#fic: the wrong john

[oceantornadoo]

the wrong john masterlist

john price x f!reader (johnny's twin)

ao3. | tumblr tag: “fic: the wrong john”

your estranged twin johnny asks you to meet his new boyfriend and beloved task force at the base they're stationed at. the night before, you meet his captain, and well. chaos ensues.

the chapters:

two strangers in a bar

yours or mine

last names are important

guilty as sin?

i called you on the phone today

come back, be here

a knock on the door

family issues

a place for the two of us

tags: unhealthy family dynamics, x reader but there is some backstory, drinking, flirting

will add more as the series continues! chapter names are subject to change

guysss this is my first planned series! it's based on a dream i had lol like all good ideas should be. the nine chapters are a a bit ambitious but i'm really trying to grow my writing skills so we'll see how it goes. let me know if you want to be tagged, updated coming soon :)

[asxgard]

A Lesson in Vulnerability | [1/2]

Resident!Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x resident!f!reader

Second Part: A Lesson in Romantics

Summary: A pregnancy scare forces you both to lay your cards on the table.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: This one took awhile lol, I had it in my head since ep9, but it took forever to get it right (still not thrilled with it), plus it took a backseat once I started Companionship. Not positive how Dr. Robby would behave as a resident, so I drew some inspiration from Noah’s ER character, Dr. John Carter (legal controversy aside, I think both characters might’ve had a similar residency experience before moving in different directions. I love and appreciate both characters separately, as their respective shows are different entities, as are their characters).

This might be inspiring me to make a series, or just jump into some John Carter fics lol

Word Count: 3.3k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: afab!reader, established situationship, foul language, pregnancy scare, anxiety, angst, some fluff, residency stress, hurt/comfort, vague smut, loss of a patient, medical inaccuracies, Robby having a hard time expressing his feelings, it’s the 90’s, those brown eyes oof

not beta read

You forgot how it had started — a lingering touch here and a few flirty comments there. Either way, you had ended up in Michael Robinavitch’s bed all the same. It had started with just a night every so often, but then it was after nearly every shift you had together; and now it was leaving a few extra clothes at his apartment so you could stay the night.

Part of you wondered if there was something unspoken about your relationship, but you did not want to be the one to mess with a good thing, or risk breaking it. All you wanted to focus on was your future; what hospital you might want to work at when your residency was over or if perhaps you would move states. You had worked too hard to get hung up on a guy.

But he made it so hard to focus on much else in his company, with those dark brown eyes looking at you like you were the only person in the room, the memory of his touch on your thighs, your hips seared into your mind. For all the stresses of residency, it was nice to forget in the comfort of his touch.

His lips on your throat, his beard tickling you, hot breathy voice in your ear, the feel of his hands on your skin, exploring down, down, down—

“MVA inbound! Three victims, five minutes out!”

You snapped back to reality, pushing your things into your locker and getting to work. It was easy now to fall into pace with the other residents and attendings, after nearly seven months of hard work of being an R2.

The senior attending of the ER, Dr. James Long, called you over to assist in tending to the first patient wheeled in. You hated the way your eyes searched for Dr. Robby, an R3, before you started working on the patient.

Time passed in a blur after that, intubating the more critical of the MVA victims, while the two others were evaluated and deemed lower risk, all three waiting to be brought up to get imaging. While you kept one eye on the MVA patients, you also stepped in to do a few stitches for a mother who had slipped while making lunch.

There was rarely ever a lull, so you stepped away when you could. You quickly found your way into the staff lounge, looking for a pick-me-up and perhaps a protein bar. It was the perfect place to take a deep breath — the one patient had been touch-and-go for nearly a half hour, and the adrenaline was slowly leaving your system.

“Hey,” Robby greeted, seemingly having the same idea as you.

You smiled back at him, opening the protein bar.

“You want to come by after your shift?”

You were thankful you were chewing so you did not jump at it. You tried to stay casual. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He smiled, and you swore it could light up any room he was in. You hated how rare they were, but in the environment of the ER, you couldn’t say you were surprised.

The rest of your shift did pass quickly, but not easily. Two gunshot victims passed under your care, though only one was serious, but not life-threatening. You heard from one of the nurses that Robby had lost a patient, a thirteen year old boy and your heart constricted. You had gone looking for him after that, finding him with the boy’s parents, their heart-wrenching cries making the ER go silent.

He had brushed you off each time you approached him after that, his once warm demeanor frozen over.

—

You met Michael at his apartment, picking up take-out on your way over, knowing you both barely had time to eat during your shift. Lately, your nerves had invaded you whenever you had gone to his place, and you tried to keep it buried deep. Something that had started out so easy had turned into a situation that turned your stomach into knots.

While he had been expecting you, he still stood stiff in the doorway. His brown hair was in his eyes, he moved a hand through the tousled mess atop his head, but his eyes were tense.

Trying to trade casual conversation over dinner, you kept your eyes on the hockey game on the television. Somehow not looking at him made it all worse — the tension in the room thick while you both stepped around the obvious. At least, until you couldn’t.

“Are you okay? I heard—”

“I’m fine.” He snapped, tossing his fork into the container of his food.

You raised your eyebrows at him. He didn’t shut down all the time, but he was a champion at deflecting, especially after you had gotten to know him. Likely due to the fact that now you knew him outside the ER, it was easier to see his tells: the twitch under his eye, the partial wince in his right cheek, the rubbing his neck. It was all easy enough to see that he was not okay.

“Michael…” I worry about you got stuck in your throat.

He let out a huff of air, “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Your stomach rolled, a small wince crossing your face. To be fair, you never opened up to him very much about your own stresses, or patients lost, but you just told yourself you compartmentalized well. The time at the hospital was completely separate from your personal life — which was why you never called him Robby outside hospital walls.

A rush of faces of the handful of patients you had lost flickered through your mind.

If you were so good at compartmentalizing, then why was emotion constricting your throat?

As if sensing your sudden shift of your mood, he grabbed your hand, “Look, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

You wanted to accept that, you really did — to keep that status quo, to ensure nothing changed between you.

“You really should.”

He scoffed, withdrawing his hand. “I’m not sure I should be taking advice from Queen ‘I don’t talk about anything personal ever’.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his tone, “That’s not true.”

He rose to his feet, picking up his take-out container, “Right. What about when you lost your last patient? You shut me out for days.”

You got to your feet, pointing a finger at him, “That’s not fair! We’re talking about you right now, not me.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he stalked to the kitchen, “Aren’t we always.”

“Excuse me?” You followed after him, frustrated now.

“Whenever this shit comes up, you deflect—”

“I deflect?” You scoffed, “Watch out everyone, king of deflection is here.”

He went silent, narrowed eyes watching you. “Are you done?”

For whatever reason, that seemed to set you off more — nerves in your belly long forgotten. “I’m just getting started,” you told him. “What? You expect me to care about you and not make sure you’re okay?”

Your words hung in the air, heavy and with so much more meaning.

“I’m not doing this with you tonight.”

You took a step back, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. You felt like your heart had shattered — you knew pushing too hard too soon would fuck everything up.

“Fine.” You told him, moving to get your things. “See you at work, Robinavitch.”

You slammed the door behind you before you could see if he had made a move to protest. You were thankful he did not get to see your tears.

—

After a fitful night’s rest, you woke up feeling queasy. More queasy than any amount of nerves in the past had made you feel — and that was saying something. You nearly threw up on your first day as a first year resident.

You tried to calm your racing thoughts about the night before and Michael, but your heart still felt tight in your chest. You only suffered a bite of your breakfast before you gave up, deciding to just head into the hospital and face your day head on.

The early morning passed slowly, each moment flooded with the anxiety raging through your system. You had no idea what had made it this bad, and part of you wondered if you could convince your attending to send you home so you could try to sleep it off.

While tending to a young woman presenting with UTI symptoms, your stomach rolled uneasily. Your mouth watered, and the nausea did not relent. Quickly assuring the woman that her tests would be back shortly, you dashed to the nearest bathroom, ignoring a look of concern on the charge nurse’s face.

You thankfully made it into one of the stalls before you emptied the confines of your stomach. There was not much in it, and the bile burned your throat.

After a few moments, your stomach settled — just enough that you felt you could get back to work. Hunger ebbed its way in, which you found to be a relief from the queasy onslaught. You figured you would see what was in the staff lounge once you wrapped up with your patient.

Heading back to East 5, you grabbed the test results, eyes quickly scanning over her file. Pregnancy test and urine analysis, the urine coming back positive for e. coli. The pregnancy test also came back positive.

Damn, how were you going to break that to her? Pregnancy tests were more or less routine for most cases brought into the ER, to ensure medications given wouldn’t hurt the fetus.

You wondered if she knew already, or if it would come as a surprise.

When you presented her with the results, she took it well.

“I figured, honestly.” She told you. “My period was late and I’ve been feeling sick. I meant to take a test, but I wanted to figure out the UTI first.”

You smiled at her, “The antibiotics we’re prescribing will be pregnancy safe. Twice a day for seven days, with a meal. Stay hydrated, too. I’m also giving you something to relieve some of your discomfort. It’s a two day prescription, take three a day. I can give you one now, then you can take the next one in six hours.”

When you left, you stood at the charge desk for a few moments. When you spotted Robby writing up his charts, a thought struck through you. You were late, uncomfortably late, and add in the nausea this morning? You felt sick all over again.

You rushed back to the bathroom, but nothing came. You and Robby were always safe, but condoms broke, accidents happened. Fuck. You could feel your residency slipping through your fingers. You were still shaking when you made your way to the staff lounge.

Robby was there, taking in your appearance, “Are you alright?”

“We need to talk. Privately.” Was out of your mouth before you could think about it.

His eyebrows raised, “About last night—”

“No, not that,” though you thought it might be a good idea to discuss that, too. You glanced quickly towards the hall, moving to close the door. You stood still in front of it, words escaping you.

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think I might be pregnant.” You told him in a whisper. “Possibly. Maybe.”

He blinked owlishly at you, “What?”

You didn’t know if he didn’t hear you or was still processing. “I didn’t even realize, I’m nearly a week late — and I’ve been sick all morning. I think it could be—I could be—” You couldn’t say it again, tears springing in your eyes.

It wasn’t necessarily career ending to have a kid during your residency, but the only person you had known that went off to have a baby as an R4 had not returned. She had told you she planned to come back, but also did not want to wait too long to start her family, tugged simultaneously in both directions. Could you make the sacrifices necessary to make both work? Did you even want both to work? Would Michael—

“We can—we can take a test. Yeah. Tonight, after shift.” He said, his brown eyes avoiding you, hands tucked into his pockets. “We can figure it out then.”

“Figure it out then?” You asked incredulously. “This could end my career! This could—oh god—” You moved to lean against the wall, clearing your throat, “You don’t have to—”

“I’ll be there.” He said, cutting you off, voice soft. “I’ll get a test and meet you at your apartment.”

“My roommate will be home, can we go to yours?”

“Yeah, I’ll grab the test on my way home. I’ll meet you there.”

You nodded your head, “Thank you.”

Part of you just wanted to get it over with, grab a test from the closet and take it right in the bathroom. You could be discreet, you wouldn’t even need to involve Michael, but part of you feared any number of your co-workers catching you with a test and no patient. That, and the fear of knowing crept into your mind.

