken down building. There was bloodshed, naturally, it came with the job. But there was something in his stomach that twisted as he worried he'd find their body amongst those empty of souls. He'd promised to be more careful, but he'd dropped that worry as soon as their mic cut out. The fight had died down and an evac was only two miles away, but he demanded proof of their demise before he'd step anywhere near it. The man's steps crackled over broken glass and after the constant rain of bullets, the silence felt all the more deafening. His ears rang with a high pitched whine that he tried to ignore, listening for anything amongst the worrying stillness. He felt hope dwindle as seconds tic down, until he heard the sound of moving rubble in a room he'd yet to check. It could've been an enemy, perhaps it wasn't them, but despite the risk he rushed over and pushed the broken door out of his way. His breath left his lungs with weight as he saw their back, struggling to push themselves up. "Oh, gracias a Dios, estás vivo." Rudy said as he rushed over. A cruel sense of deja vu hit him as he gently guided them into sitting up, their hands covering their face. They groaned quietly, leaning against him for support. Rudy took a quick glance around, seeing pieces of their iconic mask broken. "Where are you wounded? Evac isn't far, what do you need?" He asked, only to hear them let out a strained chuckle. Slowly, blood covered hands stopped covering their visage. Air punched out of his chest as he finally got their face, and while blood dripped from a fairly painful seeming gash on their forehead, they smiled. "Tranquilo, cariño. Estoy bien." They said, gaze tired and a bit dazed. Rudy sighed and shook his head. "You've already used that line..." He said back, unable to stop the tiny smile as they snorted. "So I have." They hummed, resting against his armored shoulder. Rodolfo swallowed and chewed on some words stuck in his throat for a moment, up until they tapped him. "Just ask me already, Rodolfo. I'm losing blood and I think you should know how much I like you by now." They said with a hint of smugness. Rudy clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, chuckling when the poked him again. "Don't roll your eyes at me, young man." They scolded playfully, groaning in pain as he carefully helped them up, pulling them close to keep them supported. "A drink after this sounds nice, si?" He asked quietly. They nodded lazily. "With you? Absolutely." Rudy smiled and began slowly guiding them out of the broken building. "It's a date then."

✧König Badubrecht✧

Konig anxiously fiddled with the bracelet he snuck under his sleeves while he waited. He recalled a breathing technique and tried his best to keep his breaths quiet, but full enough to keep him calm. On any other day, he would've been mostly fine, but this was not every other day. No. His commander had told him that he, and two other soldiers, would be meeting up with a rather impressive taskforce run by Captain John Price. As if it wasn't enough that Ghost was on the team, as well as the ties they had to impressive forces in Mexico, all of that on its own was enough to get him antsy to make a good impression. But there was something in particular that caused his nerves to light up with unease. Meeting their sniper. Only known by their callsign 'Hotshot'. When Price had chosen them, word spread fast to allies about the impressive track record they carried. Twice, they had missed a shot twice. That was two compared to, give or take, three-thousand-four shots they had taken. A number that steadily grew with each mission, one kept track of just to prove the otherwise outrageous number. König loved the idea of being a sniper and practiced frequently, even if he was never given the position due to his size. Part of him wanted to ask for an autograph, but he also knew that would likely get him weird looks. "Oi, Großer Kerl. Das Team ist hier." His commander's voice startled him just as much as the words. König swallowed and nodded. He stood up and quickly fussed over his appearance before following. He let the other soldiers he'd be working with walk in front of him. He envied them, their confidence. Slightly baffled they could walk toward such impressive people without feeling the need to overthink how they'd present. It was one thing when König didn't care about their opinion, or when he was walking toward enemies. He'd strut forward with his shoulders rolled back and his chin high, gaze stern and sharp as the blade on his belt. But wanting people to like you, new people no less? He'd had easier times handling battles than that. It didn't get easier when they were in view. He towered over all of them, hiding wasn't much of an option, although his veil helped. König noted all of them individually as his commander spoke with Captain Price. Ghost certainly was intimidating, Gaz & Soap seemed more approachable, not to take away from their capable abilities however. Then his eyes fell on the last member, feeling his chest clench, making his hands do the same at his sides. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he'd heard of Hotshot's illustrious reputation. Still, he wasn't expecting them to be so...beautiful. They stood confidently with a laid back smile, some left over war paint smudged under their eyes, black gloves over their hands. König had so much to say and it all piled up in the back of his throat. He'd gotten so lost in staring at them that he'd completely missed everyone introducing themselves to each other, hence why he flinched violently when he was addressed directly. Suddenly, someone he viewed so highly was stood in front of him, craning their neck to make eye contact. "You alright there, big man?" They asked with a smile. König let out a string of stammered noises. They rose an eyebrow with a head tilt as the man mentally scolded himself, trying hard to actually say a word, anything! "You're pretty." He said suddenly with a voice crack. Instantly, shame and regret waved over his body. Hotshot blinked a few times in surprise. "I-I-I'm so sorry, I didn't-" "I like you." They pointed with a grin again, much wider than before. König deadpanned, eyes wide and stunned quiet. He watched them extend a hand. "Look forward to workin' with you, Romeo." They teased lightly. König hesitated, but very carefully shook their hand with a nod.

König held his breath before pulling the trigger on his USR rifle. The bullet soared through the air and through the paper of the target, leaving a fresh hole in the figure's skull. He exhaled and smiled to himself under his sniper veil, taking notes on what he had done right, what he could do better. As he went to grab his pen and jot it all done, he flung it in surprise when clapping sounded behind him. He nearly broke his neck whipping his head around, pulse stuttering when he viewed Hotshot leaned on the wall. Or, Y/N, as they'd said to call them. Though König had yet to break the habit of calling them Lieutenant. He blushed heavily as they smiled at him, pushing off the wall. "Nice shot, big guy. Right between the eyes." They complimented, letting out a whistle as they gazed at the target. He swallowed a lump in his throat, hands growing clammy in his gloves. He hadn't known them very long, admittedly, although their reputation preceded them. It had been a little less than a month since he'd first been introduced, in that time, he'd grown to find them charming. Too charming for him to handle. "Remind me again why they won't give you a proper sniper position again?" They asked as he leaned back on his knees. Konig cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't crack. "My size." He mumbled, a bit bitterly. Hotshot clicked their tongue both sympathetically and in annoyance. "Yeah, I'd imagine being that tall has it's drawbacks. Seems to have advantages too though. Still, I think you're a great shot. Little awkward on your form though." They explained. Konig glanced up at them with a small head tilt, silently hoping they'd elaborate. They smiled and crouched beside him, suddenly reminding him just how much bigger he was. "Get back in position, I'll show ya." They smiled. Konig nodded and did as told. He wasn't necessarily an obedient soldier, but he always listened to what they said. He'd been so worried about how they perceived him, stepping out of line brought too much anxiety. He wanted them to like him. He adjusted his hold on the gun, resuming the position he was in before they came in. "See, you're firing well, but is this a position you could hold for an hour?" They asked. "Nien, my back starts to hurt." He admitted. Hotshot nodded and snapped their fingers. "Exactly. Here, I can already tell your problem." He glanced at them before his breath caught in his throat, feeling their hand gently placed on his leg. Positioning it a bit more outwards, bending at the knee. Through thick cargo pants and a set of gloves, their palm felt like fire through fabric, singeing his skin. His hands twitched nervously when they moved up by his shoulders. "Now, instead of holding your head like that, try this instead." Their voice was soft, quiet. König felt his pulse in his extremities when their hand found his jaw underneath his make-shift sniper hood, tilting his head as they wished. "There ya go, big guy. Now, try firing like that." The nickname suddenly felt like fire to his senses, and he had to clench his jaw to bite back an unmanly sound. He did his best to hold the gun steady, aiming once more, ignoring the proximity of his superior. He fired, unable to focus on where the bullet landed. He could still somehow feel the ghost of their hands on his person. He flinched when they clapped twice. "Another headshot! Good job, mate. Keep at it and you'll be better than me soon." They smiled brightly. Konig blinked up at them, nodding carefully. The lieutenant hadn't missed the widening of his pupils. "I'll let you get back to it. Come get me if you want more tips." They patted his shoulder, taking careful note of his near-silent shudder. Perfect.

