#hes nailing the cold is always there so idc

[targaryen-dynasty]

YOU‘RE THE ONLY THING I PRAY FOR. (2/3)

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: none

WORDS: 2.4 K

NOTES: y’all are probably fed up with how much I’m posting today but ✨idc✨ lmao. Consider this as a little interlude before it gets steamy in part 3 🤭 tysm @arcielee for betaing this short thing.

Never before have you slept as badly as you did last night. The tea brought by Maester Mellos may have been drunk by you, but it did little to soothe the tormenting guilt you feel. You had retired to bed again afterwards, only to not be able to find any sleep at all. 

Rolling from one side to the other, you had pondered over what had happened in the sept, and who could have seen the two of you to report it to your father. There couldn’t have been any witnesses for most septas leave whenever you arrive. Besides, you’ve looked around plenty of times. It’s impossible that anyone has seen you. 

But deep down you know it was bound to happen eventually. A princess of the realm could not flaunt around the Grand Sept in the company of her uncle, let alone being claimed and defiled by him so openly without anyone witnessing. 

So, it’s not surprising that at first light you’re summoned to the Throne Room. 

The heavy doors fall shut behind you with a thud, and your footsteps are the only thing heard as you approach the looming throne. Your father sits atop it, Jaehaerys crown weighing heavy on his silver curls, and watches you with a grimm expression.  

“Y-Your Grace,” you stutter, bobbing a small curtsy with your hands tightly clasped in front of you. It’s your father’s harsh voice that has you flinching even before you’re able to meet his eyes. 

“Raise your head, child.” It’s a demand, and it’s definitely not your father sitting in front of you right now. 

Nodding, you gulped thickly as your father has never before spoken to you in such a manner, with such fury laced within his voice. The quick-tempered part of his emotions has always been reserved to the people of his council, and sometimes even your little sister stands in the crossfire. But not you, never you. 

“It has been brought to my attention that you were seen entering the Grand Sept with Daemon. Is that correct?”

Your eyes dart around before they settle on the floor, and you nod once again. Finding your voice seems to be more difficult than expected, failing as you are not even able to meet your fathers gaze. 

And the silence appears to stoke your father’s fury, knowing this is too dire a matter to be lenient with you. 

“I said is that correct?” he growls, abruptly rising to his feet. 

The movement causes you to flinch, and you raise your head. “I–yes, he-he asked if he could join me for my morning prayer,” you stammer, frozen in fear. 

Your father huffs, “Of course, he has.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, before he slowly but surely walks down the steps leading from the imposing Iron Throne towards where you stand. “And is that all that has transpired between the two of you, daughter?” The name falls from his lips dripping with so much venom, a shiver runs down your spine. 

His stern expression only grows darker and darker, a foreboding edge cuts into them. “Or are there other matters that you two have been up to there?” he asks, looking down at you. “I wish to hear the truth from your mouth, and your mouth only.”

You feel your throat tighten, and your body grows cold just from the intensity that feeds the tension between the two of you. “I-I… I–,” you stammer. You’re caught. 

Taking in a deep breath, you clench your hands to fists to stop them from trembling as you think about saying the next words out loud. Your nails dig into your palms, surely leaving crescent shaped marks, but this doesn't make the situation more bearable for you. “We-We kissed,” the words are practically a whisper, “and he did suggest we wed.” Looking away, you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, knowing there’s a rage brooding inside of him. 

“What a foolish suggestion,” your father spits out. “Must I remind you that you were to wed Jason Lannister?”

Feeling your breath grow shaky as you try to keep the tears from welling in your eyes, your gaze locks with your father’s. You’re a dutiful girl, and you would have never disobeyed your father. But you allowed your uncle to take things too far, and now you have to bear the consequences. 

“No, Your Grace,” your voice is meek, trembling as you shake your head, “I-I am aware I must wed Lord Lannister, a match made by you, and I do not wish to bring shame to the crown.”

But your father hesitates, as if the words he’s about to speak would weigh a thousand tons on yours and his shoulders. “Your lies have proven to me that you do not care for your duty to the crown,” he growls. “And I will not allow your foolish actions to further tarnish our House. You wish to go to the Sept freely and frequently? Then you shall make your way to Oldtown in the morrow to become a Silent Sister, and forsake your past life. You will be removed from the line of succession entirely as a punishment for flouting my authority.”

Frozen in stunned silence, the words do not seem real. The severity of your father’s judgement sinks into the pit of your stomach, and you take a step back as if it would give you back your ability to breathe. 

With blurry eyes, you look back at him, trying to find some sort of consolation in his, but you only see sternness and disapproval. “A-Are you serious?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Tears stain your cheeks, and you allow them to. “Surely you must not mean it, father.”

“I am your King!” Viserys snaps, and there’s no fatherly compassion neither in his voice nor the fierce scowl on his face. 

For all his reign your father has been nothing if not a weak king, relying on others to ensure the strength of the mighty House Targaryen. And now he decides to make an example out of your misstep, not able to afford another moment of weakness? It must be a cruel joke in favor of the Seven. 

“My mind is made up,” your father finally growls, hiding the pit of guilt in his stomach behind the volume of his voice. “This is the price of your actions whether you like it or not. You have brought this on yourself, and I don’t wish to hear any more objections from you. Begone!”

Knowing there was nothing you could do to change his mind, you just nod your head and walk out of the Throne Room, eyes downcast as the tears won’t stop rolling down your cheeks. 

You barely register who crosses your path on the way to your chambers for your mind is awash with sadness, rage and fear, and once the heavy door falls shut behind you, it all rises to the surface, claiming you like a storm. 

You kick against a nearby stool before you sink to your knees and sob into your hands. Letting out an agonizing scream, you are overtaken by rage. But there’s no will of yours to pack your belongings, not that you’d need them anyways, for a scroll you certainly have not left there lays on your bed, next to a rugged cloak. 

You grab the piece of paper, unrolling it and scanning over its contents, taking a few seconds to understand that it’s a map containing the secret passageways your ancestor had commissioned during the construction of Maegor’s Holdfast. ‘Meet me here at the Hour of the Ghosts’ is written below it, the here most certainly hinting at the point that’s hidden beneath a marked cross. 