—

The drive to his apartment was agonizing. Your stomach had not once stopped rolling, and you were distracted all day, nearly catching a left hook of a patient in withdrawal. So much for being good at that compartmentalization thing. Perhaps Michael was right — you deflected just as much as he did, or you just flat out ignored your feelings and buried them.

This whole situation was going to force you to vocalize your feelings, wasn’t it?

You waited in your car until Michael pulled in, and you felt like your limbs had grown heavier while you had waited. The weight of what could be awaiting you pushing all the air from your lungs.

Once inside, neither of you spoke. You just took the pharmacy bag from him and went into his bathroom. You stared at the box for what felt like forever, thinking it was funny how lines on a stick were going to determine your future. After using all three in the box — not wanting to risk a false positive or negative — you opened the door.

“Box says fifteen minutes.”

He nodded, checking his watch. He moved closer to you until you were crowded in his tiny bathroom. His eyes flickered to the countertop where all three tests sat on top of some toilet paper, before they met your gaze. You couldn’t hold it, looking back at your hands.

“Whatever it says, I’m not going anywhere.” His breath fanned your face, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to his scrubs. Underneath was the smell of his cologne, sandalwood and vanilla, and something unmistakably him. You missed when that scent of him clung to your skin, too.

You tried to smile, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s okay if you did. You don’t owe me anything.”

He tipped your chin up so you would look at him, “How could you say that after everything?”

“Last night,” you reminded him. “I clearly don’t know you and you don’t know me. Not personally anyways.”

Michael’s brow twitched. “What if I wanted to?”

Your mouth grew dry. “Please don’t. Not if it’s out of some misguided sense of duty over this.”

“It’s not.” He told you, hands moving to hold your face, his fingers finding the back of your head, thumbs on the sides of your cheeks. “I promise it’s not.”

You swallowed, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t find any words. The silence that used to hold the safety of quiet, now stood tense and firm between you.

“I’m shit at talking about my feelings and deflecting, you’re right. But I won’t stand here and pretend I don’t feel something for you. Like I don’t care about you. I—I just figured not talking about it was easier. But last night, it fucked me up; thinking we parted without you knowing how I felt.”

You sputtered a shocked intake of air, “What?”

His dark brown eyes held you steady, slowly absorbing your fears until you reached out to touch his chest. His heart pounded beneath your palm, but it steadied yours.

His gentle smile came easily, “I’ve been trying for weeks. I chickened out every time.”

You exhaled an amused breath of air, “You chickened out? I didn’t want to make this complicated.”

He searched your eyes, flickering between them like he was trying to read you.

“It’s kinda funny.” You said, smiling at him. “I’ve been trying to do the same thing all week.”

He kissed you, lips warm and soft, hands holding your face. His heart thumped below your hand, like an anchor in a storm, your other hand curling around his wrist. After all the anxiety of the day, and the anguish over the night previous, relief finally washed through your system. The familiarity of his beard scratching against your skin, his careful hands enveloping you in a sense of safety.

You moved just enough to speak, “I’m sorry about last night. You were right, too. I just never want to burden you with my problems after I know we both had a tough shift.” You told him, noses touching, breath intermingling.

“I want you to know that you can.” He stressed, thumb caressing your cheek.

“I will if you will.”

He smiled. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He kissed you again, harder this time…hungry, his mouth taking in your bottom lip.

You lost yourself in the warmth of his body, the soft tendrils of his hair in your hands, the feel of his tongue in your mouth. You clung to him like he was a liferaft. It was easy to forget your troubles like this, worries of the day lifting off your shoulders.

Your blood pressure spiked when you remembered the tests on the countertop. You pulled away, breathing quickly, still wrapped up in his arms.

“What if it’s positive?” came your quiet voice.

“Then I suppose I’d have to marry you.”

You almost thought he was serious, if his tone hadn’t been so light, so close to a jest. You rolled your eyes, pushing him away, but you smiled. “I never took you for a traditionalist. A shotgun wedding, seriously?”

“Be a great way to meet your folks.” He added with a smirk.

“Get real.” You laughed, “As if I’d marry a resident. Are you even a real doctor?”

He mocked offense, but chuckled, bringing you closer to him again, “I’ve got my stethoscope and everything.” After a few beats of his heart, he added, “But seriously, we’d figure it out. Take time off, or…I don’t know. We’d make it work.”

“I don’t want to look.” You admitted to him.

“Whatever it says, we’re in this together.”

It was reassuring to hear him say it again. You nodded, removing your hands from his body and taking a small step back. You took a long breath, staring at him.

“On three?”

Your head bobbed in agreement, swallowing thickly.

“I mean it. Whatever it says, I still care about you. I want you in my life.” He told you earnestly.

“I want you in my life, too, Mike.”

He counted down slowly, holding your gaze. The anxiety returned, but he held you grounded beside him, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

Negative. Negative. Negative.

A singular line on each displaying that you were not pregnant.

You released the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. Thank fuck, echoed in your head. The stress you had been under could explain away the lateness of your period, and the queasiness was explained easily by your anxiety. It seemed like those three little tests tied all your worries up in a neat little bow. You had been honest about your feelings, which took away the gnawing anxiety, Michael reciprocated your feelings and you weren’t pregnant.

He sighed in relief next to you, taking another long breath through his nose. “Well as much as I was looking forward to that shotgun wedding, maybe now we can take our time—”

You looked over at him, eyebrow quirked.

“—take you on a proper date first.”

You grinned at him, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

[ Part Two ]

[ Alternate Ending ]

special shoutout to Dr Robby for getting me off my hiatus, first Companionship and now this lol

current tense fought me the whole way through this, which is weird considering I usually write in past tense. so if you saw a current tense error, no you didn’t.

[criminalamnesia]

ok but price and simon could give such tolerate it vibes.

him with a younger partner. he finds your naivety and youth charming. you look up to him, and you can’t believe someone older and wiser is with you.

you met him when he was on leave, and things started getting serious after a few months, but then he was facing deployment again. so, with teary eyes and a broken heart, you watched him leave and promise you’ll write every day.

he chuckles and nods his head, placing a chaste kiss to your hair before slipping away.

you do write him everyday, and at first it’s endearing how worried you are. you don’t know what’s happening, and you’re so concerned— and he appreciates that. find it charming, even.

he comes home from that first deployment and you’re there, waiting with a battle hero’s welcome. streamers and balloons and a fucking cake you baked yourself on the dining room table of his flat. you, beaming brightly and clutching your hands together in glee, waiting by the door.

he laughs it off, tells you he appreciates it, but it was unnecessary. you tell him you think he deserves more.

time passes, and the charm of your naivety and doting loses its shine. you’re boasting to all your friends about your man, how amazing and strong and brave he is. and he tolerates it, laughs it off.

the next time he comes home from deployment, you’ve decorated your now shared flat. the whole nine yards because it’d been a longer deployment. his favorite meal, hot and fresh on the table. a bottle of his favorite liquor.

he can’t help but be annoyed. it was cute at first, and now he doesn’t understand it. he doesn’t care for the festivities— he’s done things no man should be proud of, yet here you are, celebrating him.

he doesn’t want to fight, so he tolerates it. puts on a smile, eats a few bites of dinner, and slips away for the evening. you frown but don’t question it.

soon it’s like you’re living with a shell of the man you loved. he’s quiet. gone a lot. barely affectionate. when the two of you talk, it usually ends in an argument. he won’t introduce you to any of his friends.

you still shower him with love, talk his ear off about plans and your day and whatnot, and he nods along absentmindedly.

your friends tell you he doesn’t deserve you. you’ve basically become a live-in housemaid that he occasionally fucks. you don’t believe it at first, but you come to realize it’s truth.

your love should be celebrated, not tolerated. you should be with someone who loves you as much as you love them.

the next time he’s on deployment, you move out. pack all your shit into a u-haul and move in with a friend for the time being. leave a note stained with tears on the dining room table.

he gets home from deployment, expecting what’s become normal. you, waiting anxiously by the door, jumping into his arms as soon as he’s inside. the smell of dessert or his favorite dinner wafting from the kitchen. balloons and streamers and confetti.

the house is dark when he steps through the door.

part two here, part three (ending version 1) here, part three (ending version 2) here

[uhhlifeig]

Felix Felicis - April 15 - word count: 193 - @wolfstarmicrofic

“Moony,” Sirius said, grinning dopily up at his too-sober boyfriend. “I think us Marauders should…” he trailed off, searching for the right words. “make Felix Felicis.”

“Yeah?” Remus asked, helping Sirius off of the floor. “Why?”

“Cause- ‘cause we’d be amazing at pranks for a whole day,” Sirius said, eyes shining as he stumbled into Remus’s arms. “We’d be unstoppable, Moons.”

He gently guided Sirius towards the stairs to their dorm.“And how d’you plan to make it, hm?”

“Well, we’re all really smart- and even though me and you and James all suck at Potions, Wormy will help us and then we’ll go… uhh, wreak havoc and stuff.”

Remus pushed the door open. “That’s a great plan, seren. Now why don’t you get some sleep? Look, there’s our bed, sweetheart.”

Sirius stared at him like he had hung the moon and the stars in the sky. “I like it when you call me that, mon loup.”

There was a distinct grumbling sound from Peter’s bed. “Not to sound homophobic, but please stop being gay and go to sleep,” he groaned. “We have class tomorrow and I’m going to have a killer hangover.”

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 4 - Runaway

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized reader, female reader, Poorly thought out action sequences, Guns, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me. No promises for future chapters though I might even tell y'all her name.

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

You wake in the morning with your nose buried in a thick patch of chest hair, and strong arms around you. Your legs are hooked around one of his thick thighs, and something hard digs into your stomach. You start to inch away, but his arms tighten, and his hips cant against you, a thick, sleepy groan rumbling in his chest. It would be a nice way to wake up, if not for the circumstances. It’s been ages since you slept beside another person, let alone someone that feels as comfortable as John does.

“John,” you say softly. You don’t want to fully wake him up, just get him to let you go. “John, please let me go.”

He hums, one hand sliding to your waist, and then down to your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against his thigh. You squeak in protest, becoming aware that you’re already wet, like you’ve been unconsciously humping his leg in your sleep for some time. You push your slightly freer top half away a little, so you can look at him. He’s still sleeping, a little frown on his face as he’s pulled unwillingly toward consciousness. He really is handsome, especially like this, all his defences down, grumbling like a hibernating bear.

“Don’t wake up,” you tell him, as if it’ll make any difference. “I just have to pee.”

One of his blue eyes cracks open, a little unfocused. “You comin’ back?” His voice is rough from sleep, rasping like sandpaper.

“Sure,” you say, even though you have no intention of doing so. Your body seems as eager as his is for something you’re sure is dangerous. Maybe he smells good, like tobacco, warm, boozy spices and something undeniably male, and maybe he feels warm and solid against you, but you don’t want to encourage this. You just want to enough space to clear your head. His admissions last night still have you spooked, John’s words not tempered by a night of surprisingly good sleep. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He loosens his hold on you enough that you can wiggle free, his eyes opening a little more so he can watch you slip out of bed. He rolls over onto his back, and starts snoring gently before you’ve even made it to the bedroom door. You take the opportunity to snag one of the bags stacked in front of the closet and your purse off the dresser and bring both to the bathroom with you. You’re not sure what’s in the bag, but you know the larger suitcase has things from your closet in it, so you’re hoping this one has more from your dresser.