(TW; War typical violence, blood lusty König) The man heaved, feeling ice in his veins, bright red blood darkening the fabric of his gear. He counted the bodies around him, ten in total, none of them moving. He scanned the area around him as he continue moving, looking for more targets, knowing if he didn't have one in his sights, someone had him in theirs. His fist clenched around the handle of his blade when his radio crackled. Static mixed with a voice, one frantic, one familiar. Past his adrenaline rushed brain he heard the panicked call of his friendly sniper, one who'd recently called him a friend. Long legs broke into a sprint, operating off his most basic instincts, the most animalistic portions of his mind. He made it to their position with, to him, felt like seconds. He didn't process the information around him before his body was moving, quick as light and as brutal as iron spikes. Suddenly, his body count that day went from thirty to thirty four. A loud crack and a heavy thump of a limp body hitting the floor was the last thing her heard before the blood rushing in his ears started to settle. He turned to look over his shoulder, seeing Y/N coughing, grasping at their neck. He went over to them in three large strides, kneeling down in front of them. "Mein Freund, geht es Ihnen gut?" He asked, voice heavy with breath and a bit shaky. They coughed again with a nod. "I'm alright, I'm good. Thank you." He listened to the rasp out their answer. As things grew quiet again, König realized just how intense he'd been. One glance at the bodies behind him showed the true nature many often were unaware of. He was a violent, terrifying force when in war. Typically, he didn't care. He'd grown to stop caring after so much of his life was met with judgment or rejection. But he liked this person, therefore, their approval mattered to him, and now his anxiety began to rise. They'd fear him, avoid him now, surely. "König." Their voice snapped him forward again. "Can you get this mic off? It's hard to breathe with it..." They muttered, motioning to the throat mic tightly secured around their neck. It caught him by surprise. He'd just snapped a neck without hesitation not even five minutes prior, and yet they were asking for his help still. He swallowed and nodded. The winced and tilted their head back, allowing access to their bruised esophagus. König tried not to tremble as his fingers clumsily when to loosen and undo the mic. His hand was dangerous, blood still stained his gloves as he grazed their skin with the fabric. His chest felt ready to burst as he heard them sigh in relief when the pressure let go, easing some of the sting of the irritation. It was red, soon to be a deep purple when the bruises truly formed. It looked painful. König's fingers shook as he absentmindedly trailed the line dented in their skin. "I'm okay." Their voice made him jump again, bringing his eyes back to theirs. They smiled at him, already exhausted from the day of battle. König blinked and nodded slowly. He cleared his throat and pulled his hand away, like he'd been burned, feeling his skin lit aflame. "Let us finish so you can get to evac." He muttered, standing up, allowing them to use his deadly hand to hoist themselves up with him.

"God it is so pretty here!" Y/N declared as they looked around at König's hometown. Graz, Austria. König smiled behind his black medical mask as he watched them look around in awe, feeling pride bubble in his chest as they walked to his home. Since he'd joined the military, he'd gone home alone. It was lonely, yes, though he always made sure to visit his grandmother when he'd come back from missions. His apartment always felt too quiet, too empty. He liked his alone time but often times he found the solitude suffocating. Everyone he knew on his team didn't really have this problem, either being fine on their own, with friends to visit, or family to return to. That was until the hotshot sniper admitted a very similar situation to himself. He saw how their face fell when they mentioned it, and despite his fear of rejection, he took a leap and offered a plane ticket. It surprised and delighted him when they jumped at the opportunity. He was proud that they enjoyed his country so far, even if he was nervous about their opinion of his home. Not that he could avoid it, however, given they were already at his door. König unlocked the door and stepped in, immediately removing his shoes. They mimicked his movements and carefully set their boots off to the side. He took a second to note how small theirs were in comparison to his. They took a gander around his home. It wasn't much, a simply decorated place with some mild dust built up from how long he was gone. When they giggled quietly, his stomach twisted, wondering what it could mean. "Uhm, welcome to mein home. Do...do you like it?" He asked nervously. "You decorate like a grandma." They answered, turning with a big grin on their face. An old quilt was folded on the couch and on the wall their were crocheted works of art in wooden frames. "It's so cozy, it's really cute." Their compliment made him relax. He motioned for them to sit, which they did gladly. He was quick to make them tea, some for himself to calm his nerves. There was a silence that settled over them when he finally came to sit beside them, comfortable for them, anxious for him. They spared a glance at him staring at his tea cup, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder. "Aren't you gonna take off your mask? So you can drink it?" Y/N asked. König blinked, his breath catching in his throat. "...Nein." He muttered, setting the cup on the table in front of them. Y/N frowned. "Why? It's just me..." They said in a hushed tone. "You," He swallowed. "You will not like my face." He said softly, squeezing his hands together. They sighed and put their own cup down, standing up. König's eyes followed them and his face went red as they bent, placing their hands on his knees, looking him intently in the eye. "That is bullshit, big guy. I like you way more than you think I do. And I promise your face is not gonna change that." They said intensely. König blinked at them before he looked at his lap again. He inhaled deeply through his nose before he bit down on his tongue. Like ripping off a bandaid, he wanted to get the pain of their rejection off as fast as possible, so he tore off the mask, keeping his eyes scrunched shut. Some beats of silence left his heart palpitating. Then he felt warm palms carefully cradle his cheeks, forcing a gasp out of him. König blinked and looked at them, up, for once. Y/N's gaze trailed over his features, fingers lightly trailing over faint freckles to a scar across the bold bridge of his nose, down to the his oldest scar that ran from his right sinus to his chapped lips. A smile grew over their face as they took in his visage. "I knew it. You're one pretty man, Romeo." They purred quietly. The man's eyes widened before his breathing stopped, eyes fluttering as they pressed a gentle kiss to his nose. "Du bringst mich noch ins Grab…" He shivered. They chuckled and pecked his forehead. "Don't even think about it mister, you're staying alive for as long as I need for you to love yourself as much as I love you."

✧Alex Keller✧

Alex was a seasoned soldier. He'd constantly perceived through the unthinkable, cut it close with death more times than he could count. Shot, stabbed, kidnapped twice, inhaled complex chemicals, and managed to escape with his life after he detonated a bomb. Missing a leg, but alive. Maybe he was lucky, maybe it was the opposite. Either way, anyone who had the nerve to imply Alex as anything but impressive and strong was a fool, completely. The blond was someone any general would take pride in. So what on earth could take out a man with such an amazing track record? The flu. The answer was the flu. Alex practically never got sick, but when his fellow soldiers began to notice his less than fantastic state, it was hard to deny. Pale, clammy, a headache from hell. He couldn't do drills as well because his joints were sore and the coughing wasn't ideal. He managed to brush off concerns up until he threw up in the communal trashcan in mess hall. Finally, Alex's commander dragged him to the medbay. "Just sit down, Keller. Fucks sake." Julia grumbled as she set him on a bed. "I'm tellin' ya, I just need some NyQuil and I'll be fine-" Alex was cut off by harsh coughing fit that made the woman cringe. "With all due respect, Keller, you sound like you deep throated a cactus. Just let the medic look at'cha. We just got a new one, they're lovely, you'll be in good hands." She promised, making him sighed and rub his face, putting some pressure on his eyes, hoping it'd help the pain behind them. Alex hummed as he heard Julia greet a new voice. He dropped his hands in his lap and blinked, looking over at the new medic, not wanting to be rude. He couldn't tell if the warmth in his face was just the fever anymore though, not when he got a good look at them. They approached and set a clipboard down, standing in front of him, putting on some gloves as they smiled. Julia motioned to him. "This is Alex Keller, Keller, our medic, Plaster." She said. Alex rose an eyebrow and looked at them, watching them laugh. "It's my callsign. Brits call band aids, plasters." They explained. "And they'll fix all your cracks." Julia snorted, making the medic roll their eyes. Plaster grabbed a thermometer and put a cover on it. "Alrighty, Alex, just put this under your tongue. Don't want a soldier with such an impressive resume to be out of commission for too long." Alex blinked slowly as the plastic rested under his tongue. His brain was essentially mush, and the pretty face in front of him wasn't helping. "Heard o' meh?" He slurred tiredly, making them snort. "I have! Not everyday a man willingly blows up a building full of gas, much less live through it. Man of steel, eh?" They asked. Alex motioned to his leg. "Knee down." He replied, smiling when they laughed, taking out the thermometer. "Oh boy, 100.8. You, sir, should've been here much sooner. I'll get you some antibiotics and some NyQuil." Plaster said as they shined a light in his eyes. Alex lazily opened his mouth so they could check the back of his throat, heart thumping harshly as they carefully held his jaw, clicking their tongue sympathetically. "Poor thing, your throat looks pretty bad." He hummed. He gazed up at them as they carefully put a stethoscope to his chest. "Pulse sounds a bit quick." They mumbled. "'s your fault." Alex replied. Julia's jaw dropped open as Plaster tilted their head with a little chuckle. "Oh is it now? Well I'm sorry, sir." They replied. "Mm-mm, not complainin'." Alex shrugged. Plaster shook their head and wrote his prescription down, handing it to him before turning to Julia. "Make sure he stays in bed. And get some rest, casanova." They patted his leg. Alex gave a weak salute as Julia dragged him away, not paying attention to how she poked fun at him. "You're gonna feel so embarrassed when you can think straight." Alex shrugged as he stumbled beside his commander. "I dunno, I think they liked me." He said proudly. Julia rolled her eyes.