It seems like an incredibly long time to the Hour of the Ghosts, but what other choice than waiting do you have? There’s no way for you to go, not that you even want to go outside to meet anyone. All you want to do is spend the rest of your time in the Red Keep by yourself, sulking about the mess you have brought yourself into. 

But as the hour finally strikes, you’re on your feet, silver hair hidden by the hood of the cloak. 

The map suggests that there’s a hidden doorway to the right of your bed, and it takes little effort for you to push it open, revealing a staircase that leads you into a tunnel. Though it’s almost casted in complete darkness, you pull the door to your chambers shut behind you and scurry down the stairs, following the map. 

The rage is still there on your way to the staircase that leads you out of the keep and into the city, and even in the dim lights of the torches around you, you can make out your uncle’s surprised face as you suddenly charge at him. 

If you weren’t so angry, you would have laughed. 

“Why have you told him?” you hiss, but are quickly silenced by his large hand covering your mouth. He holds you with your back against his chest, seizing your small frame and stopping you from shoving at his chest. 

“I told him nothing,” he sharply hushes into your ear, though you don’t grasp the importance of it. Your life is already ruined, and his whispering won’t make it alright again. “Viserys was informed, but not by me. I assume it was one of the leeches’ puppets. Your father summoned me last night to inform me that my services to the crown were no longer required. He has exiled me.”

You exhale into his palm, turning slightly to look at him with wide eyes. There is a menacing grin on his lips, only broken when he continues. “I am quite certain he has done the same to you, so, you can either stay here and face your punishment, or you can come with me.”

His words settle slowly, and you’re torn between following him, or facing your fate as Silent Sister. You already disgraced your House, what’s one more misstep if it can bring you freedom? 

You feel utterly helpless and powerless, for you don’t know if Daemon can be trusted. He hasn’t earned the moniker the Rogue Prince for nothing, and for all you know, he could have informed your father. But would he willingly bring himself into a treacherous position just to wed you? You’re not certain. 

Your sigh fanning into the palm of his hand is what prompts him to release your face and allow you to speak again, and the cold air that suddenly fills your lungs with his hand gone has you clearing your throat. Winding in his grasp, you turn around to face him, and as it eventually loosens, you take a step back. There still is anger raging inside of you, but you must play your cards wisely. 

The hood of your cloak is pulled back by you, exposing your full face to him. “What other options do I truly have?” you whisper, looking around briefly. “I shall come with you.”

It’s another sigh that rips itself from your chest, knowing the inevitability of your question, and your eyes flicker up to meet his. “When do we leave?”

There is a short moment of silence between you, and, as if you’ve anticipated anything else, Daemon finally replies.

“Now,” he rasps. “We must go, before anyone comes to find and stop us.”

Not giving you a chance to react, his fingers intertwine with yours, clearly sensing your apprehension as he pulls you after him. 

“But my clothes. I–”

“Everything is set,” he husks. “I have secured your mount and my own, waiting for us in the Dragonpit. We must do this quickly, no time for lingering. We will be gone by the time anyone realizes.”

Just how quickly he has made all plans and arrangements possible truly amazes you, and you can’t help but feel drawn to his dedication to the matter and the ambition which he displays. You know you’re taking an immense risk in moving with him like that, but you trust him. You have to trust him. 

Following him down the stairs, you look back at the Red Keep for a moment, and its sight makes you feel nervous and anxious. You’re about to leave so much of your life behind. At what cost? 

It’s the neighing of a horse that catches your attention, and once again, Daemon takes your hand to drag you towards it. A tall, black stallion waits for you, and you squeal the moment your uncle lifts you up as if you weigh no more than a feather, putting you into the saddle. 

He settles behind you as the horse canters along the cobblestone, heading towards the Dragonpit at a speed you have rarely ridden before. But by the Seven, never before have you felt so thrilled. 

Stopping sharply in front of the outer doors opening to the hillside, he helps you down in the same manner he’s gotten you onto the horse. The gates to the dragonpit are opened, and both your dragons stand up the moment they recognize their riders. 

Upon the sight of both beasts, your heart swells and freezes at the same time. You would have missed your dragon dearly in Oldtown, and the thought that you would almost never have ridden it again makes your blood run cold for a moment.

Silverwing is slightly larger than Caraxes, and makes a much more striking figure than your uncle’s mount, but you dare not tell him that. 

With a nod towards the dragon keepers guarding your dragons, you approach your beast, hand gliding along her silvery scales. A look at Daemon from over your shoulder tells you that he’s already strapped to the saddle of Caraxes. 

“Where are we flying to?” you shout over at him, mounting Silverwing. There is a small bag strapped to her saddle, a thick coat for you to wear draped over it, and you wonder when he’s had the time to prepare all that. 

Caraxes is on his way out of the cave, roaring and grumbling, and your she-dragon briefly spreads her wings, before she follows him and crawls out into the open, causing you to almost not hear his reply. 

“Pentos!”

Their large wings flap loudly as Caraxes firstly soars into the air with a bellowing roar, closely followed by Silverwing, breaking into the open sky. 

The Red Keep grows smaller and smaller in the distance, until you can not make it out anymore. You’re not sure what difficulties might await you in Essos, though you have never been more ready to venture to far away lands. 

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I’ll Take the Night Shift

Pairing: Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Before you knew it, John was gone - taken from right under your nose and leaving you no choice but to retreat without him. But you would do anything to get him back, even go into the lion’s den itself.

Word Count: 15.2k

Warnings: Torture, blood & gore, V suggestive & some spicy bits, vulgar language, angst, found family tropes, eventual fluff, and comfort, injured Price would be the sweetest person idc, so much plot, briefly edited

A/N: The flashbacks are spicy because I said so. (Soap request being written after this). Enjoy!

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

You try to remember how you felt the first time they told you. Your combat vest was still on, that night vision rig still connected to your head and weighing about as much as John did when he rolled on top of you in the middle of the night. At your front rested the M13, its black and sleek metal bumping against your chest with every teetering step.

Black, on black, on black. Except for one item, hidden, kept close to heart, and even closer to mind at all hours. You were always aware of it, the metallic press that was ingrained into your body just as the caress of John’s fingers was, burning over your pulsing epidermis as it traveled.

Around your neck, your wedding ring sat heavily on its chain – gold more bright than the sun and kept safe and warm against the flesh of your breast under the numerous padded layers. Your face was bathed in sweat, lungs aflame with blood dripping from a knife puncture on your right thigh. Although the limb is bathed in crimson, the dark fabric of your pants hid most of it. But it couldn’t hide the red footprints in the dirt.