You get dressed, glad that most of your underthings and a comfortable pair of jeans and a thick sweater are inside and pack your toothbrush and makeup bag into the larger one, and creep downstairs carefully. One of them is snoring gently on the couch, but otherwise, the house is silent. You carefully fish a set of keys off the hooks by the door and sneak outside. You don’t know where any of your shoes are except the red heels, so you just leave in your sock feet, and pile your things into the pick-up truck. You’ll drive it into town and leave it there, buy a ticket on a train or a bus, and get the hell back home.

It sucks to have to leave everything you own, beyond the clothes in the one bag and the contents of your purse, but maybe you can call the cops— Well. Probably not. Better to just start over anywhere else. You have digital copies of a few pictures of your parents, and that’s better than nothing, even if their wedding album is sitting on a shelf in John’s living room, along with all the family photos that your parents took of you and them while you were growing up. Your mother’s sketchbooks too, and her camera, and your dad’s guitar.

You bite your lip, holding back tears, and start the truck.

No sense mourning things. The memories are in your head and your heart, not trapped in the pages of books or twisted into the strings of the guitar. You don’t need them.

You haven’t driven in a long time, and the truck, unfortunately, is a manual, which you haven’t driven in even longer, but you manage to pull away from the house without revving the engine too hard, and pick up speed once you get to the road, only just remembering to hit the clutch with your left foot before you change gears. You’d feel pretty pathetic if you only made it to the road before stalling out the pickup.

You’re not sure which way town is, but you figure the road has to lead somewhere no matter which way you choose, so you navigate blindly, turning onto a bigger road a little ways down the gravel one that leads to John’s house. Bigger road means more people, although the hour is still so early that there’s no one around yet. The sun is barely up, and it’s still shadowy in the woods on either side of the road. The woods give way to fields suddenly, the sun making a too-bright debut, shining right into your eyes. You flip down the visor and adjust the rear-view mirror, wincing when you see a blue car a ways behind you, approaching fast.

You didn’t notice the car when you were leaving— It must have been parked behind the bigger van that they’d used to move all your things— but it looks sporty and fast, and judging by the way it closes the gap, there’s no question that it’s them. You push the truck harder, squinting against the light, heart hammering. The car’s engine roars, loud enough that you can hear it over the blood rushing in your ears, and pulls into the lane beside you. Gaz motions for you to pull over from the passenger seat.

You slow up enough that they pull ahead a little, and you yank your steering wheel to the side and stomp down on the gas and the clutch, shifting into third gear and nailing the side of the car, shattering a tail light and making it spin, stopping just shy of the ditch.

For a moment, you’re still close enough to see the shock on their faces, but you’re moving fast and leave them in the dust, at least momentarily. It won’t take them long to recover and catch up again, and if they hit you with the same maneuver, there’s no way you’ll be able to get the truck under control. There’s not enough weight in the bed of the truck to compensate, and you’ll wind up in the ditch for certain.

Funny, how it comes back to you. Learning to drive along mountain roads way outside Aberdeen, either in your dad’s little car or your mom’s old truck (usually the car, which was the easier one to drive. Your dad was the safer driver too, the better parent to learn from), and you can almost imagine your mother in the passenger seat, laughing her head off at the insane circumstances, encouraging you to throw caution to the wind, to get a feel for the road under the wheels and the way the old truck handled. She always laughed when she was under stress, but it’s comforting to think of. Your mum would never let a couple of thick-headed military assholes get the better of her.

The car is catching up again, so you floor it and smash through a fence gate into a muddy field, where the car won’t handle as well, and speed your way across the stubbly remains of wheat, already harvested. The car follows, and, predictably, struggles, the low frame too close to the muck, bumping unhappily over the soft, uneven ground.

Laughter bubbles up in your chest, relieving some of the built-up anxiety. You smash through a segment of the fence on the other side and yank the truck back onto the road, giggling when the truck fishtails a bit, mud slicking the tires on the pavement. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through your system that you feel like you might be sick the moment you let any of this catch up with you. So you keep driving, and pray that it doesn’t.

The car gets close again when you reach another wooded section of road. Through the rearview mirror you can see Gaz pop out of the window, gun drawn, but you don’t hear the crack when it fires, you only feel the impact when the bullet strikes one of the rear tires. You shriek, slamming on the breaks as the truck spins out of your control and off the road, slamming into a tree head on.

The lurch forward as the airbags deploy, your body hitting them hard, knocking all the air out of your lungs as you’re slapped back into he seat. The seat belt bites into your shoulder painfully. You unbuckle yourself quickly, ears ringing too loudly for you to hear the screeching tires of the pursuit car. You fall to the ground when you try to get out, head spinning.

You stumble into the trees, still blinking away double vision. If you can find a good spot to hide— Maybe you can double back and take the car while they chase you blindly through the trees. You cast about, feeling every rapidly forming bruise, wishing desperately that you had shoes, and dive into the underbrush, scooting forward on your belly, brambles catching in your hair as you curl up, out of sight.

“Please come out, doll,” you hear Gaz call out, boots crunching through the woods, closer than you would like. “It’s okay, we’re not mad. Just come out and we’ll take you home, yeah?”

Johnny is yelling further off, his voice incomprehensible but sing-song, mocking. Gaz moves further into the woods. You wait until his voice grows a little more distant before you drag yourself back out, sweater streaked with mud, leaves in your hair, and quickly sneak back to the road. The car is still running, the driver door left open. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“There you are, bird.”

You scream. A gloved hand drops over your mouth, cutting off the sound, and an arm loops around your waist, picking you right up off your feet.

Fuck.

"Look what you did, bird. Wrecked up Price's truck. 'E's not goin' to be 'appy about that." He turns so you can see the slightly smoking truck, the front half of it crumpled beyond repair.

You shake your head until he pulls his hand away from your mouth. "Its not my fault I crashed. Gaz shot the tire out. I wasn't even going to steal it, just leave it in town once I'd gotten to a bus stop."

He hums. You hear the slight crackle of a radio. "Got 'er, lads. Come back to the car."

"Rog."

"Aye."

Ghost shoves you into the back seat. "Stay put," he says sternly. "You're already banged up, don't want to 'ave to tackle you."

You sigh, all the fight leaving you. You feel awful, bruised and shaken up and trembling, and you do nothing but watch as Ghost gathers your things from the truck and puts them in the boot of the car. You slump back in the seat, inspecting the scratches on your hands idly. Your head hurts, and your shoulder aches, and you feel a bit like you've been stepped on, but nothing feels broken, just bruised and tender. You got lucky.

Well, not lucky. There's very little about any of this that counts as luck. Especially considering the look on Johnny's face when he jogs out of the trees. At first he looks stormy, but he grins when he sees you and opens the back door to crawl onto the seat and on top of you.

"Steamin Jesus, where'd ye learn ta drive like tha'?" He asks. "Didnae ken ye were a racer."

"Outside Aberdeen," you reply. Your ribs hurt. Soap’s weight makes every little ache more acute.

"Price isn't gonna be happy about his truck," Gaz says, tossing himself into the driver's seat. "What were you thinking, doll? You could've been hurt."

"You didn't have to shoot the tire." You try to push Soap off, but he wraps himself around you, a bit tight, but bearably so. You’re trembling, and he’s trying to help, in a thoroughly unhelpful way. "I was just trying to get home."

"That's the wrong way. Your home's with Price now." Ghost gets into the other front seat, and Gaz reverses back out onto the road.

You sigh, leaning your head against the window, watching the countryside flash by. It takes an embarrassingly short time to get back to John's house. You didn't get as far as you would have liked, hardly got anywhere at all. Your eyes prickle with tears, but you don't want to cry in front of them. You want to go back to bed, maybe back in time to the morning. You would have been wiser just to curl up next to John again.

Soap drags you from the car, hands a bit rough on your bruises, and pulls you back to the house. John rushes out, worry creasing his face, blue eyes sweeping over you and turning furious. "What happened?" he barks, not at you, but at his men.

"Bird was makin' a run for it," Ghost says.

"Wrecked your truck," Gaz adds.

"That's not my fault!" you protest. "You shot at me!" You glare at him, frustrated tears overflowing down your cheeks. It’s like they have no idea what kind of stress they’ve put you through.

"Woah, woah, c'mere, doll." John pulls you against his chest, wrapping strong arms around you, stilling some of the tremble in your limbs. "You broken?"

You shake your head, leaning into him, gripping his t-shirt tightly. You breathe in raggedly, trying to steady yourself.

"Lads. Why did you shoot at her?"

"Trying to stop the truck."

"She's a civilian you muppets. I take it that the truck's in no shape to drive, or you would've brought it back. You could have killed her." He pets a hand over your head, plucking out a few leaves. "You should’ve let her go."

"She stole your truck!" Soap protests.

"So what? It's wrecked now anyway, innit?" The silence behind you speaks volumes. "Alright, doll, why don't you go get cleaned up? " he murmurs against the top of your head. "I need to talk to the lads, and what I have to say is not fit for a lady's ears."

He gently ushers you into the house and closes the door firmly behind you. You trudge upstairs, feeling utterly pathetic, and lock yourself into the bathroom. Still sniffling, you comb sticks and leaves out of your hair with your fingers and put yourself into a hot shower, where you give yourself the freedom to cry your eyes out, hoping that the sound of water drowns your stifled sobs.

The house is quiet when you shut off the shower and dry yourself off. You wrap the shirt you'd slept in around you and poke your head out into the hallway. John is right there, holding out a bundle of clothes. "Here, sweetheart," he says softly, like he's worried a sharp word will set you off again. He must have heard everything. "I sent the boys to deal with the truck and that tail light, so it's just us. Just come on downstairs when you're ready."

You open the door wide enough to accept the clothes, and he turns to leave again, content to leave anything else to be said when you make it downstairs.

He'd obviously taken his cue from what you'd been wearing already, because he gives you a sweater and jeans again, comfortable worn in things. You go downstairs carefully, every joint and muscle in your body aching, even after the shower.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asks. "Or do you prefer tea?"

"Coffee, please. I can make it. I'd feel better if I did, honestly." You skirt around him to the cupboard where you'd seen Gaz take mugs out, recognizing your own nestled among John's mismatched ones. You put milk and sugar in your favourite mug, and pour in coffee, stirring it throroughly. The clink of the spoon is loud, and so is the pan he sets on the stove top.

"Eggs and toast okay?" He asks.

"Um, yeah. That would be nice. Over easy?"

"Yes ma'am." He looks at you over his shoulder while butter melts in the pan, blue eyes all worry. "Did I say something to you last night? Maybe the sort of thing that made you feel like you needed to steal a truck and run as fast as you could away from here?"

"Um. Yes." You hold onto the mug with both hands. "Some stuff about wanting to start a family. With me."

His ears turn pink. "I see."

"I suppose this is where you tell me it was just the whiskey talking, right?" you ask hopefully. You like him, even if it’s ill-advised, maybe even dangerous to do so.

"Wish I could."

Your stomach twists. “Oh.”

John turns around fully, guilt and sadness written all over his handsome face. He steps closer and touches your arm gently. “I’m so sorry about what my boys have put you through, sweetheart. None of this has been right.” He sighs, brushing a few tendrils of still-wet hair away from your face, studying you, those intense blue eyes focused on you intently. “But there’s something special about you, doll. I really do want to keep you forever. Not if you’re scared, and not if you feel forced— It’s just, the thought of you leavin' and never wanting to speak to me again is— I don’t want that.”