Getting a leg blown off was an extremely painful endeavor, obviously. Alex had a whole half of a limb blasted off at the knee, then he had to have it heal, then there were months of getting used to having his limb missing. And even after growing used to having his leg amputated, the pain was far from done. Excluding ghost pains, there was always some painful soreness left after using his leg all day. After some time, there was a level of pain that he considered normal, and therefore powered through. But there were other times where it was agony. It reminded him of the darker fairy tales he’d been told by his great grandmother. Like the Little Mermaid, how every step was agony, rather than the sparkly version Disney gave. He still tried to tough it out, but it really felt like hell. Leading him to limp to the medic’s area, hoping to hide from his bosses for a bit and perhaps ask for something for the pain. He winced as the pain became sharp, sitting on a cot in the quiet medbay. He sighed as he heard footsteps coming his way. He glanced up and saw their medic, the one that cared for him when he had the flu. “Mr.Keller, what brings you her- oh you look bad, what’s going on?” Their joyful tone quickly turned to worry as they approached him. He sighed and motioned to his leg. Quickly, the nodded and wrote something down. “Give me a moment. If it’s alright with you, I’d like you to remove your leg and compression sock.” They said. He did as told. There was both pain and relief when the heavy metal was pulled away. He set it beside him and tried to place pressure on his thigh. Plaster came back with some ICYHOT and a cold wrap. “Can I put my hands on you?” They asked softly. Alex rose an eyebrow, smiling when they rolled their eyes playfully. “Not like that.” They scolded, though they weren't truly upset. Alex chuckled and nodded, rub his his face. They put some gloves on and some of the Icyhot. Their hands were delicate as they carefully applied pressure to the muscle of his amputated limb. He winced and sighed in repeat as it both soothed and ached. All the while, they gentle cooed and comforted him through the pain. By the time the frigid compress was wrapped around his leg, he was exhausted. Alex went to stand, hobble his way back to his room, only for a hand on his chest to stop him. He looked up at them, being met with a gentle smile and a light push. He listened and laid back, though confused. “I think you should rest for a bit.” They explained softly, patting his chest. “And…you’d rather me do it here than my room?” He asked with a teasing grin, watching them laugh under their breath. “Come on, casanova. Give a lonely medic some company, would you?” They asked. Their tone made his chest tighten and his cheeks hurt from smiling. “Sure thing, doc.”

Alex sighed after taking a large gulp of beer from a pint glass, looking around the bar he'd popped into. Usually, bar outings were for celebration after a mission, this time though, he came alone. He wasn't there to mope or feel bad about himself, he just didn't want the loud commotion of his entire team. He was an extrovert, yes, but sometimes the company he wanted was more quiet, less straining. He looked at the foam residue in his glass, zoning out to whatever music was playing over the speakers. Some new-age country song if he had to guess. "Well, hello stranger." A voice near him made him flinch and raise his head, feeling butterflies erupt at the sight of his favorite medic. He grinned and turned to them a bit. "Plaster, hey, what're you doing here?" He asked. They waved their hand and came to sit beside him in the booth, not really minding the close proximity. "None of that callsign nonsense, Keller. You know my name, you can use it off base." They replied, setting a tequila sunrise on the table. The man hummed, the warmness in his cheeks now not only the alcohol. "Well, Y/N, what brings you here?" He asked. "A drink and the curiosity of American bars. The stories were right, it is filthy here." They commented, making him laugh and nod. "Well, so is all of America really." He hummed. They rose an eyebrow at that, though the held their question as he took another swig of beer, only taking a quick second to glance at the way his Adam's apple moved. "Coming from a man with an American flag on his arm, I hear you give your country quite a lot of shit." The medic rested their chin in their hand, eyeing him curiously as he glanced at his tattoo. "It's burning for a reason. I love my country but...I also don't. I...I love the idea of America, what it was supposed to be. What it is? Not so much." He admitted slowly. Y/N frowned as they watched his face fall. They could take a million guesses on what made him feel that way, he'd probably answer with an 'all of the above'. Instead, they reached over and patted his leg with a kind smile. "Well, there are plenty of places I can think of that would take an American, if you're able to handle the jokes on your accent." They said softly. Alex's throat tightened at the kind hand resting over his jean-clad thigh. It wasn't sexual by any means, but it still made his skin grow goosebumps. "Yeah? Would you be willing to take in this one legged stray?" He asked with a teasing tone. Y/N chuckled, but they nodded as well. "I'm sure I could take care of you real well." They whispered softly, barely audible over the commotion of bar life. Alex swallowed and suddenly the pressure on his leg became a little more dangerous. But the last thing he wanted as to pull away. Instead, he let out a breathy laugh, one a bit shaky. "Don't make a promise you can't keep, doc. I'm always getting into trouble." He replied. They tilted their head, an innocent motion with a layer of mischief. "I'll get you out of it." They replied. He knew they'd both go back to the base that night, that nothing would happen, given the sensibility of not making rash decisions with alcohol present. But, despite not even being buzzed, he already had his plan to play up a hang over, just so he'd have an excuse in the morning. Knowing full well they'd see right through him.

Alex was a hardened soldier. He'd been shot, stabbed, nearly blown up, inhaled toxic chemicals, and he'd had his leg blown off. Withstanding it all and still alive, still breathing and, at least somewhat, functioning. But there were days when the air filling his lungs felt monotonous and the lack of sound felt like death. Usually on nights where he was on leave. The first night was always the same, with him so exhausted he'd pass out and wouldn't have the ability to overthink. The longer he was alone, the worse it got, until his mind started to shot off thoughts he didn't really want to indulge. Counting the times he'd cheated death, the amount of lives he might've saved with better hindsight, whether or not there was another side, would it be as quiet as his home? He had friends, people he knew cared for him, but none of those dynamics felt right for voicing this part of himself. The deeper, more frightening bits. Or, well, he didn't have that before. In a moment of weakness, as he felt the weight of his life and its debatable worth rest too potently on his ribs, he grabbed his phone and hit a contact, a colleague. His work always spilled into his life, he didn't see why it had to stop with them. Guilt ate at him when they answered, hearing their tired tone reminding him of how late it was. But they didn't complain, they didn't scold or scoff. Their voice remained sweet, so worried for him, so caring. It aided all the more in having him cave, having him ask for a lifeline. It was raining cats & dogs and yet they only took twenty minutes to be at his door. He was still in his sleepwear, a pair of basketball shorts and a grey tank-top he'd had for a near decade. His leg was off, using his crutch, albeit begrudgingly. No words were shared as he watched them remove their shoes, water dripping off their coat as they hung it on the rack. This would've been the first time they'd actually be in his home, but he wasn't particularly concerned with their opinion of his awful décor choices. Y/N turned and looked at him with worry in their gaze. Again, silently, they took the hand that wasn't supported on the crutch and carefully pulled him to the couch. "Bad night?" They finally spoke, sitting down beside him. Alex nodded and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, I dunno why I called-" They cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. He turned to them with exhaustion in his face. Y/N sighed sadly, raising their hand to hold his face gently in their palm. He melted into it immediately. There was something supernaturally soothing of human warmth, something real, something alive. "You trust me, starboy?" They asked quietly, thunder rumbling in the sky as he nodded. He mourned the loss of their hand as they situated a throw pillow on the end of the couch, moving to lay down with their back slightly elevated by the arm of the furniture. He watched them look back at him, then, with open arms, they beckoned him. It was a step too intimate for coworkers, bordering past friends, and he didn't care. He practically tossed his mobility aid away and slid over. Their chest became his pillow as he slotted between them and the back of the couch, feeling them grab the folded blanket he always left out, draping it over him. He let out a shaky sigh when their nails met his scalp. "Easy, casanova. Let me take care of you." They whispered. Alex let out a huff-like laugh. "You got it, doc..."

[thepeonysbackup]

I need more mindswap fics! Now! Dis shits too good!