It was a Black Op in Finland – a target stashed away in a mansion that was clawing for breath in this dense forest with more viridian-colored trees than any you had seen before. Green seemed to breed in the small spaces, between rocks, up crackling bark; crunching under your black boots as you came to a shattering halt. Moss and tiny plants get crushed under your fierce steps.

If it was any other circumstance, you would have loved to drag your husband here for a vacation.

You had felt fear when they told you. Cold. Chest-tightening. Skin tingling as your limping body fought to focus on anything but the pain that was spiking in your leg, but that was simple when the words flew from Gaz’s lips with panic. Simon had stopped behind you as well, the two men dressed just as you were and holding their breath for your reaction. They knew it wouldn’t be good.

“The Captain isn’t responding. Soap can’t bloody find him.” The chill of the night was nothing compared to the dread that flooded your veins, eyes snapping forward blankly at flashing shadows as your panting breath was all at once sucked back down.

What?! Is all you can numbly think.

A brief stuttering inhalation ensues, your brain screaming as if banshees wail and smash against the bone of your skull with sharp teeth and blunt nails; tearing to try and get out. But you were not born to break at such a fickle emotion as fear in your bloodstream, or the adrenaline making your eyes vibrate. You were taught to act. 

You’re turning on your heels and hiking back to the mansion without a word or hesitation, the world around you speeding by. In a single instant, the organ in your head promptly goes silent in a fell swoop of horrified realization. Everyone left in that mansion would be dead if you got your hands on them – ripped to tiny little pieces until that which was yours was returned unharmed and conscious into your arms.

You hold the M13 tight around the stock, jimmying it into your shaking grip.

“Whoa!” Gaz rushes to get ahead of your warpath – which didn’t take much as your wound was throbbing; making your head pound something awful. 

It doesn't matter what I feel…Where is my John?

Dark hands grasp your shoulders tightly, shaking you as your lips turn into a snarl.

“Out of my way, Garrick,” You growl, face suddenly twisting into an image of pure animalistic rage, “I’m going to Soap’s position.” 

Attempting to jerk out of the man’s hold, your skin crawls at the thought of John. He always answered the comms – always stayed within eyesight of his partner when placed with another individual. Your husband did not leave men behind. He would never leave Soap behind. 

And that meant he was either dead or captured.

Your mind jumps to violent imagery. Your Captain, riddled with bullets and bleeding as he writhes in pain; left to die like a feral dog as he snaps at everything that moves. Or worse, taken and stashed away, far from you, and tortured for information. John would never break – they’d have to kill him anyway.

There was no version of this story that involved him living if you did nothing.

“Johnny isn’t at the mansion,” Ghost comments, popping up in the side of your vision as you have a stare-off with Gaz and releases the radio attached to his vest, “He was under heavy fire – had to pull back. Should be closin’ in on our position soon.” 

“I’m still going back!” Growling, you snap your arms back and shoulder past Gaz, “You’re idiots if you think I’m leaving John by himself in fucking Finland surrounded by hostiles.”

But what if he’s already dead and I don’t know it? Can I handle that?

You grunt under your breath, trying to stop the sting of your eyes.

“Love,” The younger man pleads, Kyle’s dark eyes worryingly going from your thigh to your face, “You’ve got to be bloody joking with us. If you go back to that place you’re as good as dead. We have to pull back to the Evac Point. There are too many guns – we’re outnumbered.”

When you had joined Task Force 141 you had never expected to marry the older Captain of this rag-tag bunch. It had been surprising enough that you had been spotted by the brown-haired Brit at all, only seeing him once when he had come to teach a class of rookies on Counter-Terrorism. Naturally, the two of you had struck up a conversation – or, rather, you had forced him to speak to you. But how could you not? The man was about as handsome as they came. The gruff and gravel tone that rumbled his chest, his large build reminiscent of a brown bear, and how the muscles under his shirt had rippled when you snuck up on him. Physically, he was everything you wanted, and the same went for attitude once you got to know him.

And, hell, how could you look at someone like John Price and not get entranced by his eyes? Storm gray and raging waters; you swore you could see an entire world hidden in the flecks of silver as if he was carved from stone and his soul was pure electricity. But despite all of it, his serious face had seemed warm under that beard of his and that bucket hat on his head wasn’t helping. He seemed kind enough, and that had piqued your interest as you were constantly being surrounded by less-than-respectful men in the barracks.

In fact, your first sentence to him was, “How many times have you nearly lost that hat of yours mid-Op, Sir?” 

You had snuck up while the rookies were working through a practice course down below the loft, where the two of you currently were. John’s head had snapped to the side, his constantly narrowed eyes widening a fraction. If you had to guess, he didn’t get snuck up on often. 

But he had never met you before.

His arms were attached to the collar of his vest, and you saw the fingers tighten as his shoulder-width stance tensed below him. The shouts and calls of the people below blurred as you tilted your head, blinking innocently up at him, watching his lips move with heated thoughts. 

You quite liked him looking surprised.

“Ma’am,” He utters in greeting, before letting out a deep sigh that makes you huff a laugh in turn. He seemed tired – stressed, “Very funny. Don’t suppose you’re part of the others down there, then, are you?”

“Unfortunately, no, Sir,” Your gaze filters to the flailing limbs and you watch with creasing eyebrows at the chaos, amusement deep in your blood, “I mean…they look like they’re having fun, at least.”

“Yeah, that’s a bloody exaggeration, that is,” His wrinkled forehead had creased, following the horrific sight as well, “Laswell told me that this group was promising.”

Your laugh makes his head fully turn back to you, blinking down and fighting the flick of his eyebrow in confusion.

“Oh, God, she told you that?!” Shaking your head you shifted your body to face him and stifled your chuckles. You say your name and utter out, “If you want someone who’s not going to sugarcoat things for her amusement, Captain Price, you come straight to me. Squad 5 is the one you want for Counter-Terrorism courses; certainly not 3. That’s a good way to get shot in the ass by your own guys.”

He stared at you for a long minute before his eyes flickered down to your hand; he grunted and grasped it in his own. 