You swallow nervously. “This is just really overwhelming.”

“I know. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let this happen. Soap really could have just given you my number.” The smile he gives you is hopeful, and you can’t help but return it, just a little. “Now go sit down, doll. Let me take care of breakfast, hm?”

You nod and move to the table, sitting where you can watch him, and peek out the window too. The car is gone, but the van is still there for the moment, sitting idly to the side. You consider making another run for it, but your aching limbs protest even the thought. There’s not enough fight in you, and you’re not even sure you want to fight John, not the way you do the other three. His only crime has been wanting you to stay, and being a bit overzealous about it. You can’t be mad at him for that, can you? It isn’t really his fault.

Well, it might be his fault, in a roundabout way. He trained them, taught them how to ruthlessly pursue an objective. It’s just not his fault they can’t keep it from coming home with them. That’s a clear failure of whoever does their mental health assessments.

You sip your coffee and watch John crack eggs into a pan. He keeps glancing at you, and his smile flickers on a little longer each time that he catches you looking back, until he doesn’t stop smiling, and just looks happy, glad to have you there, even if you’re just keeping a silent vigil on the other side of the room.

It's not like you have anywhere to go. It'll take days at least to feel like you haven't just been in a car crash, and days more to locate everything to pack it back up. So long as you don't have to share a bed with John again, you think you could live with this, for at least a week. It can't be that terrible, so long as the others leave you alone. You rather hope they just leave. If you asked, would John send them away?

"John," you say as he sets a plate with buttered toast and a couple of eggs on it in front of you, and sets a couple tablets of paracetamol beside your plate. "If I stay… Will they be staying too?"

"I'm going to have them leave this afternoon. That alright with you? We can go for a walk to the neighbours while they pack up, if you're up for it. Maybe dr-- Well, not drive." He sets his own plate down and sits next to you, handing you a knife and a fork. “Have to get that sorted out. But the neighbours-- Rob and Melissa-- Their dog just had puppies a few weeks ago. Do you like dogs?”

You nod, breaking the yolks of one of the eggs with a corner of toast. "My parents had a dog when I was growing up. Some kind of German shepherd cross. Best boy. His name was Rob Roy, because he was a wee outlaw. Mam found him digging in the trash and--" you stop and give John a baleful look. "Sorry. That was more than you were asking."

"No, that's the most you've said at once this whole time. I'd listen to you talk all day, doll. Don't ever apologize."

"Sorry I-- Oh, shit, sorry--" you press your fingers to your mouth, cutting yourself off. "Force of habit."

"I'd like to see you lose that one. You have nothin' to apologize for. Not one damn thing, and especially not talking. I think you have the prettiest voice I've ever heard."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help smiling. "You're just saying that."

He touches your arm lightly. "You don't know me too well yet, doll, but I never just say anything."

Yet hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. He wants you to know him, wants you to stay with him, wants you to like him. Even if it makes no sense, the offer is tempting. It's been a long time since you've let someone get close— You've had the occasional fling, and the odd reunion with an ex that you’d stayed friends with, but grief is like a canyon you can't bear to cross. What if you love someone and you lose them, the way you lost your parents? How could you live with that all over again?

Still, there's something that feels like warm sunlight in his smile, and you can't help but incline toward him, slowly but surely reaching for the light. No one can live in the shade forever. There’s no nobility in suffering.

So you let yourself talk, at least a little. And he listens, hanging on to your words like they're precious, gazing at you with something unfurling in his expression that you can't name. You're almost afraid to try.

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[meanderingstream]

Eliot at peace with being Damned

One of the things that makes Eliot hard to write for in-character (but also such an interesting character to explore) is that he believes he is damned to Hell and he is at peace with that. He has a lot of guilt, oceans of guilt, but it's not so much the tortured, anguished catholic guilt à la Nate or like, Daredevil. 

He has done monstrous, unforgivable things. But, on his own, he came to a realization of what he had done, and pulled away from that world. On his own, he left the worst person he ever worked for, and stopped using guns, and stopped killing. On his own, he switched from wetwork to retrievals. This all occurs before we ever meet him, so while there are many hints and inferences, the specifics of how that happened, how he came to those decisions, are left up to the audience’s imagination. 

Eliot wants to make the world a better place, and he works everyday with the team to help people, and he genuinely enjoys helping people and the work he does on the job. But he does not believe that he can be redeemed. (Not my own personal belief about him, but it is what he thinks). When he dies, he will go to Hell for his sins, and there is nothing that can possibly be done to change that. He doesn't need to angst over it, because it’s just a fact. It is what it is. There is no point agonizing over whether his soul can be saved, because he knows it cannot. This is both a keystone of his character, and also something he doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about day-to-day, because it’s a settled matter. 

And as much as we love Eliot the character, he has a point that lives are not tradable for equivalent exchange. If he killed a specific family 25 years ago, that was snuffing out the light and potential and future of those particular parents and children. The surviving extended family lost those particular relatives. Saving a family now does not balance that ledger, because each person is a unique life and not interchangeable for another. While I may have different beliefs about Hell and redemption than Eliot, I still want to acknowledge that he has a point. That changing now doesn't necessarily help the people he hurt in the past, and unlike Harry, he can’t work down a list of making amends, because almost all of his victims are dead. There is no atonement to the dead. 

Eliot’s redemption is in seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and helping others get to it. Particularly the team, and particularly the pair he’s going to protect until his dying day. He will stay down there in the dark forever (he believes), but getting the others out is his redemption. 

I do not believe that Eliot will actually go to Hell when he dies, but his belief that he is damned is fundamental to who he is as a character, and he is going to believe that for the rest of his life. It can be really challenging to balance that when writing his POV, particularly when delving into events that dredge this stuff up for him (which we writers love to do because it’s so delicious). Eliot doesn’t exactly have a low self-esteem. He knows he has many skills and is exceptional at them (cooking, fighting, grifting, guitar, sports, etc). He pretty much knows his teammates love him, and care about him, and want him to stay alive for them, and spend the rest of his life with them. He has professional pride, and he will argue when he wants something. He is certainly not a doormat. However, he also believes he is fundamentally and irrevocably a bad person. Balancing between him not being too self-deprecating in normal situations / about his usefulness to the team, with his inherent belief in his own moral depravity can be a thin blade to walk without falling to one side or another. But it is also one of the biggest aspects of his psyche that makes him such a fascinating and complex character to explore.

[thegameartist03]

been rotating the Tin Woodman aka Nick Chopper from the Oz books in my brain for weeks and i finally got the gumption to draw about it

lil ref i made for myself, heavily inspired by The Woodsman (a spectacular play you should absolutely go watch right now)

bonus comic + doodles and some thoughts below

i have. SO MANY thoughts about this character.

if you don't know the lore from the original Wizard of Oz books, basically the Tin Man was a Munchkin named Nick Chopper who was a woodsman by trade. one day he finds this woman Nimmie Ammie who's trapped working for (in the first book it's some old lady but changes depending on the story) the Wicked Witch of the East. Nimmie says she'll marry him if he can build her a house and take her away, he agrees and starts to do so.

The Witch doesn't want to lose her servant, so she curses Nick's axe to (trigger warning from here on for injury n sorta body horror) cut off his leg next time he uses it. down a leg, Nick goes to the tinsmith who makes him a new one out of tin and then he gets back to work. the curse continues to take Nick's limbs and the tinsmith continues to replace them. there's a point where Nick loses his head and gets a new one made of tin, he thinks the Witch can't do anything else to him, and then the axe cuts his torso in half. the tinsmith rebuilds him, but since he doesn't have a heart anymore Nick claims he can't feel love and leaves Nimmie Ammie.

then he goes into the woods to chop more trees and rusts solid for A FULL YEAR and while he can't move and no one is around to help him he mourns the loss of his heart and ability to love.

i've got my own headcanons about his and Nimmie's relationship (personally i think he's aromantic) but i won't get into that right now. what i really wanna talk about is HOW BADLY HE GOT THE SHORT END OF THE STICK IN EVERYTHING

Nick was just a regular guy!!! just a normal dude going about his life as a woodsman. he happened upon this girl and offered to help her escape a bad situation, and POOF all of a sudden he's getting cursed! and he goes to this tinsmith who he thinks is offering to replace his limbs out of charity, but what he doesn't know is this guy is collecting his body parts in a barrel in the back of his shop to perform illegal Frankenstein-style experiments with!! then Nick loses his entire body and gets rebuilt as this tin abomination and he's so traumatized that he straight up LEAVES HIS FIANCE AND GETS TRAPPED ALONE UNABLE TO MOVE FOR A YEAR

and here's the thing. Nick Chopper is a Munchkin. canonically in the book, Munchkins are about the height of a 12 year old child (Dorothy). THE TIN WOODMAN IS THE HEIGHT OF AN AVERAGE FULLY GROWN ADULT. the tinsmith really DID Frankenstein's monster him, cause that man was absolutely shorter before, and now he probably can't even fit in the house he built!! he's too big for standard Munchkin architecture!!! he's gotta adjust to the extra two feet of height the tinsmith gave him for what reason??

he doesn’t even have his own face!! every part of his body is completely foreign and unrecognizable to the person he was before, he can’t even look in a mirror and see something resembling himself!!!! HIS HEAD’S A FREAKIN’ PAINT CAN

both he and Nimmie Ammie deserved better, and i'm glad they get their happy endings. Nick is life partners with the Scarecrow and has his own tin palace, and Nimmie Ammie is married to the homunculus combined body parts of Nick and another guy that offered to marry her.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 28 - Hallowed

@wolfstarmicrofic October 28, word count 235

“Oh, come on, Remus. You know I can’t go in there,” Sirius huffed as he followed the lanky, cardigan-wearing human around the tiny village. 

“What do you mean?” Remus asked, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looked back at Sirius. 

“Church— Hallowed ground— Demon!” He pointed at himself. Remus’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open as he realised what the problem had been. 

“Oh, sorry, I forgot. It’s just really pretty inside.” He shrugged as he carried on past the gates. 

“You forgot?! How could you forget? You sold your soul to me a month ago, and I’ve been pestering you ever since. How could you forget?!!!” Sirius flung his arms up in exasperation. In the hundreds of years he’d been doing this, not one human had ever forgotten what he was. But Remus was different, the strange man seemed to actually enjoy Sirius’s company and was a thousand times happier since he’d called on him.

Sirius almost felt bad about their bargain. Remus was now doomed to an eternity in hell, all for the sake of giving his dying mother a few more years of life. If Sirius wasn’t a hell-raised Demon from a long line of hell-raised Demons with bloodlines right back to Lilith herself, he might have tried to find a way to get Remus out of his deal, but he was, and he’d never let a soul go yet. 

Next part

[thethunderboltz]

And if I said I’d like them to kiss 👀👉🏼👈🏼

am I getting kicked out of the club or is anyone else in here seeing my vision?

[allseeingharlequin]

This is what I think John's eyes look like when he's got his own body idc if its human (the top of a jar of honey after I stuck a spoon in it)

Especially in that one fic where him and Arthur meet when Arthur sleeps and they have their own little rooms in his head I can't remember what it's called

[oceantornadoo]

happy new years! starting 2025 by finishing this fic :)

ch9 the wrong john | masterlist

john price x f!reader, reader is johnny’s twin

-

“You dropped my hand.”

“Ye lied t’ me.”

You both frown with the same half-slant.