Mind!Swapped!Alastor, who....

Pairings: Alastor x Reader

Tags: MDNI, smut plot, dub con!

Word count: 887

Request: Yes/No

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who stirs to the sound of his door being hammered on, who's face peeks over the soft blue sea of fabric to see his door swing open from the comforting space. Who basks in the soft warmth of the light as a shadow hurriedly covered him in darkness, his own smiling face hovering over his body while speaking rapidly, worry noticeable on his brow as the words came in and out of audible, so quick his ears couldn't understand at first in his haze.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who shoots up suddenly after he rolled back over onto his side, his newly felt long strands of hair tickling his nose until he cracked them open once again. Who frantically grabs at himself in a perplexed mental attack of weakness, who jolts when you touch his uncovered feminine flesh and pushes his body off the bed with a girlish scream.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who threatens absolute carnage upon you if you do not keep your mouth shut for the entire day. Who claims he'll tear your soul into bite sized pieces until you can hear not move an inch so he can feast upon your organs to make sure you die again remembering nothing.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who forces you to change his vulgar revealing feminine clothes with his own power, who only allows his shadow to cautiously and accurately switch his attire.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who doesn't leave your side, his brain being fogged by not only the need for his powerful presence to protect him in this weak state, but by the attraction to himself he felt through your body. Who clings to his own arm breathlessly, who gains attention from the others to the change in both of your behaviors.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who cannot rest alone. Who shudders at the thought of being in a restless solitude without his pocketed dimensional room and without his strong present static, who rushes through the halls in your lacey white translucent night clothes to his door to open it… Only to find himself on his armchair by the fire place, his body's clothes disheveled and face stained with a red tint as his clawed hand ruffled lightly within his pants.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who grinds his flat herbivore-like teeth at the wet feeling coating himself between his fair thighs, the womanly throbbing from his dainty petals as he pulls the front of your white camie down to cover himself and the growing wetness that he has little control over. “What do you think your doing?!” His voice would seeth, the threat coming out helplessly as a whine of embarrassment due to your girlish voice being so soft.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who gawks in pure horror at his newly developed position upside down, who writhes with cute little noises of protest as black tendrils loop around his now frail and soft form, his embarrassed tear filled eyes batting its lashes rapidly as he made eye contact with you in his body. Who watches helplessly as your hand untucks himself from his pants at a painfully slow pace, claws raking drawled out strokes across the taut strained skin as it pulsed.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who screams to the holy being who sent him to this foul place for mercy, your lips allowing the words of a subconscious pleading bitch to release as the feeling of his demonic presence rumbled throughout your trembling form in powerful thrusts of his tentacles. Who cursed you for hours before succumbing to your body's desires for his bloodthirsty feral fucking.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who quakes in his eighth orgasm finally hitting the sweetest spot inside you, voice hoarse and desperate for something other then a tentacle inside. “Dearest…” He'd moan to you, your hand still lazily stroking over his half hardened cock before the shadowy appendages pulled him over to you. His ever present smile still boring strain as you made his magic lower your body onto his lap. “Beg some more, it's so fucking hot-” You'd tell him, clawed hand gripping your chin harshly to make him listen. Oh how he trembled.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who cumdrunkenly begs for more of his own seed to fill your tight little holes. Who gurgles hushed moans onto his cock as you facefuck him into the wall, humming hard against his length as it continued to split thick white globs down your pipes until you made him choke. Who reveled in the sound of his voice calling to him, “Such a good girl..” he was for this moment.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who wakes sticky and damp with you on his lap shivering uncontrollably with your thighs locked around his hips. Who's static grows until he feels your cunt tighten around his soft cock, helping it to harden as you blubbered against his chest in pain from the soreness.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who uses you as nothing but a weak and pathetic little fleshlight for days after your incident. Who punishes you so sweetly that your mind bends into itself and snaps at its base. Who fucks you so good that the only word you remember to say is his name and not a damn thing else. “Oh, don't think that I won't remember this..”

[hells-plaid-angel]

Destiel Pride: Featherlight

There comes a time in the grieving process when you run out of things to destroy. There are only so many colourful curses that can be screamed and muffled into the fabric of a trench coat. There are only so many people to blame before it becomes obvious the culprit is the person staring at you in the mirror each morning — or night. Time loses all meaning but before and after. There are no true mornings when mourning. Without Cas, there is no sun rising, only setting. That was how Dean lived in the weeks after Cas was dragged into The Empty.

He still hadn't used the word 'death', not even in the sanctity of his head. 'Death' was a slippery word when it came to the Winchesters, and Cas — whether the bastard liked it or not, was a Winchester by default. He was family. Goddamn family, with all the shitty hang-ups that came with the title.

The word 'death' didn't seem to encompass the grief. Cas was absent from any place that Dean could find him. Even in death, Dean would find him. The lack of him throbbed like bruised knuckles. It only hurt when he moved or thought about it, or stayed too still.

When two months had passed and all options Dean could think of had been explored to get Cas out of The Empty, he was left in the wreckage that'd once been his bedroom. The only things left intact fell into two categories, things that'd been too tough to break, and things that belonged to Cas.

In the silence that followed the carnage, Dean was left with what he'd been avoiding, a moment to think. He wasn't struck by a revelation. 'Revelation' wasn't the right word. He was struck instead by a sense of recognition. A long-hidden truth had stilled his hand and hollowed what was left of his body.

Cas loved him, he knew that. He'd known from the second the angel was gone. He knew what kind of love Cas meant. What he hadn't realised until he was hunched over himself, holding the splintered remains of his nightstand was that he loved Cas back. His loss had brought a torrent of rage because where the hell was all his love meant to go? When Cas left, he'd taken Dean's love with him.

And goddamn wasn't that the cosmic kick in the balls to bookend what he'd deemed a tragic existence? He'd been thinking about death and how useless death would be if Cas wasn't on the other end of it. He was thinking of life in much the same light.

Dean hadn't been raised to know what to do with a grief so all-encompassing it ran in the background of his existence like a mixtape on a road trip. If he followed his father's example, all that was left to do was to become an obsessed bastard, and destroy himself and everyone he touched in slow motion. The Winchester rule for dealing with grief? Become the gangrene in the wound. Make everything so much worse.

When Cas arrived at the door of the bunker a month later, Dean didn't know what to do. Everything in him pushed towards anger, towards utter annihilation of all that was good in himself. However, upon seeing the look of uncertainty on the angel's face decades of rage disappeared. What he was left with was the familiar ring of tinnitus and the thick pit of dread that'd settled in his stomach. What the hell were they meant to do now?

"Hello, Dean," Cas spoke, like nothing had happened. Giving Dean an out, he knew he'd never be able to take.

There was too much left unsaid between them to go tumbling back into cowboy hats and coffee quips like their last run-in with death.

Dean knew he was meant to talk but he'd never been much of a talker when it counted. His hands trembled as they moved unbidden to hover over Cas' shoulder. He needed to touch the guy, to make sure he was real but to do so felt too definitive. If Cas was an illusion, Dean didn't care. He wanted him to stay put for once.

Dean's hands hovered ghostlike in the space between them, haunted as the rest of his body by the loss of the angel. His fingers flittered around Cas' body, nervous birds on hot, highway concrete. They'd land for a moment, featherlight, before taking off again. They explored Castiel's arms, his chest, his cheeks. All the while, Dean remained silent as the saint he wasn't.

In all his imaginings of their reunion, everything had been intense, whether he was throwing curses or kisses at Cas. He'd never expected his lips to lock and his body to betray him by shaking like a goddamn leaf in the breeze. He felt like he was a kid again, lost, silent and looking for someone or something to hold onto with all his fucking might.

He wanted to find his tongue, to say something to wipe the look of absolute bewilderment and trepidation from Cas' face but what the hell was there to say? No words would be enough.

He placed his hands on either side of Cas' face, watching the angel's eyes swell. He wanted a grand gesture. Cas deserved it, but Dean was still tied in knots trying to work out if this was a line they could cross and walk back from. Dean didn't know what he'd do if he screwed things up, terrified Cas would be another home he could never return to.

His lips found the scrape of Cas' cheek. The familiar five o'clock shadow on the unfamiliar territory of his mouth. It was so unlike Dean to be any kind of tender. There was no way the action could be misconstrued for anything other than what it was. A promise? A confession?

His hands had landed on the small of Cas' back and the curve of his hip. He opened his mouth to speak but the words came out garbled, sounding embarrassingly close to a sob.

Still, his mouth wouldn't shape the words. He closed his eyes and prayed, hoping Cas would hear.