You were correct – he was warm. Firm. The ingrained lines of his palms splayed over yours, and the flesh of your lips softened at the delicate way he was holding you. Like you were a prized weapon. 

And you would have it no other way.

“Just Price is fine, Ma’am. Kate mentioned you in her call…You were in Romania in ‘04, Yeah? Quite the job to do by yourself…You ever think on joinin’ a team?” 

Three months later Laswell was giving you a call saying you were getting a promotion and the rest was subtle glances that evolved into stolen touches in dark corners when no one was looking. It had been scary how instant the feelings were realized…you trusted John with your life, just as he did with you. That was the first feeling after lust and the one far before love – protectiveness for each other on the same level as wolves in a pack.

You can’t leave him behind.

“He’s the Captain–” Your lips begin to hiss out, eyes narrowed at the ground as you struggle along. You were weaker than you should have been – blood loss leaving you nearly on the ground after the retreat, “He’s my husband!”

Rage was easier than panic. Perhaps that was why John called you Lion for a callsign.

“...And you’re going to get him killed.” The remark makes you freeze. Ghost doesn’t move from behind you as the echo of his words bounces off the trees, but you feel his presence just the same as Gaz clears his throat awkwardly, “You go back, Aarre Virtanen will put a bloody bullet in ‘em. Not a chance he doesn’t.”

Aarre Virtanen. The target that had escaped the Force’s grasp like the weasel he is. Your eyes alight with rage, and cities burn in your iris. 

“You’re just about the most impulsive person I’ve ever met, Love,” John mutters into your hair, running his fingertips over the hospital gown as he lays in the bed with you. Your eyes are closed, feeling your head rise and fall with the steady breathing in the Captain's chest – damn him, the way he touched you was hypnotic; putting you to sleep where the pain meds failed.

“Hm,” You groan, digging your head deeper into his peck and feeling him chuckle velvety.

“I need to teach you how to think plans through before you commit, Yeah? Else you’re going to keep getting hurt…and we can’t have that, eh, can we Sweetheart?”

“...If you’re gonna hold me like this when I get shot, I’ll make sure to take more bullets for you from now until the end of time.”

A puff of breath and a brush of coarse beard hairs over your scalp.

“You’re hopeless, you are. What am I supposed to do with you…?”

“Probably kiss me, Sir, but I’m not picky. You can fuck me too while you’re at it.”

A shuttering of leaves rips everyone out of their arguing, and in an instant three guns are held leveled at a dense bush, shaking in the moonlight. Every moment spent with John was flashing over your eyes like you were dying. Why was your breath getting strained? Why was your grip shaking?

“Friendly! Don’t go poppin’ off shots, it’s jus’ me!” Your stance lessens at the familiar Scottish drawl, air falling from your nose in a terse sigh. 

Soap’s body pops out a second later, and you’re right next to him with a heavy heart, gripping him by the arm and digging. It was hard, holding yourself together with string and fraying cloth, but you had to. You can’t break…not now. The man's vision is locked on your face, and you don’t like the thinness of his lips as his expression is layered with guilt. 

It mirrors against the desperation in yours, leaking into the tone coating your sentence like poison.

“Little Lady, I–”

“Where is my husband, Johnny?” Your face contorts, pulling back. He was supposed to be here, why wasn't he here? He took MacTavish with him because he needed an expert to detonate a bomb in the lower mansion’s tunnel structure. He said he’d be back soon…Where is he? “Johnny, please, he can’t…” Begging has never been implemented in your life. Never.

But for John, you’d do anything. 

The man in question flinches back, the dried blood over his face catching your gaze in the dim light as you stop dead; your eyes slashed the distance between Soap’s visage and the gore over his cheeks. Up his arms. On his hands. Staining his chest like fucking finger-paint. Before you know it you’re backing up, eyelids fluttering like hummingbird wings and jumping from place to place as all you can see is red. Your hands are slippery, and you hold them limply ahead of you. 

No, no, no. No, it can’t be.

“Holy shit, Soap,” Gaz whispers, voice horrified, and you feel his hand on your back trying to steady you, “Is that…” 

Ghost’s dead eyes stay locked on the scene, narrowing behind his mask. The Scot’s head flows to the blood, quickly inhaling as his nose scrunches. His lips part in horror as he tries to calm you down, backing up a step. 

But you can’t stop seeing red.

“Hen, now don’t do that – it’s not…I…He,” He stumbles over his words, swallowing thickly as you gape. Soap growls, splaying his hands, “Steamn’ Bloody Jesus! The explosive went off prematurely, fucken’ bastard of a device – whoever made it should get his neck rung – an’ the…the tunnel collapsed with us in it,” You just stare, and you wonder if your heart can hurt any more than it already is. At your side, Gaz blows out a slow breath, and over your back, you feel his grip tighten, “I tried to get him out of the rubble, Hen. But,” He stops, and one of his hands smacks against the top of his helmet, “Virtanen’s men got there first. God,” Johnny gasps your name, “I’m so sorry.” 

But all you do is stare. 

“Love,” Garrick lightly says, his breath on the side of your face, “Love, we have to move.”

But Gaz, You want to say; scream, as your stained fingers twitch when you level them with a heavy glare, Gaz I can’t leave him here

“He’s not dead.”

Ghost grunts, fixing the position of his gun over his chest; resting on hand on the end and looking off into the trees, “They’d keep ‘em alive. Try to get answers – who he is, who sent him…” The man trails. 

Your heart fractures your ribs, ears ring like cicadas under your skin.

He’s not dead, You have to tell yourself so you don’t break down, looking at everyone around with veiled shock, He’s not dead.

The only reason the four of you were still standing around was that, in the absence of John’s leadership, you took point. It hit you suddenly, then, in that instant where the storm that was going on inside of your head was silenced. These men were under your wing – they needed you to take up the mantle; you needed to trust that John was alright. If only to keep the whole of the 141 safe and alive.

Gaz had shrapnel in his back; Soap looked like he was about to either turn around and go on a rampage or slump over with his head in his hands. And Ghost well…he was Ghost, but even so, his clothes were layered with blood and dirt. Not to mention yourself – your thigh has since gone numb.

…And we can’t stay here. 

With your heart falling into a deep hole, you school your expression. 

Don’t think about him. Don’t do it. 

Your job has never been more difficult than at that moment.