The doctor later found Johnny had some Vitamin D deficiency from his captivity, so you’ve been allowed to wheel him around the hospital garden for strictly one hour, IV still attached. You find a bench to sit on, parking his chair next to you so you can both stare at the ducks in the pond. 

“I didn’t mean to lie to you, Johnny. I just- didn’t think it would get this serious.” He snorts. After all these years, he can still tell when you’re lying. One duck is chasing the other around the pond, wings flapping as they play fight.

“So yer only apologizin’ cuz I found out? Not a good start, hen.” You drag your hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eye sockets until your vision goes black. “We hooked up the night before I came to base. And I thought, big whoop, maybe I’ll tell Johnny so he’ll get off my back about being single, except the guy didn’t even leave a note, so I just look desperate. And then you opened that door and he was your fucking captain! My game plan got fucked.”

You release your hands so you can see again. The ducks are cuddling at the edge of the pond. You sneak a look at Johnny and he’s staring straight ahead, unseeing. “Ye said it was me an’ you. That’s what ye said.” You let out a bitter laugh at his words. “I thought that’s what it would be. I told him at lunch that it wouldn’t work, that I couldn’t do that to you. So at that point, it was just me and you. But then I left and he started calling and he’s just terribly sweet and cocky and I hate it. And then you were gone.”

It’s the first time he’s looked at you since. It’s just a turn of the head, but his eyes are duller than usual and wet with emotion. “Wasn’t my choice, hen.” You give him a watery smile. “I know. This wasn’t my choice either. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I’m not sorry that it’s him.” You reach over to squeeze his hand and he lets you, but he doesn’t squeeze back. “Price can be a persuasive bastard when he wants to be.” The same laugh escapes both of you. The ducks are swimming side by side now, circling the pond.

“Still don’t get why ye didn’t tell me.” It’s the bit you’ve been circling around for a while now. You don’t answer for a second, choosing to pick at a hangnail on your thumb. Johnny’s hand covers yours, stopping your bad habit. “I didn’t want to ruin this for you. I thought What will happen to Johnny if we break up? I couldn’t ruin your new family, not after everything that happened with ours.” He squeezes your hand and you try to ignore the bandages around his wrists. “Yer my family too, m'eudail. The first of the one I choose.” 

A singular tear escapes your eyes, trailing down your face until it plops onto your lap. You turn your hand so it links with his, squeezing back. “Even though you have Simon?” Instead of answering your question, he asks one back. “Even though ye’ve got Price?” Fair enough. You lean your head on his shoulder and he dips to kiss your forehead. “Of course.” You’re not sure who says it, but it doesn’t really matter. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Johnny.” He leans his head against yours. “What’s a sister fer?” You roll your eyes, glad to have your brother back. “Dinnae kiss him in front of me. It’s gross.” You shove him off of you, then get up to wheel him back. “You’re so annoying. Don’t pretend I don’t see you and Simon snogging after he yells at people.” The two MacTavishes bicker all the way back to hospital, ducks long forgotten.

-

When you get back from the hospital, John’s doing paperwork in his office. Alone, thankfully. “Go well, sweetheart?” You nod shyly, taking the chance to explore his office. It’s neat but lacks personal effects. There’s only a few pictures, mainly of him in combat gear with various members of the task force. Except there’s a small frame closer to his actual desk that doesn’t fit the theme. It’s a woman sleeping, face half tucked into the pillow. Her back is bare but the picture’s only shoulder up, sparing any real nudity. The hair looks familiar and as you squint, you realize something. He keeps a picture of you in his office.

“When did you take this?” He barely looks up, tugging you into his lap as he continues writing with his other hand. “Yesterday. You looked pretty.” You press your forehead against his sternum, hands folded in your lap. “That was after I cried and then was covered in your cum.” He grunts, pulling you closer into his lap. “‘xactly. Pretty.” You sigh against him. His body’s so protective, muscled with a slight layer of fat that allows you to nuzzle in further. It’s like he works out everyday but doesn’t turn down dessert. You love it.

“You must like me a lot to deal with all this family drama.” It’s mainly a joke, just something to fill the silence. Instead, he drops his pen, pulling you off him so you’re eye-to-eye. Large paws capture your face, his thumbs smoothing your cheeks. “Not jus’ like, baby. ‘S a lot more than that.” Your eyes widen. His are serious, moving fast as they track your every facial expression. “Not just like?” He shakes his head. A few months ago, you would have left the conversation there. After your talk with your brother though, you feel courage seep through your veins.

“What is it, then?” His thumb brushes against your lip, pulling the bottom one until he releases it. Like he’s making sure you’re real, giving you time to take it back. “Love. ‘ve known for a while now, that I love you. There’s no pressure, sweetheart, I jus’ wanted you to know.” It’s the kindest out he’s ever given you. Fortunately, you don’t need it.

“I love you too, John. And I’m sorry for insinuating you weren’t enough for me to date. You’re everything.” He captures your lips in a slow kiss. You pour everything into it: the I’m sorry’s and Thank you’s. His hands stay on your jaw like he’s afraid to let you go. You skim down the breadth of his shoulders, the definition of his biceps, memorizing the feel. “You make me goddamn crazy, you know that?” You smile against his confession, sinking your hands into his hair. “Ditto.” You pull back from his lips to kiss his cheek, his nose, his forehead. You pepper his face until there’s not an inch unkissed and his cheeks flush red under the full force of your affection. “I love you.” It’s freeing to say, to finally give a name to this feeling. “I love you, sweetheart. Lemme finish this paperwork an’ I’ll take you to bed.” You tuck yourself under his chin and let him work.

John proposes that night and you turn him down. Well, you tell him to give you a year. You don’t know he’s got the date marked in his calendar.

-

Unfortunately, one year falls on the day of Johnny and Simon’s wedding. John might be lovesick, but he’s not dumb enough to propose at a wedding. Especially his future brother-in-law’s. He’s officiating, staring at his sweetheart in the front row as he marries two of his men. They promise to love and cherish each other for eternity, and even John can’t help the tear that falls after they kiss. What can he say, he’s a sentimental bastard.

As expected, the party lasts long into the night. Johnny and Kyle rule the dance floor with Johnny occasionally dragging his twin to join them. John and Simon sip whiskey on the sidelines, content to watch the siblings make absolute fools of themselves. “Who woulda thought?” Simon murmurs, almost to himself. “Me, for one. Knew you’d be gone for ‘im when I introduced ya.” Simon scoffs. “Piss off, Price. Me an’ Kyle had a bet goin’ the moment she walked into that office.” They settle into silence, grinning like idiots at their respective MacTavishes.

Hours later, John’s walking with your hand in his and your heels in the other. The grooms have gone all out since there’s a small amount of wedding attendees, so each party gets their own villa. The alcohol has worn off by now, but you’re still giddy, humming the last song you danced to while John leads you back. “That was so fun.” Your smile is practically permanent now, has been for hours. He loves seeing you happy. “Yeah, baby? You had some interestin’ dance moves.” You shove him, but it doesn’t really work since your hands are tangled together. “Shove off. At least I danced.” The only time he danced was with you, guiding you through a few slow songs before Johnny practically took over the DJ booth. “Y’ were beautiful, sweetheart.” He dips to kiss your forehead and you preen under his praise.

John unlocks the door with the key card, walking in first to hold the door for you and lock it after. You turn on the lights, still bubbly and light. “I loved the flowers they had. Do you think…oh.” When you turn to look for him, he’s on one knee in front of the closed door. This time he has a ring, a beautiful creation in your favorite metal. “Let me marry you, sweetheart.” Your throat chokes up. “You remembered.” You’d been almost joking when you told him to wait a year, but clearly he didn’t see it that way. “‘Course I did. Been countin’ down the days for a while now.” You walk towards him until you can run your hands through the strands of his hair, barely sparing the ring a glance.

“Yes.”

“Yea?”

“Yes, John.”

You collapse onto him in a hug, your arms landing over his shoulders until he’s smothered in you. There’s a few tears of happiness between you, such a difference from the time you were crying on a rooftop, in his arms. Always in his arms. “We’re getting married.” You whisper, still not believing it. “Could elope now if ya want, baby.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. “John Price, you know I want a proper wedding. You’ve seen my Pinterest.” He plants a kiss to the nape of your neck.

“Whatever you want, Mrs. Price.”

-

wow.

we’re done!!!

thank you all for the support you’ve given my first chaptered fic. it meant so much and helped me overcome my nerves. stay tuned for what’s next! <333

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[sirshio]

John who whispers "mayn ketsele" in Samuel's ear (while barely touching it with his lips).

That's all, that's the whole idea.

I AM UNWELL OKAY

P.S. in Yiddish, it means "my kitten".

P.P.S. I have NO idea how could I get myself an OTP in a piece of media that I'm familiar with ONLY through my bestie's words and screenshots from the game she sends me. But I've got. And now I am really invested. Thank you, my dearest, I guess.

[noobiestnoober]

Cooking Disaster at the Boarding House (Reader, Stefan, Damon, and Enzo)

Stefan insists on making a "proper homemade dinner" for once, and you, Damon, and Enzo get roped into helping. The problem? You and Damon can’t cook, Enzo keeps taste-testing things before they’re done, and Stefan is two seconds away from throwing you all out of his kitchen.

Stefan wanted a “calm night in.”

That was his first mistake.

He’d appeared in the doorway of the Salvatore kitchen just after noon, wearing a crisp apron and an expression that screamed he was trying to manifest patience through sheer willpower. His arms were crossed. His brows were raised. His tone was calm—too calm.

“I’m making dinner,” he announced.

Damon, lounging shirtless on the living room couch with a glass of bourbon in hand, didn't even look up. “Congratulations. There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge. Knock yourself out.”

Stefan’s jaw tensed slightly. “No, I mean real dinner. Homemade. Like normal people.”

Enzo, who had just entered through the back door with a bag of marshmallows and zero context, perked up. “Did someone say dinner? Are we roasting someone?”

“Cooking, Enzo,” Stefan corrected. “Not torching villagers. Though I’m beginning to reconsider.”

And then, for reasons known only to whatever masochistic force guides your group, you were dragged into it. You had only come over to return Bonnie’s grimoire and maybe steal some of Damon’s bourbon. Within ten minutes, you were holding a mixing spoon and blinking in the fluorescent horror of Stefan’s idea of domestic bliss.

“I just want one night,” Stefan said, now stirring sauce in a stainless-steel pot like he was summoning peace, “where we act like normal people. No blood. No compulsion. No explosions.”

“You should’ve said that before inviting Enzo,” Damon muttered, pouring himself a drink and immediately being told to wash his hands before touching anything else.

Enzo, already chewing on a raw mushroom he’d fished out of a bowl, raised a brow. “You’re going to judge me on table manners, mate? Wasn’t it you who tried to flambé a squirrel last week?”

“That squirrel had it coming,” Damon said defensively.

You sighed and leaned against the counter. “So, what’s the plan here? What are we even making?”

“Lasagna,” Stefan said without missing a beat. “Garlic bread. And a salad. Simple. Manageable.”

There was a silence. You blinked at him.

“Lasagna,” Damon repeated. “With garlic?”

Stefan raised a brow. “You’re not going to burst into flames. Stop being dramatic.”

“You wound me,” Damon said, placing a hand over his heart. “You’d poison your own brother over carbs.”

Enzo picked up a tomato. “Should I chop this or eat it like an apple?”

Stefan physically snatched it from his hand.