Don't you ever do that to me again.

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Nine: Sacrifice

Chapter WC: 7,533

Chapter Tags/Warnings: canon-typical violence

A/N: We're getting somewhere! Kinda!

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Felucia, 21 BBY

Morning comes, and with it, a new day, and a new wave of attacks. You're woken early by the sounds of the blaster fire, the shouts and screams of the men echoing through the jungle. There's barely enough time to get your armor on before you're running out into the battlefield, lightsabers already ignited. The same thing happens the next day, and the next.

On the third day, you find yourself standing shoulder to shoulder with Rex, the two of you fighting a retreating battle. The droids are advancing, and you're struggling to hold them off. This part of the planet is sparser than the others, with giant blooms acting as cover. You and Rex are crouched behind a particularly large flower, its petals the size of a star cruiser.

"This is a bad position," Rex yells over the sound of the battle.

"I know!" you shout back, and you duck down, the blast narrowly missing your head.

"What are your orders?"

You curse, and you reach out, your mind searching for the other Jedi. You connect with Obi-Wan almost instantaneously, the bond thrumming between the two of you, and you realize he's reaching for you too. The feeling of his presence washes over you, and his thoughts flood your mind, the concern and the urgency bleeding into your own emotions.

"We're falling back to your position," Obi-Wan tells you. "Hold your ground until we get there."

"Understood," you reply, and the connection is severed, the bond dissolving. You open your eyes and turn to Rex, the worry etched on your face. "We're not going anywhere."

"Yes, sir," he says, and he rises and shoots, taking out several of the droids, the bolts slamming into the metal bodies. They collapse in a pile of twisted metal, but the others continue their approach, unphased. Rex curses and ducks back down. "This isn't going to be easy."

"Nothing ever is," you mutter. "Cover me."

"What are you—" He cuts himself off when he realizes you're already gone. You rush forward, throwing your shoto in an arc as you leap over the droids. The blade slices through them like butter, and they fall, the clattering sound filling the air. You land on the other side and turn, the saber returning to your hand. 

The droids have turned their attention to you, and you can hear Rex shouting. You ignore him, and the incoming shots, and you charge, lightsabers swinging. The frustration and the panic fuel you to keep fighting, to push forward, to win. The rage burns hotter with each passing second, and the darkness at the edge of your consciousness threatens to engulf you. You fight against the urge, pushing it back, but the control is slipping through your fingers.

And then, just as suddenly, the pressure is released, and the energy around you changes. You don't have to look to know who has arrived, but you do anyway, watching as Obi-Wan and Anakin descend upon the droids, their blades flashing in the sunlight. They cut through the metal army, and you take the opportunity to catch your breath, the first respite you've had in what feels like hours.

"You good?" Anakin asks as he stops next to you, and he glances at the carnage, his eyes wide.

"Yeah," you pant. "You?"

He gives you a look that clearly communicates how ridiculous a question it is. "Are you serious?"

"Sorry," you huff. "Forgot who I was talking to."

Anakin smirks and looks at Obi-Wan, who's still slashing through the droids, his blade a blur. "You think he needs any help?"

You shake your head. "He seems fine to me."

Obi-Wan's movements are swift and precise, and there's a ferocity, a desperation, to them that has your eyebrows raising. He's cutting down the droids like they're made of paper, and there's a fire in his eyes, the anger visible. You can't help but wonder what happened, what triggered his sudden surge of aggression, and you make a note to ask him later. But for now, you focus on keeping up, on staying alive.

Anakin and Obi-Wan hold the front of the line, and you let them, keeping your attention on the forces trying to flank. Ahsoka is still off with a small contingent, sent away to patrol the jungle, much to her displeasure. You'd tried to argue on her behalf, but Anakin had insisted, and in the end, she'd left, a sullen expression on her face. You can only pray she's faring better than the rest of you.

You push that thought away, and you turn, lightsaber swinging. A blast hits the ground near your feet, and you curse, the dirt and smoke kicking up. You lunge, and your blade sinks into the droid, the metal melting under the heat. It collapses, and you pull your blade free, the metal glowing red. The others keep firing, and you duck and roll, the bolts whizzing over your head.

The battle rages on, and the minutes bleed together, the blood pounding in your ears and your lungs burning. The exhaustion is creeping in, and you're struggling to hold onto the hope that you'll survive this. 

Every night since you've arrived, you've had the same nightmare, and every night, you wake up, gasping and sweating. You don't remember what it was about, but the feeling of dread lingers, and the sense of foreboding weighs heavily on you. And, even though the sun is shining, and the air is warm, the chill hasn't left you, and you're afraid. Afraid that something terrible is coming, that something is going to happen. You're not sure if it's the Force or the fatigue or the stress, but the feeling has grown, and it's getting harder to ignore.

You try to put the thoughts aside, to focus on the battle, but the unease refuses to fade. You can feel it in the air, and in the energy around you. The battle is turning, and you can sense it, the shift in the tide. 

"We have to move," Rex says over the comm, his voice firm. "We're exposed."

"Rex is right," you tell Anakin. "We can't hold this position."

Anakin curses, and he glances over, his gaze finding yours. His eyes are wild, and his breathing is ragged, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat. You know he doesn't want to retreat any more than you do, but it's the only option, and the both of you know it. You hold his gaze, and you nod, the understanding passing between the two of you.

"Fall back," he orders, and the words echo through the comms. "We're retreating."

The men are reluctant to abandon their positions, and there's a murmur of protest, but they obey, moving back in a steady retreat. You fall back with them, keeping an eye on the enemy, and on Anakin and Obi-Wan. The battle continues to rage, and the droids are relentless, pursuing you even as the clones shoot them down.

"The 104th has broken through the blockade," Cody reports over the comms. "They're en route to the surface."

The news is a welcome relief, and the anxiety in your chest eases, if only slightly. It's taken them far too long to reach you, and you know that it's no longer a matter of reinforcement, but of evacuation. The battle is lost, and you need to get off the planet, and soon. If not, you'll be trapped, and you'll all die. It's a reality you can't afford to ignore.

"It's about damn time," Anakin growls. "I was starting to think the Council had forgotten about us."

"Don't count on their help just yet," Obi-Wan responds grimly. "If things are as bad as we think they are, then the 104th won't be able to hold the line for long."

"So what's the plan?" you ask, your eyes focused on the approaching droids, and the destruction they're leaving in their wake. The jungle is burning, the smell of smoke and ash heavy in the air. You can't see far, but you know that the planet will not recover, not after this. Everything is on fire, and the heat is intense, the flames licking the sky. "We can't wait much longer."

"I'm aware," Obi-Wan snaps. He seems to think the better of it immediately, and his voice softens. "For now, we keep moving, and we get as many men out of here as we can. That's our priority."

"Then, what?"

"We'll figure it out."

"Fine," you huff, and you turn, throwing yourself into the fight. Your lightsabers flash, and you cut down the droids, their metal bodies falling at your feet. You're not sure how long you fight, but you push through the exhaustion, and the pain, and the fear. You focus on surviving, on staying alive, and the minutes pass in a blur.

You can't help but wonder how many times you're going to have to fight these battles, how many lives will be lost before the Republic finally ends the war. And you're beginning to realize that there's no end in sight. You've been fighting for months, and the conflict seems to be escalating. The stakes are higher, the losses more devastating. You can't keep doing this, and yet, there's no choice.

The battle rages, and the minutes drag by. You've fallen back to Rex's side at the feet of an AT-TE, its cannons firing and its legs stomping down droids as the enemy tries to advance. You're barely able to keep your focus, your body aching and your mind exhausted. All you can think about is the men who have died, the lives that have been lost, the pointless nature of it all. The frustration, and the despair, are overwhelming, and you're barely able to keep it together.

"Rex," you call out. "Have you heard from Ahsoka?"

"No," he replies. "The last I heard, she was engaged in combat, and was trying to regroup."

The worry settles in, and you can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Whatever it is, it can't be good. Your eyes scan the battlefield, and the anxiety grows. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of burning metal, and it's hard to see through the haze. "And the 104th?"

"They're en route," he says. His voice is calm despite the chaos around you, and you try to focus on it, to channel his energy, but it's not working. "ETA is five minutes."

"That's too long," you mutter, shaking your head. Your breath catches in your throat, and the panic rises, the feeling of impending doom growing stronger. "Something's not right. We need to get out of here."

"What?"

"I don't know," you admit, and you glance at Rex, your eyes meeting through the visor of his helmet. "They need to get here now."