“Evac Point is a ten-minute jog. L-Laswell’s expecting us.” The voice that comes out of your mouth isn’t yours, the tone is off and the structure is shaky at best and broken at worst. There was nothing more you could do, even if you knew you could drag your way back to the mansion and start a fight. 

Gaz was right, you would die if you went back. And you can’t get John home safe if you were dead. 

The team needs you to lead them just as your husband would. 

So, avoiding all eye contact and the wide looks, you slip out of Kyle’s hold, feeling your leg sizzle with agony as you put weight on it. Garrick mutters your name, and Soap clears his stuffed throat; coughing into the night. Ghost is the one who loops his arm under your shoulders when he strides up behind you, and you flinch at the contact before closing your eyes and feeling bitter tears drip down your cheeks.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Lion,” The man glances down at you, skeletal face glowing bone white, “I give you my word.” But you don’t answer, just grimace and will away the feelings in your heart and the vomit in the back of your throat. 

This is what John would want you to do, you know that – perhaps that was the only reason you were willing to leave and reevaluate at all – but, somehow, it still felt wrong. 

Akin to betrayal.

The ring around your neck suddenly weighed more than the numb flesh of your leg as tears smack the moss mutely.

—

Laswell is sitting in the meeting room as a nurse wraps your thigh tightly. The sutures underneath pull at your flesh; making it stretch at a touch of a finger as you stand upright. The others had pleaded with you to sit down, but nothing would sway you. Not even the needle that had been going through your skin when you refused pain medication. Being on your feet made you feel better – like you were about to do something which would stop the thinness of your breath and the jump of your heart. Your weight was mostly on your uninjured limb anyhow, shifting as the affected pant’s leg was cut lengthwise and shoved aside as the gauze slowly wrapped around and around.

“When are we going after him,” You ask Kate, rubbing the sleep from your eyes but only succeeding in spreading dirt and blood all over your sockets, “I’ll be ready in five if you need me to be. All of us will.”

“Damn right,” Kyle nods, “Just give the order.” 

The blonde sighs, and the other men in the room move on their feet in unease. No one was content sitting still – one of their own was missing. Soap in particular was taking it badly; almost as broken up as you about it.

“We can’t do anything,” Your rampaging heart clenches. You had been worried about that, “This mission was Black,” Laswell’s chair squeaks as she rises, a tablet in her hands and a scowl on her face, “Legally speaking, no one was ever in Finland in the first place. A blown power box was the cause of the explosion.”

“Kate–” Gaz growls, but Soap cuts him off.

“This is clatty, Laswell!” He crosses his arms, the mohawk on his head pressed down from being in a helmet for so long making him look unhinged. When the helicopter had dropped the Force off at base, a meeting had immediately been called; that was over three hours ago, and still, nothing had been done. It was precious time, “Send out drones, recon forces, anything. Hell, send us back in – we'll take care of this.”

“Sergeant MacTavish,” Kate stares at him, and she spares a quick glance at you as the nurse stands quickly and leaves. You clench your jaw. Without John being here the room felt empty, devoid of a very important figure; you were no leader, but what choice did you have but to take charge, “Price knew the risks, and…Black Op means no take backs. He’s been in this a long time.”

“We all have,” You whisper, grunting as a shiver of fire runs up your leg. 

In the back of your subconscious, you know everyone can see how shaken you are. Your eyes constantly rove to the corners as if shadows will suddenly take form and attack, your fingers twitch as if still around the trigger of a gun; when someone mentions John’s name your hand unconsciously reaches to grasp the ring around your neck. Gaz spares you looks, reaching up to fix the position of his ball cap with tense breaths. 

Inside, the thoughts were running faster than you could catch them. Every moment you spent with your Captain – dinner dates, gifts that you told him not to buy you but he did anyways…the list went on including the moments spent together. They were distracting you. He was distracting you.

Was this how it felt to lose a vital part of you? Like torture? But your person knows what torture was like – it had never felt as painful as this before. You couldn’t recall in your memory a time when your chest had been this wound tight, fingers so shaky and weak. Your brain was what you would consider your best companion in these situations…but this was different. Common sense had abandoned you in the form of a square brown-bearded face and strong arms.

God, John, You press your fingers into your eyes until you see stars, Please be okay. Please. I’ll be there soon. J-just wait for me.

There was another voice as well, telling you that if you just told yourself he was okay you could get through this easier. You could break later – you needed to focus on getting your husband back.

That was all that mattered.

Laswell scratches at the back of her neck, and your hands fall back to your sides.

“We can’t do anything,” Kate repeats, and the subtle change in phonics leads your head to snap up. Her deep blues were already staring at you; boring into your soul. The others perked up as well when your body stills, listening with predatory attention, “Shame. I heard the target was planning on being at a get-together in a week at his property in Poland.”

Your pulse stills, and you find your wavering voice, “...Can’t fault the man, he has a weapon-smuggling business to run…He’ll need more potential clients.”

“Hm,” The boys look back and forth with bright eyes, teeth showing as their lips peel back, “Affirm.” Laswell saunters to leave the room, slipping past you. But before she brushes against your shoulder her face tilts to you. You smell her scent – bark and coarse linen – as she speaks, “You might want to clean up the armory and get your gear repaired. John wouldn’t stand for his team looking like shit it if he was here.”

Kate saunters out the door, and you watch her back as the barrier closes, standing in silence. Sucking down a slow breath, your gaze filters back to the boys only to find them already staring at you. 

“Well,” Clearing your throat, your eyebrows twitch, “You heard her. We can’t do anything…officially.”

“I’d say we better go clean up, then,” Soap grunts, crossing his arms over his chest, and nodding his head to you, “Head off and get a good sleep.”

Gaz and Ghost spare glances, but look about as ready as you are. 

“You sure you’re up for this, Love?” Garrick asks motioning toward your leg with a head nod as he moves closer, “We have no problem doing this by ourselves.”

“I took my vows just the same as he did,” You respond immediately, gripping the younger man by the shoulder and sending a small, weak, smile, “You think he’d stay behind if it was me?”

“I think he’d rather let Soap make him tea again. And we know how that went last time.”

You huff out a sound that resembles a laugh, but the Scot in question refuses to look at you; your eyes catch Ghost sending you glances before he motions with his head to the man. Turning to Gaz you nod.

“You take Simon and get the gear ready. We’re leaving tomorrow first thing.”