It didn’t take long for everything to unravel.

Damon was somehow in charge of chopping onions. Except instead of chopping, he kept slicing them into elaborate spirals and arranging them into smiley faces on the cutting board.

“I’m adding artistry,” he said, unrepentant, when Stefan asked why the salad looked like it belonged in a haunted kindergarten.

You had been assigned to garlic bread—which sounded easy enough—until Damon distracted you with an impromptu vampire speed race to the liquor cabinet, and you forgot the bread was in the oven. Smoke began to rise. Stefan screamed.

You opened the oven door, coughing, waving away the smoke. “Crispy is trendy, right?”

Enzo was now licking sauce from the lasagna pan.

“It’s not even cooked yet!” Stefan shouted, yanking the pan out of Enzo’s reach. “Do you just wander through life taste-testing anything that looks vaguely edible?”

Enzo shrugged. “I’m just saying, it’s got potential.”

Damon leaned in. “It tastes like pain and disappointment. Much like your cooking career.”

Stefan turned slowly, murder in his eyes. “Get out of my kitchen.”

Damon held up his hands. “Okay, Gordon Ramsay, chill. You act like we burned the house down.”

“The night’s not over yet,” you offered cheerfully, scraping the charred garlic bread into the trash.

Stefan’s jaw was clenched. “Can any of you follow a recipe without turning it into a reenactment of ‘Hell’s Kitchen: Vampire Edition’?”

“No,” all three of you answered in unison.

Somehow, after much arguing, sabotage, and suspicious licking of utensils, the lasagna made it into the oven. Damon was banned from touching anything sharp. Enzo was banned from touching anything at all. You were put on salad duty—a task that Stefan described as “idiot-proof,” which, frankly, was just offensive enough to make you start spelling things in the lettuce.

When the kitchen finally quieted, Stefan stood in front of the oven like a man protecting the Holy Grail. The room smelled vaguely of smoke, wine, and passive-aggressive tension. Then the power flickered. All eyes turned to Damon, who was leaning against the fridge with his usual smug expression.

“I might have messed with the wiring last week to install a hidden bourbon shelf,” he said. “No promises.”

Stefan looked like he aged three centuries on the spot.

Dinner—if it could be called that—was served two hours late. The lasagna was slightly undercooked. The garlic bread was replaced with emergency toast. The salad was mostly arugula and spite. Everyone sat around the table in silence for a few bites, until Damon raised his glass with a lazy grin.

“To chaos,” he said, “and the culinary crimes we commit along the way.”

You clinked your glass against his. “To Stefan, who tried to bring order to a group of feral vampires and suffered deeply for it.”

Enzo raised his fork. “And to the tomato I never got to eat.”

Stefan just groaned.

🥖 The Salvatore kitchen has been declared a disaster zone. Cooking privileges are hereby revoked.

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter Three - Smoke and Whiskey

<< First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Alcohol mention, Smoking mention (Tobacco, cannabis), plus-sized reader, female reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me.

~3.2k

When you go back inside, you wind up wedged between John and Ghost on the bigger couch. Johnny’s stretched out on the smaller one, and Gaz claimed the chair that you’d been sitting in earlier, leaving you with no other option. Neither of them makes any effort to give you more space, even though they could. Ghost’s leg is pressed against yours from thigh to ankle, and John’s pinky finger keeps finding your thigh when he rests his tumbler against his knee. You want to curl up properly, tuck your feet up underneath yourself, but you can't without pressing even closer to at least one of them. At least Ghost isn’t quite as intimidating without his mask on.

After a while, Gaz and Ghost go out for a cigarette. The chair looks inviting, and you’d like to get a little space, but Price’s arm drops around your shoulders casually, pulling you in a little closer to his side. “Relax,” he says against the top of your head. “You’re alright, doll.”

The door opens again. “Soap, we’ve got a spliff, you want?” Gaz asks.

Johnny picks himself off the other couch, grinning. “Aye. An’ then cake?”

“Fuckin’ forgot about cake,” Ghost says. “Hey doll, d’you want some of this? Cap?”

“Who rolled it?” John asks. “Because I’m not smoking one of Gaz’s joints ever again.”

“Oh fuck off, Price, I can roll just fine.”

John looks at you and shakes his head slightly. “He really can’t.”

“I can roll,” you say. “I always do with my friends.”

You can see the calculation running behind John's eyes as he adds new information to what he knows and assumes about you. You want to laugh. You almost do. Most people take one look at you, with your big doe eyes and round face and and sunny disposition and think that you're some innocent little thing. Sure, you tend to live life with your arms open, and that might come across as naive to some, but you're not inexperienced by any means. You're nearly thirty years old, you're by no means a child.

"Let's see, then," he says. "Box on the coffee table has everything."

"Does tha' mean we can smoke inside again?" Soap asks. "It's startin' ta get pure Baltic out here."

John looks at you expectantly. "Up to you, doll."

"It's not my house."

He hums. "You're stayin' a while. Might as well be. It's important that you're comfortable."

You slide to the floor and reach for the box. "Well. You'd better open a window or two. But I don't mind."

Making a fuss over the semantics isn't worth doing. You probably are staying a while. Even if John really won't force you, you'll still need his cooperation to get all your stuff loaded back into the van, and all four of them are likely headed for hangovers.

John tells them to open the windows, and leans forward to watch you break up slightly sticky buds into the grinder. He brushes your hair behind your shoulders for you, and when you tip your head back to look at him, there's something in his eyes that makes your ears warm.

Johnny drops down to the floor on the other side of the table, a crumpled looking joint hanging out of his mouth. You can see what John means about not wanting to smoke it.

"You want a drink, doll?" Gaz asks. "More tea?"

You twist to look at him, hanging over the back of the couch, that handsome face smiling. "Have you got pop? Wouldn't mind a ginger ale."

"Got irn bru too," Soap suggests. "Ye've got some Scot in ye, aye?"

"Yes."

"Didja want more?"

You level an unimpressed look at him across the table. "I should've seen that one coming."

"I'd like to see ye com--"

"That'll do, Soap," John says firmly. "She's not goin' to have sex with you."

"Might feel a bit better if she did," Soap says, shrugging. "Ah'm just sayin'."

"You're not saying anything." Gaz sets an unopened can of ginger ale on the table next to you. "If you're gagging for it, we'll take care of you in a bit."

"And if you don't behave yourself you're not goin' to get anything," John rumbles from behind you. "She's been good. Surprised none of you have been slapped."

"Just the once." Gaz snags the joint from Johnny and sits back in the chair.

Ghost snorts. "What did you do?"

"Surprised her picking her up. My own fault."

You lean back and hold up the neat joint you've been rolling, hooking your arm over John's knee. He sets his whiskey to the side and takes it, holding it up for an inspection. "Nice work, doll," he says warmly. “Got a bit of a wild streak to you, eh?”

The praise makes you glow, despite yourself, and you laugh aloud at the second part, a real laugh, not nervous or bitter. All four of them shift their attention to you at the sound, snapping a tension you hadn’t noticed until you felt it’s absence. It’s important to them that you feel comfortable, and your genuine laughter is the first sign that you’re on your way. They really did think that they’d done you a favour.

Insane. But almost sweet, in a fucked up, unsettling way.

You pluck the joint out of John’s fingers and meet his dark blue eyes evenly, not missing the hunger that sparks into existence. “Got a light?”

John pulls his lighter out of his pocket, a little awkward with you leaning on his other leg, and holds the dancing flame out for you. You have to lean in a little to get to it, so you do, your eyes still locked on his as you inhale, the slight sizzle of paper and weed igniting clear in the otherwise silent room. You can hear the way his breath catches too, taken by surprise yet again. You offer the joint back to him, holding in a lungful of smoke.

“Shite,” Johnny hisses, breaking the heavy silence. “Yer absolutely sure ye dinnae want your cunt licked?”

You blow smoke at him from across the coffee table. “I’m sure.”

It doesn’t take long before drowsy complacency overtakes you. Curling up against John’s leg, your arm still hooked over his leg, you let conversation wash over your awareness, not paying enough attention to pick out one thing or another. John’s hand settles on your head, fingers threading into your dark hair, combing through soft strands idly. When you glance up at him, he’s watching you, blue eyes half-lidded but still plenty aware, a funny smile twisting the edges of his mouth upwards. He has nice lips under that bristling moustache of his, not as thin as you would have expected. His voice is a pleasant rumble when he speaks to the others,

He takes a sip of whiskey, and you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way the tip of his tongue darting across his lips. It takes a moment for you to realize that he’s watching you study him.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

For the first time since you’ve been there, you don’t feel scared. Just dozy and content, like a cat curled up next to a fireplace. “I’m alright,” you admit. “It’s been a strange day.”

His fingers flex, not quite gripping your hair, just holding you in place with the lightest pressure, encouraging you to keep facing him rather than turning away. “I imagine so.” His hand glides along to your ear, his thumb grazing over the shell, sending shivers down your spine. “It won’t be so strange tomorrow.”

“No more surprises planned?”

John glances up, looking at each of his men in turn, and then back to you. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“We do have cake, though,” Soap says. “Ye want some, bonnie?”

“Yes please.” You only turn to look at Soap for a moment before John is gently coaxing you back, curling his fingers around your jaw. Can he feel the way your heart leaps into your throat, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings? It’s hard to look John in the eye, but harder still to pull yourself away. His touch leaves burning traces behind, and you’re all too aware of your body and the way you respond to him. It’s all too much, too soon and too strange.

He catches your hand when you try to brush his away. “Why don’t you come on back up here, doll?” he asks. “Be more comfortable than the floor, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m happy down here.” You tuck your knees to your chest, looping your arms around your legs, extricating yourself from his sphere of influence just a little. You’re still pressed up against his calf, but you don’t need to go that far, you just need to face forward so you won’t get pinned under that blue stare again.

John has a certain gravity, a magnetism that you can’t help but be drawn in by. It would be all too easy to sink into his arms, but the idea that you’d been given to him still bothers you, like a persistent, sharp little stone in your shoe, ruining what might have been something.

You perk up some when Soap hands you a plate with a slice of chocolate cake on it. It's not the prettiest thing you've ever seen, but it tastes incredible, rich dark chocolate and an icing that had so much whiskey in it that your teeth feel funny after a few bites.

"This is really good, Johnny," you tell him. "If the whole military thing doesn't work out, you could consider becoming a baker."

"Thanks, hen. And dinnae think I havena considered it. Gettin' closer to packin' it in awl the time. Just cannae leave Gaz until he's got a good team watchin' his back."

"We've got some good sergeants," Gaz says. "Nitro's got real promise."

"Shivs too. Little devil," Ghost adds. "You need a door smasher though. Those girls are tough as 'ell, but some occasions call for a big boot."

"Aye, ye'd say that, bein' the biggest fuckin' boot the Queen's army has ever seen."

"King now," John points out.

"Oh, fuck if I care which poncy arsed Windsor is sittin' in the big chair."

"Bloody leeches," Ghost agrees.

"I've got Sanderson in mind." Gaz winks at you, like you're in on some secret.

"Gary Sanderson? Is he no' dead?"

"No! Turns out he locked himself in a cryo chamber when the bomb went off. That facility was full of 'em, all kinds of experimental tech. It was finally safe to take a team in and we found him. Nitro started calling him Roach, and it's stuck."

"He's a damn good soldier. Be good for the taskforce," Price agrees. "Would've picked him ten years ago."