"What's wrong?" he asks as he takes a step towards you. The concern radiates off him, and the intensity of his stare, even through the helmet, is overwhelming. "Talk to me."

"I'm not sure," you reply, and you swallow. You've never felt this way before, and it's making it hard to concentrate. You barely manage to dodge a blaster shot, and Rex swears, pulling you behind the tank.

“Sir, you need to focus," Rex tells you, his tone urgent. "I need you here, and not wherever you are right now."

You nod, and you take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself, but the worry is still there. You're not sure what's causing it, and the uncertainty is almost worse, the anxiety clawing at your chest.

"It's alright," he soothes. "We'll figure it out, but you have to stay focused."

"I can't," you whisper, your eyes wide and your hands shaking. You can't get your heart rate under control, and you can feel the sweat running down your neck, the tremors wracking your body. It's as if someone has reached into your chest and squeezed the air from your lungs. It's like someone is standing over you, watching, waiting. "I can't, Rex."

"Hey, it's okay," he reassures, and his voice is calm, the sound a balm to your senses. "We'll get through this, and we'll get everyone out of here. I promise."

You want to believe him, and you're desperately clinging to his words, to the strength of his voice, to the warmth of his hand. You nod, and you try to slow your breathing, to force the panic down. You can't break, not now, not when there are so many lives depending on you. Not when you're needed.

"I'm okay," you say, more to yourself than anyone, and you straighten, your lightsabers igniting. "I'm fine."

The words are hollow, and you're not sure if you believe them, but you have no other choice. Rex lets go of your arm, and you're surprised, your brow furrowing. You hadn't even realized he was still holding you. He doesn't apologize, and he doesn't give any indication that anything happened, but you can sense his concern, his fear. He's worried about you, and the guilt settles in. You have no idea what's going on, but it's obviously affecting you more than you'd thought.

"Rex, I'm..." You trail off, unsure of what to say, and you let out a shaky breath, the anxiety rising. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," he tells you, his voice soft despite how loud the battle is. "Just...be careful, sir. Please."

"I will."

His helmet is still turned towards you, and you can feel the weight of his gaze. You want to reassure him, to tell him that everything will be fine, that he has nothing to worry about. But the words are stuck in your throat, and the lie won't come.

And then you look up.

There’s barely enough time to react as the burning remains of a Vulture droid hurdle toward you, its engine roaring and the smoke billowing. You're not sure how it made it past the AT-TE's defenses, or why the ship isn't firing, but you have no time to think. 

You push with all your might, using the Force to send Rex flying out of the path of the falling droid. It crashes to the ground and explodes, sending dirt and debris into the air, the shock wave reverberating. The explosion knocks you off your feet, and you're thrown several meters away. The pain shoots through your body as you slam into the ground, and your lightsabers fly out of your hands, the blades blinking out of existence as they skid across the dirt. Your head smashes against the hard surface, and you roll a few times before coming to a stop, dazed.

The world is spinning, and you're struggling to get your bearings, your vision blurry and dark. There's a ringing in your ears, and you can't hear anything else, not even the sound of the battle. All you can see is the burning wreckage, and the thick, black smoke. You cough, the air filled with the acrid scent of burning metal and plastic. Your entire body aches, and you're having a hard time catching your breath.

You feel something warm and sticky trickling down your face, and you lift your hand to wipe it away. When you pull it back, your palm is stained with blood, and you're momentarily confused, your thoughts disjointed and scattered. Then, the realization sets in, and the panic returns. You try to stand, but your legs give out, and you collapse, your body hitting the ground with a thud.

Everything hurts, and the ringing is getting louder, and all you can think about is the blood on your hands, and the burning droid, and Rex. You need to find Rex, to make sure he's okay, to get him to safety. You need to—

There's a shadow in front of you, and it takes a moment for your eyes to focus, the image swimming in your vision. When it finally does, you see Rex kneeling over you, his helmet gone and his face covered in dirt. 

He's shouting something, but you can't hear him, the words garbled and distorted. His expression is panicked, and his eyes are wide, his mouth moving rapidly. You can see the fear in his gaze, and you try to respond, but the words are stuck in your throat. You want to tell him that you're fine, that everything is going to be okay, but you can't.

All you can do is watch as he slips his arms under your body and lifts you. You try to protest, but the words come out as a moan, the sound weak and pained. Rex doesn't seem to notice, and he holds you tightly against his chest as he begins to run. You cling to him, your fingers digging into his armor, and you press your face into his neck, tears stinging your eyes. You don't know where he's taking you, or what he's going to do, but you trust him, and you have no other choice.

The pain is becoming too much to bear, and you close your eyes, letting the darkness take over.

The last thing you hear is Rex shouting your name. And then, nothing.

Hyperspace, 21 BBY

Your eyes fly open, and you gasp for air, your body lurching forward violently. A scream dies on your lips, and you fall, your knees hitting the floor of the ship with a thud. You can feel the cold, hard metal against your palms as you grip the edge of the table in front of you, the blood roaring in your ears. 

You try to steady your breathing, but the fear, and the panic, are threatening to consume you. You can't get the images out of your mind. You can't get the feeling of the pain, or the heat of the flames, out of your body. You can't forget the smell of the burning jungle, or the sounds of the screams, or the look in Rex's eyes as he held you.

The tears sting, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force them back. When you open them again, you wince as the lights of the medbay assault your senses. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and when they do, you see the sterile, white walls, and the curtain drawn around you, and the bacta patches on your arms and legs. 

You blink, and the reality sinks in. You're on the floor next to a hospital bed, on a Republic cruiser, somewhere in the vastness of space. And you're alive.

A voice calls your name, and you turn to see Obi-Wan rushing toward you, his robes billowing behind him. You try to stand, but your legs give out, and you collapse. Your body is wracked with tremors that won’t still, and your vision is blurred, the colors bleeding together. Only then do you realize you’re crying, tears rolling down your cheeks, hot and fast.

"Easy," Obi-Wan soothes as he crouches down next to you. He gently lifts you and places you back on the bed. His eyes are wide and filled with worry, his hands gripping your arms tightly, and he takes a moment to examine you. You can feel the panic, and the fear, emanating from him, and you swallow, trying to control your emotions, to reign in the chaos that is consuming your thoughts. 

"Just breathe, my dear," he says. His voice is gentle, and he's still looking at you, his eyes searching yours. "Breathe."

You inhale, and the air fills your lungs, the oxygen soothing the ache in your chest. The tears fall harder, and you let them, too exhausted to fight, and too tired to care. Obi-Wan doesn't seem to mind, and he doesn't push you to stop. He pulls you into his arms, and he holds you, his chin resting on the top of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, and you clutch his robe, your fingers twisting in the fabric. He whispers soft words of comfort, his hand moving in slow, steady circles on your back. His touch is familiar, and you allow yourself to lean into him, to let him take some of the weight.

You're not sure how long you sit there, lost in the warmth of his embrace. But, eventually, the tears subside, and your breathing evens, and you feel a little less broken. He seems to sense the change, and he pulls back, his eyes finding yours. He brushes the hair out of your face, his fingers tender.

"Better?" he asks. You nod, and he smiles, the relief washing over his features. "Good. I was afraid we were going to have to sedate you."

The joke is unexpected, and you huff a small laugh, the sound coming out as a choked sob.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, your voice hoarse. You're not sure what you're apologizing for, or why, but the words come out anyway. "I don't...I'm sorry."

Obi-Wan frowns, his brow furrowing, and his gaze grows serious, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about? There's nothing to be sorry for." He pauses, and the silence stretches, his eyes searching yours.

"Do you know where you are?" he asks after a moment.

You nod again, and his frown deepens, the worry still present.

"And do you know why you're here?"

Another nod. "I got hurt. During the battle."

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yes, you did,” he says slowly. He hesitates, and he seems to debate what he wants to say, the silence heavy between the two of you. You know he's concerned, and he has every right to be. You know what he's going to ask, and the question hangs in the air, the answer on the tip of your tongue. But the words won't come, and you're afraid, the fear still lingering. And so, you remain silent, and you wait, the tension mounting.

"Tell me what happened," Obi-Wan finally says, his voice quiet. He doesn't sound angry, or upset, just curious, and a little apprehensive. "Start at the beginning."

"We were retreating," you begin. Your voice is rough, and you have to force the words out, the emotions swirling in your chest. You hesitate, and he waits, giving you time. You take a deep breath, and you continue, telling him about the Vulture droid, and the explosion, and how Rex saved you. When you're finished, you look up, your gaze finding his. "And then I woke up."