“Copy, Ma’am.”

Ghost pats your skull once before disappearing, “Keep your head on, Lion.” 

The door once more closes, and silence overtakes the small room. Taking a deep breath that fills you with a wave of ease – even if for a moment – you focus on the second big problem after a brief second to close your eyes and think. 

Johnny.

He avoids your gaze; fidgets with his hands more than he usually does. The men of the 141 were dear to you and in a way, the entirety of it was a big family of people who really didn’t belong anywhere but with each other. You cared about them more than you cared about yourself – one of them was your husband, but the rest were your brothers. 

“You remember when I took a metal rod right through my lower leg?” You begin, hobbling closer and nearly laughing when the man takes a step forward to help with a grimace set on his lips. You raise a hand to stop him, “In Egypt about two summers ago?”

“You shoved me out of the way and got hurled through a window by a bastard with a knife, Hen. Landed in an industrial yard,” You stop a foot or two from him, attempting to get his attention while he stares at his feet and mutters like a kicked dog, “Yeah. Remember it clear as day. Price nearly had my head – knew right here that he was gonna marry you.”

The comment warms your heart.

“Did I ever blame you for standing near that window, Johnny?” You ask softly, tilting your head and catching his eye as he clenches his jaw in thought. The scar on the pale skin moves, and his stubble bunches.

“Never, Ma’am.”

“Then why would I ever blame you for an explosive that went off spontaneously – one that you didn’t even build in the first place?” 

He stays silent at that, but his head slowly rises to face yours fully. You had never seen him look so guilty before, those blue eyes of his so hopeless.  

“I couldn’t get ‘em out,” Soap whispers and before you know it you’re grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into an embrace, “I left him behind. How could I…?”

There was still blood on him, stuck in the makeup of his flesh like large bruises; dried, yes, but you nonetheless felt it. You found, though, that at that second, it didn’t bother you as much as it should have. The Sergeant’s arms hesitantly wrap around you and when you feel him press forward with his weight, your form loses tension. 

“No one blames you, Johnny,” He's shaking when you tell him, “No one. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. Price,” Your throat tightens, “John knows how to handle himself, you know he would never be mad at you for retreating.”

Soap wetly laughs and places his chin on the top of your head; playing it off with a chuckle as the minutes stretch on, “I’ll just have to believe you then, Lion. Who’s to say I can go against my superior?”

Your arms tighten around him as a snort meets air, “You say that and when we get the real Captain back, I might not want to give up the position. The power’ll go straight to my head.”

“And it hasn’t already? Now that’s surprising, I could have sworn you were telling the others what to do not a second ago.”

There he was. 

—

“I’m just saying, John, Fantasy beat out Nonfiction as a genre,” You shake your head, bringing the cup of coffee to your lips and sipping. Over the rim, you watch the Brit toss his beanied head to the side in disbelief.

“Negative, Dear,” The Café was mostly empty today, considering that it was so late at night you were surprised it was still open and that it was a Tuesday, “I’ll agree to disagree.”

“Name me one Nonfiction book that beats ‘The Hobbit,’ hm?” Your eyebrow raises and you place the cup down, “That’s right – you can’t!” 

“‘The Guns of August’ to name one,” John raises a large brow, “do you want me to continue, Love? I’ve got quite the long list.” 

It was one of the rare moments when the two of you had Leave together – once in a blue moon. These moments were so special it became tradition to spend every moment together despite the wounds or the fatigue. You both had just gotten back from an Op and rushed to change into civilian clothes and clean up together before leaving.

Admittingly, the shower took a bit longer than expected, but who could blame the two of you for taking advantage of a chance to please one another? 

Across the table, your lover smirks, and you see his eyes dip to ogle the hickeys and beard burn on your neck with satisfaction. Under the table, you reel back a foot and kick his shin. Not hard, of course, but the message was received.

“Bloody Hell!” He sputters, looking back to glare comedically at you. His black athletic shirt was tight around his chest, making his muscles writhe under the fabric from where one arm sat over the back of his chair. You could imagine where you left nail marks down those abs of his; how his face had looked as you straddled his waist and used him.

“Don’t look so smug, bastard,” Your lips pull into an imitation of an annoyed frown, “Gaz is gonna make fun of me when we get back. I had a hard enough time trying to hide them when we were leaving!”

“Garrick?” John grunts from across the small table and the warm lights flicker above the two of you. His lips set forth a small smile, pulling his cheeks back and crinkling his eyes. The corner seat was the best in the café – allowing both privacy and a view of the windows and doors. Some things would just never die in the two of you, it seemed, “The Muppet can’t even pin you in drills, Sweetheart. If he teases you, just kick his legs out from under ‘em.”

“Encouraging violence between peers is not Captain behavior, Love. What would Laswell say?”

John grunts, “I couldn’t give a damn, Dear.”

While you roll your eyes and try to hide the adoring smile ripping open your skin at the man’s chuckle, you take notice of the street outside as time moves on. Staring out, your soft gaze dances over the illuminated areas of the street lights, finding old architecture and simply enjoying the scenery for what it was. When you were in the field, it was hard to take in the sights around you through the gun battles and tense situations; being able to take your time and admire was a gift. A calm silence falls over the café, and John hums gingerly from ahead of you as his knee brushes yours under the table.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” Blinking, you connect your eyes with his lovely blues. 

The way he’s looking at you leaves your lungs tight, lashes fluttering over your cheeks as heat alights. His body had moved forward, hands and elbows on the table and leaning forward to gaze at you in reverence. 

“John?” Your eyebrows turn in, lips flicking to a gentle expression of giddy embarrassment.

“Shh, Love,” He mutters, tilting his head to stare at you as your fingers fix the weight of his lent brown leather jacket over your shoulders, “Let me admire my wife, yeah? She gets lovelier every second.”

In your own little world, your head is floating as your eyes stay locked on an ocean with flecks of silver and storms. The air is thick, and around the leather, your fingers twitch with a want to embrace him; pull at the fabric of his shirt and rip him into a kiss over the table. Your heart skips beats.

Where was this coming from? You want to ask, but all that comes out is a huff as you tear your half-lidded eyes away.

“You’re making me all shy,” You grumble cheeks hot and on fire under the flesh. Your lips try to restrain a giggle, but your chest is too tight to hold anymore.