"Well, he's had a nice long nap, and he's hopping mad about missing so much. He'll make a good doorsmasher," Gaz says.

"How about that Lucky kid? Nitro’s brother.” Price asks. “He looked pretty promising. Unless his luck ran out.”

Gaz hums, licking frosting off his fork. “He’s a good kid, but his problem is that as soon as Nitro’s around he lets her do all his thinking for him. Splits her focus.”

You sigh, setting your half-finished slice of cake down on the table in front of you, and climb to your feet, wincing at the ache of not moving for so long. You edge between Ghost’s knees and the coffee table and skirt around the edge of the couch wordlessly. No one stops you, and there’s no falter to their conversation despite the eyes that follow you until you disappear upstairs to use the washroom.

As you wash your hands, you stare at your own face in the mirror. You look pretty, even with your eyeliner a little smudged, and your lipstick faded to nothing. The buzz of THC is your system makes you giggle. Pretty enough to kidnap, even.

You think about it for a long moment, and then take your makeup off and braid your hair back so you can wash your face properly, and brush your teeth too. All the weirdness of the day is catching up, and all you want to do is sleep it off. The low buzz of their voices carries up the stairs when you step out into the hallway again, seemingly unbothered by your absence. There's no reason for you to say goodnight-- you don't owe them any kind of civility. But you still hesitate.

Long enough that John appears at the bottom of the stairs. "You alright, doll?" He asks. "Comin' back down?" The stairs creak slightly under his weight as he starts coming up towards you.

"I was thinking-- I'm just tired, is all. It's been a long day."

He stops two steps down, so he's still looking up at you. "I understand. We can talk more in the morning."

"I'm sure there's a lot to discuss."

"If you say so. Already told you most of what I needed to tell."

"Just most?"

He nods, and beckons you closer, a conspiratorial smile on his face. You take one halting step toward him, and then another, until you stand right at the top of the stairs. His big hands catch yours, holding you in place when he moves one step up, taller than you once more.

You stare up at him, and your breathing is turned shallow, your heartbeat rapid and heady. His eyes glitter in the dim light as he leans close, the tip of his nose skimming yours, as if he means to kiss you. Like a deer pinned under the headlights of a rapidly approaching truck, you stand frozen, unsure if you even want to move, or if you welcome the inevitable collision.

He smells like smoke and whiskey when he speaks, his lips so close to yours you can feel the soft brush of breath on your skin. "Forgot to tell you how good you look in my shirt," he purrs. "Been thinkin' to say so all night."

Heat licks across your cheeks, his words waking something dangerous in your core, something that wants his hands on you more than anything else. It’s unfair, what he does to you already, barely more than a stranger, and you want him to be a good man so you can indulge that desire without fear of consequence. It’s been such a long time since someone looked at you the way he looks at you now, an almost indescribable fondness that you haven’t even begun to earn.

“It’s a nice shirt,” you say lamely. “Thank you for lending it to me.” You don’t mention that it smells very pleasantly like him, and how it’s been a bit difficult to keep yourself from sniffing at the flannel all evening.

“You’re welcome to anything I have,” he says, and you know he means it.

“I hope that includes your bed,” you say jokingly, trying (and failing) to diffuse the intensity in his eyes. “Because I think that’s where I’m headed now.”

“Of course it does.” His thumb rubs across your knuckles, the other hand coming up to cradle your cheek. You shake, all nerves, worried that he’ll close the distance and kiss you, but he just taps his forehead against yours instead, eyes smiling. “Off you go, sweet thing. You give us a shout if we get too loud, eh?”

You swallow nervously and nod, taking a step backwards. “Goodnight, John.”

"Goodnight, doll.”

You quickly shut yourself into the other room, flicking on the light while you strip down to your panties and wrap the flannel shirt around yourself again, and tuck yourself into bed. It’s been a bizarre day, and the room feels strange, too open and too dark, but it still doesn’t take long to fall asleep.

Hours later, you wake at the sound of the door opening and clicking shut again. You sit up before you’re fully alert, dreams shredding apart and solidifying into reality as you blink away sleep.

“Shh, s’just me,” John’s voice comes out of the darkness, slurring slightly. You can’t see anything in the darkness, until he crosses over to the window and opens the curtains, letting in a little light from the waxing moon outside. He turns towards her, his big frame silhouetted against the scant light, humming. “Bloody hell, you’re a pretty little thing.” The soft clink of his belt buckle is far too loud in the quiet room, as is the rustle of his clothes as he strips down to his boxers.

“John, what are you doing?” you ask nervously.

“Coming to bed,” he says, like it’s obvious. “M’too old to sleep on the floor, and Gaz is on the big couch.”

“Oh. I’ll move then. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” You throw back the sheets and swing your legs onto the floor.

“No, no, stay right where you are.” He swoops over and grips your legs gently, lifting them up and back onto the bed. He smells strongly of whiskey and mint toothpaste, and the clinging remnants of cigar smoke. “We can share tonight. Get things set up better tomorrow.”

“John…”

He slides into bed beside you and easily pulls you close, strong arms wrapping around you tightly, rolling so you’re half on top of him, one hand cradling your back and the other on your waist. “Yeah, doll?” he asks.

“John, we can’t— I can’t sleep like this.”

“Shh, just give me a minute to hold my pretty girl.” He nuzzles against the top of your head. “I’m gonna be so good to you, sweetheart. I promise.”

"You're drunk," you say, holding the flimsy excuse out for him, hoping that he'll take it. You don't want to think about him meaning it. It makes going home look all the more unlikely.

"A little," he admits. His hand drifts lower, fingers dipping below the soft lace of your panties to dig into soft skin around your hip. He groans. "You're perfect. Sweet and soft, so damn beautiful. I'll make you happy. I'll give you anything you want, if you stay with me."

"John! Stop that, we can talk later, just go to sleep."

"I know this all started wrong, doll. The lads got carried away. But this is right. You feel that too, don't you? We'll have to come up with a better story for our kids, hm? Something proper romantic." He kisses the top of your head, humming happily.

"Our kids?" you squeak. "Jesus, John, you can't be serious."

"Course I am. We can start trying whenever you're ready."

Well, at least now you know he's just as delusional as the rest of them. "You don't even know if I want kids."

"You do," he says confidently. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're drunk," you say firmly. "Go to sleep."

He chuckles. "You didn't say I'm wrong."

You push away and roll over so you don't have to look right at him. Even in the darkness, you're certain that your face betrays more than you'd like. It was none of his business if you wanted kids. You certainly weren't going to have them with him. "Go to sleep," you repeat.

"Yes ma'am," he says, looping his arms around you again, tugging you close to his chest. "Goodnight, doll."

Thanks for reading!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[reds-skull]

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[NEXT PART]

Okay I'm trying to be brave and post this before I chicken out, first time writing a fic, and I'm not sure if this is any good.

So, since I don't have time to draw out all of the revenant au story, but I still want to share it, I'm writing it instead.

Will continue this if people are interested!

[this isn't requiered but reading the comic might help you understand this better]

[also there's a Soap pov version of this by Badolmen, it doesn't line up 100% because we didn't work together but it's very very good and you should read it regardless]

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking, Ghost.”

He shifted in his place. Can never get used to Price’s voice in his head.

“You know I work best alone. All he’s gonna do is get in the way.” 

Price’s mustache twitched, as if he’s fighting a smile. Bastard is about to drop something to win the entire argument, Ghost already knows.

“He’s a revenant. Strong one too.” 

Fucking figures. Still, he could argue he doesn’t need any support-

“Intel is rigged with explosives. And the Sergeant just so happens to be explosion-proof.”

…Fuck.

Ghost sighs heavily like he was presented with an unreasonable amount of shit to deal with. He watches as Price sits there, shit eating grin spitting at him. He looks back to the folder, at the details of this already annoying mission, “you said there are 2 buildings?”

Price snaps from his self boasting to confirm “one suspected barracks and the other an abandoned warehouse. Warehouse contains the majority of explosives.” 

Finally finding something to work with, Ghost straightens his back to his usual self-assured posture, “the Sergeant can deal with the warehouse, I’ll clear the barracks. No need to work together.”

Price seems less happy about that. Serves him right. He sighs and drags a hand over his face, and Ghost almost feels bad for ruining his plan to get him to play with a team. Almost.

“Will it kill you to try and work with the lad?” Price asks offhandedly, while organising the folder back to the never-ending pile of documents on his desk.

“You mean again?” Ghost would wear his own shit eating grin if his face wasn’t permanently covered.

Price still seems equally pissed. Probably saw it in his literal mind’s eye. “Get out of my office Lieutenant, wheels up at 0500.” He gets up and walks around his desk to face Ghost, “don’t scare the kid off alright? I have a feeling you two could mash well together.”

Ghost tilts his head and projects the most doubt he could muster at Price. “Yes sir.”

This is going to be a bloody long day.

It’s not that Ghost hates people per se, it’s just that most of them seem hell-bent on being annoying, disruptive, or boring. Useless on the field for someone of his caliber, and even more useless off-field.

He knows he’s not exactly easy to relate to, but he couldn’t care less about trying to be. He’s here for one purpose. And it’s not “making friends” or whatever Price and Gaz has been trying to push him towards.

He wonders which category the Sergeant currently standing in front of him will fall into. By his fidgeting nature and easy smile, Ghost would put his money on “annoying”.

The Sergeant, “Soap” apparently (Ghost wonders if that callsign was given to him before or after he died a probably painful death), now directs that smile at him, seemingly undeterred by the giant man wearing a skull like a stereotypical grim reaper. He has to give it to the lad, at least he hides his discomfort well.

“You must be Ghost, eh? Let’s get ourselves a win LT” The Sergeant says with an obvious Scottish accent, fist-bumps his shoulder and walks off towards transport.

Oh, annoying is definitely winning.

Despite that, Ghost can’t feel like Soap really fits it. He’s unlike the other muppets in the category, He’s not poking him like the rookies do, trying to make him reveal his powers.

No, the Sergeant is annoying like an overly friendly dog is to someone that doesn’t want to be licked. He’s acting like they’re just two normal soldiers on their way to a normal mission, not the unnatural, unexplainable phenomena they actually are.

Ghost will have to keep watching. Certainly on field he will be able to find out his true colors.

On the helo, Ghost picks his usual spot near the ramp, where the lights don’t reach as much and most prefer not to sit, and observes Soap. His fidgety nature stayed the same, but the carefree expression he wore on ground morphed into a determined one, face stern and serious. He seemed lost in thought, eyebrows twitching here and there. He sees how his fingertips flicker, watching flames dance between them before the rapid movements put them out.

Well, at the very least Soap doesn’t fall into “boring”.

Clearing the barracks is a laughably easy job, even without using his powers. Although, it would’ve been so much faster with them… too bad he doesn’t hate the Sergeant enough to send him to Limbo.

They practically run through both buildings, untouchable storms. Ghost has to admit, Soap is clearly competent, disarming bombs and taking down hostiles at an impressive rate.

God, he hates when Price is right.

“Ground floor clear, heading to the basement” Soap relays on comms. 

“Copy, clearing third floor, keep an eye out for Intel.” 

“I have to say LT, you’re not quite like I expected.”

Feeling’s mutual, Ghost thinks to himself. “That so?”

“Aye, you’re not a major cunt for starters.”

That startled a small huff out of him. What the hell do the rumors say about him? He would have to ask Gaz about that, “Could still change that Sergeant.” he mock-lectures him.