Obi-Wan is silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful, his jaw clenched.

"I see," he says softly, his tone unreadable. He pulls away and sits down next to the bed, his posture rigid, his shoulders tense. You can feel the anger, and the frustration, radiating off him, and it's unnerving, the feelings so at odds with the calm demeanor he usually projects. You try to delve further, but he pushes back, blocking you, and then you feel nothing at all. 

It's not malicious, but you know it's deliberate. And it hurts. A lot. The realization of it hits you like a blow, and your eyes sting, the tears threatening to fall. You bite back the pain, and you keep your expression neutral, the mask slipping into place.

You sit there, waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything. But he doesn't. The silence stretches on, and it's suffocating, the tension building. Finally, you can't take it anymore.

"Please," you plead, the desperation creeping into your voice. "Please talk to me."

“I…” Obi-Wan pauses and shakes his head, his brow furrowed, his jaw set. 

"I don't know what to say," he admits. He rubs his face and lets out a sigh, his shoulders sagging. "I'm so tired of losing people."

The words are unexpected, and they hit you hard, the sadness weighing heavily on your heart. You hadn't realized just how much this was affecting him. You reach out, and he flinches, but he doesn't pull away, and you cover his hand with yours. The gesture is simple, but the meaning is not, the contact an anchor. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," he murmurs, and he turns his hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, and his grip is tight, the tension visible in his posture. "So am I." 

He takes a breath and looks at you, his expression unreadable, and he seems to steel himself. "You shouldn’t have done that.”

You're taken aback by the sudden change in tone, and the anger in his voice, and your eyes widen, your head jerking back. You hadn't been expecting that.

"I didn't have a choice," you say quietly, and you try to pull your hand away, but his grip tightens, and you can't.

"You did," he counters. He's staring at you, his gaze piercing, his eyes narrowed. "You made a choice."

"Obi-Wan..."

"No," he snaps, his tone sharp, and he pulls his hand away. The sudden loss of contact sends a jolt through you, and you can't help the hurt that crosses your features. "You risked your life, and you didn't think about the consequences."

"I didn't—"

"Yes, you did," he interrupts, his voice rising. "You didn't think, and now, we're both here, and I'm not going to lose anyone else. I can't."

"Obi-Wan, listen to me," you insist, and your voice cracks, the emotion bleeding through. "I couldn't just let him die."

His eyes widen, and he shakes his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You didn’t have to. He would've been able to move. You didn't have to push him."

You don't respond.

"You didn't have to," he repeats, and his voice breaks, the anger giving way to sorrow.

"But, I did," you whisper. You look at him, your gaze unwavering. "I couldn't let him die."

Obi-Wan falls silent. The grief, and the pain, is plain on his face, and you can't bear it.

"I'm sorry," you tell him. "But—“

"I know," he says softly. He runs a hand over his jaw, smoothing his beard, and he lets out a sigh, the weariness returning. "I know."

The silence stretches on, the minutes passing by. You sit there, watching him, the emotions playing out on his face. The frustration, and the anger, fade, and all that's left is exhaustion, a resignation.

"Why did you do it?" he finally asks. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours. "Why did you push him, when you knew that it could cost you your life?"

"I don’t know,” you say quietly.

“I don’t believe you.”

You can't meet his gaze, and you focus on the ground, your fingers fidgeting with the blankets. "It doesn't matter why," you say softly. "I did what I had to do, and it worked."

Obi-Wan shakes his head and rises from his chair, his face contorted in disbelief, the hurt palpable.

"It matters to me," he tells you.

"It doesn't have to."

"It does," he insists. His eyes are hard, and his mouth is set, the determination written on his features. "There was a hundred things you could’ve done. A hundred different ways to get out of that situation. Why did you choose the one that put you at the greatest risk?"

"Because he's important."

The confession is sudden, and it catches you off guard, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them. 

You don't mean to say it, and you want to take it back, but the damage is done. You're not sure why, but the truth is there, and it's out, the realization dawning on the both of you.

Obi-Wan is looking at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and understanding, and there's a softness, a fondness, in his eyes, and you know. You know he's figured it out. You can see it in his face, and in the way he's looking at you.

"Important," he repeats.

"Yes."

"Important enough to die for?"

"Yes."

He sighs and turns, his hands behind his back, his shoulders squared. He paces the length of the room, eyes fixed on the ground. He's silent for a long moment, and you watch him, waiting, the nerves rising. You know what he's thinking, and you know what he's going to say. But you don't want to hear it, and you can't stand the tension, the silence. It's too much.

"Just say it," you say. “Please."

Obi-Wan stops. He turns, and his gaze meets yours, the sadness written on his face.

"This is a dangerous path," he tells you. "One that I've walked before."

"I'm aware."

"Are you?" he asks, his eyes searching yours. "Because I don't think you are."

You don't respond, and he continues, his voice growing softer, his expression more pained. "It's not fair to him, or to yourself. And, I fear, if you're not careful, then the both of you will be paying the price."

The words sting, and they cut deep, but the truth in them is undeniable. You can't deny it, and the guilt settles in, the reality hitting you like a slap in the face. You've been selfish, and reckless, and the consequences of your actions have weighed heavily on everyone around you. And now you’ve only made things worse.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. The tears are hot on your cheeks, and you look down, trying to hide them, but it's too late, and you know Obi-Wan has already seen them. He lets out a sigh and walks over to you, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he says softly, his voice filled with empathy. "I just want you to be careful. I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did."

"What do I do?"

"You keep moving," he replies. "You carry on."

You nod, and you wipe away the tears, your breathing ragged. Obi-Wan pulls you into his arms, and he holds you, the weight of his words still heavy on your shoulders. He doesn't say anything else, and the silence stretches, the minutes passing. And then, he pulls away, his hand cupping your cheek, his eyes meeting yours.

"Now, get some rest," he tells you, and he smiles, the sadness still present, but the worry fading. "We'll talk later."

You nod, and he turns, heading for the door. He pauses in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame, and he glances back at you.

"I'm proud of you," he says. His gaze lingers for a moment, and then, he's gone, the door closing behind him. You're alone in the room, and the quiet settles in, the air thick with the aftermath of the conversation.

You lean back and close your eyes, scrubbing at your face. The guilt is still there, and it's still heavy, but you feel better, and you're starting to see a little clearer. Obi-Wan is right. You need to carry on, to not allow this attachment, or whatever it is, to affect your judgment, or to control your actions. And you need to be careful. You can't put Rex in any more danger than he already is. He deserves better. They all do.

And you can do that. You can.

You take a breath and exhale, pushing the emotions away, burying them deep. When you open your eyes again, they're dry, and your breathing has steadied, and the weight, while not gone, has lessened. It's a start. You can work with that. You can.

And then you hear it.

"Sir."

You turn, and your eyes land on Rex, standing in the doorway, his helmet tucked under his arm. Your heart stutters in your chest, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, to push the feelings aside. To pretend. You can do that, right?

"Captain," you greet, and you smile, your expression masking the turmoil that's raging within you. "I'm glad you're alright."

Rex nods, and his lips twitch, a hint of a smile playing on his features. He doesn't seem surprised, and you realize, with a start, that Obi-Wan must have sent him a message before he'd even left the room. That man always has a plan.

"I should be the one telling you that," he says. He walks over to you and stands at attention, his posture rigid, his shoulders straight. His armor is covered in dirt, and there are a few new dents and scratches, but he's intact. And that's what matters. "How are you feeling, sir?"

"Better, thanks."

"I'm glad to hear it," he replies, and his gaze meets yours, his eyes searching yours. "You gave us quite a scare."

"Yeah, well, I've had worse," you say with a shrug. You lean forward and rest your elbows on your knees, your gaze never leaving his. "I'll be fine. It's going to take more than a little explosion to keep me down."

Rex chuckles and shakes his head, his shoulders relaxing. He places his helmet on the foot of the bed, and he takes a step towards you, the distance between the two of you narrowing. His eyes find yours, and he hesitates, the emotions flashing across his face, his mouth opening and closing. He seems conflicted, and there's something there, a question that he wants to ask, but he can't. You can see it in the way he's looking at you, the worry plain on his features. And so, you decide to give him an out.

"Come on," you say. You jerk your head toward the empty chair next to you. "Have a seat."

He frowns, but he does as you ask, taking a seat next to the bed. The silence stretches on, the tension mounting, and you can tell he's still debating what he wants to say, his brow furrowed. He doesn't seem to be getting anywhere with his internal battle, and you sigh, the impatience rising. "Rex."