“That’s my job, that is. No use tryin’ to stop me now; you’re stuck with me.”

“I will kick you again,” You emphasize as fire burns down your neck and ears, heart suddenly too big for your body.

“Hm, I’d let you.”

“J-Johnathan Price!”

His chest-shaking laughter is contagious in the best possible way.

—

He remembers the explosion and then nothing more. It was like a ball of fire, carried on the wind before Soap even had the time to call out a detonation time; the device went off in the deep tunnels after the order had already been given to fallback. The fire was too heavy – you had taken a blade to the thigh and that had been it. John had called it off immediately.

Just when he and Soap were about to rush to the exit, the bomb went off without call or meaning. The tunnels were part of an old wine cellar – the target had converted them to be a quick back exit if anything went wrong and he needed to disappear. 

The entire purpose of John taking Soap with him was to collapse the long stretches of rock and wooden support beams; to box Aarre Virtanen in the mansion like a bear in a trap but, of course, these missions could never go simply. 

He remembers the explosion, and then nothing more. 

The pressure of rock on his chest and gripping hands. Was Soap the one yelling at him to wake up? Shoving off the debris and ripping at his gear with grunted breaths? The barked orders were getting closer from all over.

Muppet, he should have just run. 

But then the heavy presence had disappeared, and John knew he had been left behind; his thoughts, before it all left him, were only of you. How would you take it? The fact that he wasn’t coming home with you was sure to induce you into a rampage of gritted teeth and hurled curses. That was, perhaps, the worst thing that could happen. He prayed for one simple thing – that, no matter what, the boys would convince you to hold back. 

And then he woke up in the room.

It was small; barren of anything besides the chair John was tied to. Under his feet was a drain, the silver metal glinting as the chilling overhead light cascaded down and left him blinking rapidly to push back the instinctual tears gathering in his ducts. As John moves his neck, it pops, making his jaw clench even as the bones ache deep under the layers of black and blue flesh.

His whole body hurts.

Blood is dried over his skin, and the world around him pulses as the stab of broken bones moves inside of him. 

Concussion, He assesses, moving his wrists under the tight hold of rope from where they’re restricted behind his back; tied to the back of the metal seat. Still unable to focus his eyes, he continues to go down the list of injuries, broken ribs, John sucks in a sharp breath when he attempts to rotate his left ankle, and broken Fibula and Tibia. Bruises and lacerations everywhere…shit.

But were you alright? Was the knife wound treated, wherever you were? Did Mactavish get out?

Groaning deep in his throat, the Captain shakes his head, noticing immediately the familiar weight of his gear was absent – his bucket hat and night-vision rig are gone as are the combat vest and M13. But under his shirt, one item is still there, pressed into his skin deeply. 

Golden metal. The wedding band. At the very least, that item could bring him a sliver of comfort.

Narrowing his eyelids and scrunching his large nose, a bead of blood travels down a gash above his eyebrow. 

“Fucken’ hell,” John growls, grunting and groaning as he forces his neck to right itself, lower body jerking forward to help relieve the pressure on his midsection. 

Finally, the water over his eyes dissipates like a wave in the ocean and his ears cease ringing. But the buzzing of the light quickly takes its place and his nose twitches at the stench of black mold and gore. Everything was concrete – the walls, floors. Blinking, John’s eyes quickly snap around the room to take it all in; trying to find the weak points that may come in handy later. 

There was only one door and no windows. When the Brit tried the rope around his wrists he found it was bound incredibly tight, even making the skin irritated at the slightest movement.

“Bloody bastard,” The Captain weakly mutters under his breath, shuffling in his seat, “First you stab my wife then you tie me up, is that it?” 

Struggling does nothing but serve to make John angrier, and the pain can easily be thrown to the side when his thoughts run to you. They always did, but now more than ever, considering he didn’t know if you had also gotten captured and were only a concrete barrier away.

While he tries to force down the floating feeling of his brain, a sharp cough works its way from his mouth, jerking his body back and forth raggedly. John is so out of it that he missed the sound of the door opening, the violent squeaking of the metal hinges, and the scrape of concrete. Heavy shoes pound over the floor, and when the air finally returns to his rampaging lungs, blue eyes lock onto the man.

 Aarre Virtanen stands with his hands behind his back, a smug expression staining his perfect, unscathed, face. The Target wasn’t more than thirty, dressed in a nice expensive suit and dress shoes on his feet shining with more polish than Price could begin to wrap his head around. 

Muppet, The characterization was almost instantaneous, Pompous little Muppet. Lion would eat ‘em for bloody breakfast.

John raises a brow slowly as a dribble of blood slides down his nose and gets caught in his beard hairs. The two men stare at one another, eyes clashing. 

“I’d like to imagine,” Aarre smirks down at the Captain, “That whoever sent you planned on my life being forfeit. Unfortunately,” John has to stop himself from laughing in his face, “As you can see, Sir, I am very much alive.”

Narrowing his gaze, Price runs down the length of Aarre’s twig-like form – Not much of a Smuggler, is he? His picture made him look bigger.

But all that meant was that he had others to do the dirty work for him, and John knew that, whatever basement he was cramped into, was guarded heavily just beyond eyesight. 

The chances of escape were drawing up dry, and his tongue ran over his teeth. 

“The real question is, however,” The thin man speaks, coming closer with a careful step. Nose twitching, the Brit can smell the disgusting odor of violent perfume; his head rears back in disgust that the Smuggler takes as fear. Aarre leans closer, “Who might you be? Your little friends managed to slip my grasp, but we got that bitch in the thigh–”

John’s head moves forward so fast all that was seen was a blur, and soon after a cracking of a nose meets damp air. 

A muffled yell echoes off the cracked walls like a satisfactory reward to the Captain’s ears, and the brown-haired individual quickly shakes his head to the side to clear the bouncing of his skull.

Definitely a concussion. He hisses and rips at the bindings behind his back; all that gets him is bloody skin and blisters.

“You,” Aarre is stumbling backward, one hand grasping his broken and bleeding nose. Crimson splatters on the floor and ragged breathing rattle chests from both parties, quivering around the room, “You…p-pathetic little shit. Fuck!”

His tears only serve to make John smile, cheeks pulling back as a humorless chuckle enters the air. Feral satisfaction lives in his flesh.