A small laugh is what he gets in return, “I doubt that. I’ve worked with some bastards before, you barely make top 50.”

“Only 50? I hoped for at least 20”

“Got work cut out for you then, sir”

“That I do.”

Ghost continues clearing the floor methodically before faltering for a moment. Why was he entertaining the Sergeant like that? Since when does he joke with people? 

Though, he would’ve done it more if he had someone so ready to joke back…

Useless thoughts. 

Cursing Price, Soap, and all other stupid distracting things swirling in his head, Ghost takes down another hostile.

The mission is going without a hitch. Which is usually when something “hitches”.

A couple of minutes after Soap’s last words, Ghost sees a bright light flash from the warehouse, before a soundwave shakes the windows of the now barren barracks.

One of the explosives went off… “Soap, what the hell happened there?”

No answer.

Ghost knows he’s fine. Price wouldn’t brag about how “explosion-proof” he is otherwise. But he’s not answering…

“Sergeant, give me sitrep, now.”

Ghost stands still for another minute, listening to static. He checked the last room right before the explosion went off, so he just has to go to exfil and wait for the Sergeant at this point. His part of the work is done.

He should just go to exfil.

Ghost climbs down the stairs and heads for the warehouse, a foreboding plume of dark smoke billowing from its roof.

If asked why he didn’t ignore his gut feeling and use his brain like always, he wouldn’t have an answer.

Maybe he just wanted to exchange one more joke with the Sergeant before they finish the mission and never see each other again.

Arriving at the doors, he sees how the ground floor caved in, creating a ramp down to the basement. He starts making his way down, when he sees bodies littering the debris. Was Soap ambushed?

“Soap? Where the fuck are you Sergeant!” Ghost shouts. He has half a mind to be quiet, not wanting to attract enemies to their location, before realizing no one would’ve survived this. No one but-

“LT…?”

“Soap, why weren’t you answering comms- what…”

He stumbles upon Soap. Soap, who's laying on the grey concrete floor, wheezing and shaking, a metal rebar in his hands. Ghost walks closer and realizes the rebar is going through his stomach and pinning him to the floor. 

The Sergeant’s eyes blearily look at the metal “I need, I n-need to get this out…”

He lifts himself half an inch and Ghost sees how the blood rushes out of the wound, how Soap pales. 

Ghost rushes to his side. “Stop fucking moving”, he slides his hands under his torso, feels his gloves getting soaked in blood, “let me help you”.

Soap’s breathing becomes less harsh, and he looks up at him, “you… you don’t have to-”

He slowly lifts Soap before he can say another useless remark. The muscles under his fingertips clench and the Sergeant chokes out a scream.

“Fuck” Soap mutters between pants. 

“We’re halfway there, you’re doing good.” Ghost lets him rest before continuing to lift his body up. The blood keeps rushing out of the wound, enough that he doesn’t understand how Soap is still conscious. The sergeant let go of the rebar, and is now gripping Ghost’s forearms like he’s about to fall to his death.

After a few seconds, which Ghost is sure felt like hours for Soap, he eases him off the metal and onto the ground. Soap immediately collapses, shuddering and holding his hands around the wound.

Ghost then realizes he’s not sure how the Sergeant’s powers work. Is this supposed to even happen? Is he actually dying?

Soap looks up at that moment, giving him a small smile that looks more like a grimace, “I just… give me a minute to heal, I’ll be ready to go soon.” he uncurls and drags himself to sit against a piece of wall.

Ghost frowns and slowly steps towards Soap and slides to sit next to him, “take however long you need.”

He doesn’t look, but from his peripheral, he sees Soap’s head whipping around and staring at Ghost like he told him he’s giving him a million pounds.

He seemed to find something in his expression (however much he could even see of it), and looked down at his bloodied hands, “thank ye…”

Ghost blinks down, “I hope this doesn’t lower my cunt rank.”

Soap lets out a small laugh that turns into a fit of coughs. More blood rushes out of his wounds, and Ghost internally winces.

“Ha… I think it takes ye off the list, mate.”

Ghost heaves an over-the-top sigh, “shame”.

Soap smiles at him, and Ghost notices it’s different from the one he gave him before the helo. This one is… warmer. Or at least it makes him feel so.

Soap lifts his shirt to inspect the wound, and Ghost can’t help by take a look. The wound stopped bleeding, and when Soap wipes some of it away, he can see how it’s already closing.

So he does get hurt… it just heals. Ghost still wonders how it all works, but he knows their powers work with bizarre rules, weird exceptions and what not. He can almost hear his Reaper laughing. Or whatever you would call that chilling noise it lets out when it finds something funny.

It doesn’t matter either way. Not like he’ll get to work with Soap again. 

The Sergeant exhales and lets his shirt drop, “a’right, let’s fuckin’ finish this.” he slowly starts lifting himself up before Ghost wordlessly grabs his arms and helps him.

Soap mumbles a thanks, “did you find any intel?” 

Ghost looks ahead. The climb out of the basement won’t be easy on his wound… “Negative. We’ll keep looking.”

Eventually they reach a door labelled “storage”, that is blocked by several tonnes of concrete and metal. Ghost internally curses.

Soap, who’s been trailing behind Ghost, reaches the door and looks around. Ghost is about to ask him if he’s got a few C4’s hidden somewhere when the Sergeant asks him, “permission to use my powers, sir?”

Ghost raises an eyebrow, “what are you planning?”

“Gonna blow it up sir” Soap says like it was obvious.

“...go ahead.” Ghost replies, half baffled Price forgot to mention the Sergeant, besides being unkillable by explosions, can also create them. 

Was probably in the folder he didn’t bother reading.

He takes a step back to let Soap Have a go. The Sergeant rests his palms on the debris, inhales, and…

A loud boom makes Ghost’s ears ring. He’s momentarily blinded by the bright explosion before he regains his vision, and sees Soap stepping around the remains of the door into the small room.

Ghost shakes away his slight shock and joins him. Soap’s powers intrigue him… he wonders what else he could do.

Somehow, the intel survived the explosions. Ghost could barely care. At least they won’t have Price on their case later on. 

As they walk towards the exfil point, a heavy feeling sinks within Ghost. He’s not sure what to call it, but if he had to it would be “regret”.

Regretting what, he’s not sure. Maybe he should’ve prolonged their walk.

And from a glance at his face, Soap might understand this feeling as well.

“You did well Sergeant.” He has the sudden urge to say. Maybe it will make him regret less.

Soap casts a smile at him. It doesn’t warm him in the slightest.

The chopper blades slashing through air never made him feel worse.

“I guess this is it then.” Soap says when they land.

Ghost turned to face him. That heavy feeling in him just kept getting heavier throughout the flight. Why?

“So it seems.”

Soap stares for a moment longer before sighing. Ghost wants to do something about the annoyingly heavy air of despair around them.

“Soap” the Sergeant hums, “Why did the Scotsman’s prank fail?”.

Confusion takes over his features, “what?”

Ghost inhales, “because no one let him get away scot-free.”

Soap stares at him like he brought shame to his entire bloodline. Ghost grins like he did.

“Steamin’ Jesus LT, that was horrendous.”

“Ah Sergeant, just admit my jokes are better, no need to be a sore loser.” 

“My gran got better jokes than this, fuckin’ hell” Soap laughs.

“I’d like to meet her.”

“So you two could battle? I rather not see you die of embarrassment sir.”

Soap’s transport decides to arrive at this moment, chasing away the small joy they both found.

Soap looks back at it and turns to Ghost.

“It’s been great working with you sir.” if Ghost was feeling bold, he would say Soap almost looks sad, “I hope we’ll get to go another round later.”

Ghost hates the hopeful tone in his voice. Hope is uncertain, leaves everything up to chance.

Useless.

“Likewise, Sergeant.”

He stays standing there for a few minutes, staring at the truck vanishing towards the horizon. As if it will lighten the boulder in his chest.

“So, Simon, what’s your verdict?” Price finishes after debrief.

Ghost thinks about the entire endeavour. Not annoying, not disruptive, or boring.

Soap is…

“He’s something else…”

Critiques are welcome! Nobody beta'd this so I'm sure there are mistakes lol (that and this isn't my first language...)

[lulublack90]

Prompt 14 - First I Love You

@wolfstarmicrofic February 14, word count 653

Remus was so tired. The moon had been a rough one. Madam Pomfrey had had to levitate him back up to the castle. He’d healed quickly, as he usually did after a full moon. He’d slept for the morning and half of the afternoon and finally managed to make it back to his dorm room, where he collapsed on his bed and fell back to sleep. 

He woke again to soft sunlight filtering through the curtains into the room. He groaned. He had a few hours until he needed to climb up to the astronomy tower and attempt to stand long enough to track the stars and planets. He groaned again into his pillow and started to get up. That's when he noticed all the other beds had their curtains closed and the tower was completely silent. “What the?” He said, perplexed. He grabbed his watch from his bedside table. It was half past six. There was no way the entirety of Gryffindor Tower was fast asleep at this hour. 

He swung his legs out of his bed. His entire body ached as he shuffled across the wood floor to the nearest window. He pulled the curtain back and was blinded by the sun. “Agh!” He grunted, letting the fabric fall back into place. He blinked away the dazzling lights in his eyes and tried again. He stared in horror as he realised the sun was in the wrong place. It should have been on the opposite side of the tower. If it was on this side, then that meant…

He stepped back from the window, clapping his hand to his mouth. He’d slept through the entire night, he’d missed his astronomy lesson. The one he needed for his next essay. 

“Moony, what you doin’, ’s early?” Sirius’s yawning face appeared from behind his curtains. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He asked quietly, not wanting to wake James or Peter. 

“Why would I do that? You needed the sleep.” Sirius said, stretching until his joints popped. 

“Because I needed to be in Astronomy!” Remus was getting frustrated now. After all the things he’d done for them and not one of them had thought of waking him up?! 

“Relax, Moony, I did your chart for you. It’s on your trunk. You’ll get an outstanding on it; it’s perfect.” Remus hurried to the end of his bed and snatched up the filled-in chart, perfectly labelled and ready for his essay. 

“Sirius,” He choked out. 

“Yes, Remus,” Sirius grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“I love you.” 

“Good, I love you too.” Remus felt himself blushing. They hadn’t said those words to each other before, and here he was just casually throwing them around. But Sirius had said it back. 

He looked down at the chart again, a thick lump in his throat. Then he noticed that Sirius had annotated one of the stars.

“Why does it say underneath the Sirius star, ‘This star is my favourite'?” He asked Sirius. 

“Because it’s true,” Sirius answered.

“And why does it say underneath the Regulus star, ‘This star is the worst’?” 

“Because it’s also true,” Remus sighed. He’d make amendments to it later. Sirius pulled the curtains back from around his bed. 

“Come on, it’s Saturday, no point getting up until later.” Remus put down the star chart and clambered into Sirius’s bed. Relishing the feeling of being wrapped in Sirius’s arms. 

“It’s true, you know,” He whispered quietly in the early morning light. “I do love you.” Sirius’s arms tightened around him, and he pressed a kiss on the top of Remus’s hair. 

“I know, sweetheart. I also love you, too.” Remus's heart fluttered in his chest, and he and Sirius snuggled closer and quickly fell back to sleep only to be woken an hour later by James tripping over his quidditch kit bag on the way to the toilet. Oh well, there was always Sunday.