"Permission to speak freely, sir," he blurts out. The words come out in a rush, and he winces before squaring his shoulders and looking you straight in the eye.

"Of course," you tell him, and your brow furrows, the worry starting to seep through. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," he says. He pauses, and his frown deepens. "No. No, it's not. I...I wanted to apologize, sir."

You're taken aback, and you blink, the surprise registering on your face. "For what?"

"For putting you in harm's way," he says, and his expression is serious, his jaw set, his eyes never leaving yours. "For not believing you, when you tried to tell me about the danger. For not trusting you. If I had, we could've avoided the entire situation, and none of us would've been in any danger. And, if you hadn't pushed me out of the way, then—"

"Hey, stop," you interrupt. You reach over and cover his hand with yours, and he stops, his eyes widening. You smile, and you squeeze his fingers, hoping that the touch will reassure him. "It's okay."

"But, I—"

"No," you say firmly. You let go, and you sit up straight, the mask slipping back into place. "This isn't your fault, Rex. It was mine."

"Sir," he protests.

"I'm serious," you insist. "I could've told you what was happening, and I didn't. I kept it to myself, and I made the wrong decision, and it nearly got us both killed. So, if anything, I should be the one apologizing to you."

"You were trying to protect me."

"And look where it got us," you snap. The frustration is creeping back, and you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing the emotions down, the anger and the hurt. "I'm sorry. I just...I should've been more careful."

"Maybe," he concedes. He's silent for a moment, his gaze drifting, and he shifts in his chair. "Or maybe not. We might not be here, if you had."

You're not sure what to say, and you can't help the guilt, the regret. You could've done something different, could've done more. But in that moment, the only thing you'd been able to think about was saving Rex. Saving him, even if it meant risking your own life. And, deep down, you can't bring yourself to regret that. Not entirely.

"I guess we'll never know," you say softly.

"I guess not."

You sit there, staring at each other, the silence stretching. Neither of you seems to know what to say, the awkwardness hanging in the air.

Finally, Rex breaks the tension, clearing his throat. "In any case, thank you. For saving my life."

"Don't mention it," you reply, and you grin, the smile coming easily. "Besides, I told you I owed you one. Two, actually."

"You didn't," he insists, and he gives you a small, crooked smile, his eyes sparkling. "You still don't."

"If you say so."

You glance around the room and take in your surroundings. The space is quiet, and the ship is flying through hyperspace, the blue light flickering over the walls. It's peaceful, and for the first time since the battle, you feel a sense of calm settling in.

You turn back to Rex to find him watching you, his expression soft, and you smile. "So, tell me what I've missed. What happened after I passed out?"

Rex spends the next hour telling you about the battle. The 104th had arrived mere moments after you fell unconscious, and most of the men on the ground were able to retreat. Ahsoka had resisted orders to abandon her push into the center of the battle, and it had nearly cost the lives of her and her men. She was awaiting punishment at the hands of the Council upon your return, and Rex could tell that Anakin was still fuming over the disobedience. The planet had been lost, and the casualties were mounting. It was a disheartening end to what had begun as such a hopeful mission.

You had barely escaped the carnage, the ships limping back through the blockade and into the safety of hyperspace. Now, you were on your way back to Coruscant, and the trip would take several days. You weren't looking forward to facing the Council, but there was nothing else to be done. You would deal with the fallout, and move on. You had to.

"I'm sure the Jedi Council will be lenient with her," Rex says, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts. "She's still young, and she's a good soldier."

"That's not going to matter," you sigh. "Ahsoka disobeyed direct orders. There are consequences for that. I'm not sure what they'll do, but..." Your voice trails off, and you look away, your jaw clenched. "They'll do what they think is necessary. They always do."

Rex's expression grows concerned, and his brow furrows, his gaze searching yours. "Have you spoken to them about what happened?"

"No."

"Then, how do you know what they'll do?" he asks, his frown deepening. "Do you think they'll punish you, too?"

"Probably."

"What?"

"Look," you say. You pause, and you take a breath, the weariness settling in. "I know the Council, and I know how they work. They're not going to let this go. They're not going to be happy about what happened."

"That doesn't mean they'll punish you," Rex counters. "You're one of the best fighters they have. You've helped them countless times."

"That doesn't matter," you say. You shake your head and look down at your hands, your fingers intertwined, your thumbs rubbing together. "It's not about the work. It's about the principle. The fact that I made a choice that they wouldn't have. That I put myself before the mission. They're not going to like that."

"You put me before the mission," he says quietly.

"Yes," you agree. You meet his gaze, and you hold it, the honesty written on your face. "I did."

He stares at you, his eyes wide, his mouth open. He looks as though he's seen a ghost, and you can't help the chuckle, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

"Are you...are you laughing?" he asks. His tone is incredulous, and he seems torn between being offended and joining you, a smile tugging at his lips. "This is not funny."

"It is a little," you say, and the laugh grows, the mirth bubbling up. "Just a bit."

"It's not," he says. But his voice is lighter, and the corners of his mouth are turning upward, and he can't quite hide the smile. "Stop laughing. It's not funny."

"Okay, okay," you concede, and you hold up your hands in surrender, the laughter dying. "It's not funny."

He glares at you, his lips twitching, and the expression sends another round of giggles through you, and you have to bite your lip, the grin spreading across your face. "I'm sorry. Really."

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head, and then, he's smiling, his eyes sparkling, and you can't help but think how handsome he is. How the laughter suits him, and how much happier, and younger, it makes him look. You wish you could see it more often.

"You're something else," he mutters. But his tone is fond, and the look he gives you is warm, his eyes soft. "Really."

"Thanks," you reply, and your smile grows. "So are you."

"Thanks." He chuckles and looks away, and you're not sure, but you think you catch the hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. He takes a breath, and his expression sobers, his eyes meeting yours. "Seriously, though, you didn't have to do that."

"I know."

"You didn't have to put yourself in danger," he continues.

"I know," you say again.

"You shouldn't have," he insists. "You shouldn't have risked your life for mine."

"I would've done the same for any one of the men," you reply. "Or anyone else who was in trouble. I'm a Jedi. It's my job."

"Still," he says softly. "You didn't have to."

"I did," you tell him. You meet his gaze, and you hold it, the truth written on your face. "And I would do it again."

Rex doesn't respond. He doesn't say anything. Instead, he looks at you, and you stare back, neither of you speaking. It's not uncomfortable, and there's no tension. Just the quiet, and the understanding. He knows why you did what you did, and, while he may not like it, or approve of it, he's grateful. And that's enough.

After a moment, he nods. And that's the end of the conversation.

He stands, and he picks up his helmet, turning to leave. But something keeps him from going. He looks at you, his expression hesitant, and then he reaches into one of the pouches of his utility belt.

"I almost forgot," he says. Rex walks back over to you, and his fingers withdraw a gold chain. Your breath catches at the familiar sight of the blue stone pendant dangling in front of you. "The medics found this on you when they were transferring you to bacta. Kix asked me to hold onto it for you.”

You swallow and take the necklace, running your fingers over the smooth surface, the cool metal a comforting weight in your palm. You feel a flash of guilt, and your heart sinks. You hadn't even thought about it.

"A gift from General Kenobi, sir?” he asks quietly.

“Hm?” you hum, nearly missing his words in your distraction. You look up, and Rex is watching you, a strange look on his face. "Oh. No, no this was my Master’s. It’s…the only thing I have left of her. Thank you, Rex."

Rex nods, and the tension in his shoulders relaxes slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity and sympathy in his tone. You wrack your memory of the last ten years, and you realize you can't remember a single time anyone had said those words to you, not even Obi-Wan. They mean more than you ever thought they would, and you’re not prepared for the rush of gratitude and affection that falls over you in a wave.

"Thank you," you say again. "For everything."

"You're welcome," he replies. His gaze is still locked on yours, and there's a flicker of something, a shadow of an emotion that crosses his face. He hesitates, his fingers tapping his helmet, and then he takes a step back. "Just, be careful, sir."

"I will."

He nods and turns to leave. As he steps out into the corridor, he stops, and he glances back at you. "And...thank you again.”

"You would've done the same for me,” you point out.

"That doesn't matter," he replies. There's an edge to his voice, a stubbornness, but then he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Get some rest. We'll talk later."

The door slides closed behind him, and the room falls silent.

You lean back and close your eyes, the necklace still clutched in your fist. You feel something inside of you, a fluttering in your chest, a lightness, that feels almost foreign. You wonder if he felt it too.

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