“You better watch your language there, Mutt. It’s not proper to insult a lady who can’t be here,” John’s tone drops, nearly a growl as the deep rumble leaves a hunched over Aarre flinching back; the Captain’s teeth are bared like an animal. Feet sound off in the hallways – rushing boots booking it down a set of descending stairs, “To knock your fucken’ teeth in herself!” 

Blood spits from John’s lips at the hiss, and his limp feet over the floor slump to the side as his legs fall open, body raging forward as if he could break the restraints. He wanted to – wanted to bash this little bastard's skull against the floor until he was unrecognizable. 

How dare he say that? How dare he call you that?!

Pain could be shoved aside in this case, his anger was so overpowering when it came to you that it simply didn’t bother him. You defended him just as religiously, and John’s mind flies to glimpse a fast memory of you physically getting in the face of a man who had insulted him over some pointless football game at a bar. 

“You better mind your tone,” You had spoken slowly, face calm and the perfect example of hidden rage shimmering under the surface. The Brit watched from the corner of his eye with a smirk on his lips; not at all opposed to letting you pick your battles and feeling his heart skip beats when his title falls, “When speaking to my husband like that.” 

Aarre’s guards rushed through the door, guns held in hands, all immediately leveled on John’s head. 

“Don’t!” The target gasps out, slapping one of the barrels to the floor and straightening himself, “Don’t.”

A deep smirk spreads the still-falling stream of crimson over the sides of his lips; the brown-haired man’s muscles are tense, stringing him up like a wire or a snake ready to strike. Torture was elementary to him, he’d gone through it all before and none of it had ever worked. He could take it, as long as you were far away from here.

“He’s going to have a buyer,” John’s eyes minutely widened in surprise, caught off guard, “Prep him for the flight to Poland. Don’t bother being gentle…the staff won’t mind if he comes in a bit damaged.”

—

Your fingers flinch forward as you shove the sapphire earring into your ear, the sharp point poking out the other end before you shove the backing on. Taking a deep breath, you feel the car under you bounce right as you ask your question.

“Gaz?” Lips thinning, you look through the limo’s glass separator and grimace at the man’s reflection in the mirror, “Are you sure no one knows what we look like? No one at the mansion saw our faces?”

“Lion, I’m promising you – it was too dark, and we were moving too fast for ‘em to get a clear picture.”

“Hm,” You grunt, flattening out the brown fur jacket over your form-fitting gown. The navy blue color was deep, reminding you of a Lapis Lazuli stone with veins of silver reflected in the jewelry around your throat and wrists. 

Poland was cold this time of year, and as the expensive buildings whizzed past just outside the glass, your breath created condensation. 

You were nervous, heeled feet shuffling over the tufted floor of the vehicle and sucking down slow breaths as a way to slow your heart. It had been a week without John at your side, and all the makeup in the world couldn’t hide the bags that had sprouted under your eyes; sleep had come in bouts of quick fatigue but then left just as swiftly. Your body wouldn't relax – couldn’t – until your husband was right beside you once more. 

And if he was already dead…

Your hand goes to itch at your neck, catching on the necklaces, one specifically, before you force it back down with quivering effort. Attempting to shake out your head, your ribs suddenly feel like they’re strangling your organs, and all you want to do is take off this damn dress.

Kyle utters your name from the driver’s seat, and when you blink over to look at him, you find his eyes already staring back.

“When I went missing in the Congo – you raised hell to go and find me,” He tells you, focus flicking back and forth from the road to you, “If anyone can get intel on Price and bring him back, Love, it’s you. He’ll be just fine until then, yeah? Bloke’s probably already out and rushing to get back to you.”

“Think so?” Your lips form a smile, and on your forehead, a brow raises. John was stubborn, there was certainly a chance he was already free.

“Know so, Ma’am. Just you wait and see.” Snorting, you return to looking out the window, breath now noticeably more even. 

There weren't many people who could make you keep a conscience; when you worked alone before 141 it was because no one else could keep up with your spontaneous plans or ideas. You were described in your file as a quick-witted and cunning nuisance for anyone on the opposite end of your weapon – whether that be your tongue or an actual gun just depended on the Op. But John and the other boys were more of a good influence than a bad one; in many ways, they were just the same as you. 

Sometimes it felt nice to have people that understood you. Your actions, the small tics that gave away how you were feeling. No one else could do it like Task Force 141, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The rest of the ride was silent, and soon the city was peeling back to show off more extravagant houses with iron gates and cobblestone walkways. Properties the size of football fields take up your view, and your eyes blink at the extravagance; all you can’t help but wonder about is if the people that live there even know how many rooms they have.

When Gaz makes the final turn onto Aarre Virtanen’s land, you suck down a deep breath. 

There were so many lights that the night sky is nearly re-illuminated with a bath of warmth – the people already inside can be heard out in the air, a chorus of phantoms just beyond eyesight who sing with alcoholic breath and gasp down smoke. You had been to many parties to infiltrate high-level organizations, but never had the stakes been so high. 

Or so illegal. 

When the car in front of you pulls out of the roundabout driveway, Garrick pushes on the gas to take its place. A moment of steel silence rings. 

“Earpiece?” Gaz reminds softly, and you nod in response, tapping the appendage on your right side.

“Earpiece.”

“Alright…The rest of us’ll be listening – I’ll circle ‘round and be inside in an hour and Ghost is already there. He’s the waiter wearing the silver Jackal mask serving champagne near the back window. If anything goes wrong, Soap’s our sniper on the roof of the neighbor's house. Say the word and he starts popping shots to give you an exit.”

“Affirm,” Your hand is already reaching for the door, but the man stops you one last time with your name. You find his creased eyes in the mirror, brown a deep shade of concern.

“...You look beautiful, Love, Yeah? I’m sorry the Cap. isn’t here to see you like this – he’d lose his damn mind. Go all slack-jawed and trip over his own feet; God, I’d pay to see that.”

Lips delicately slide into a smile, and your face heats at the compliment. Letting out a light chuckle, you whisper, “I’ll see you in an hour, Sergeant.” 

“Count on it. Stay out of trouble ‘till then?”

“Trouble? Since when have I ever gotten into trouble?” When you sneak out the door, a light chuckle bounces off the doors before they close, and your heels click against the ground like nails on a desk. 

With a bitter determination entering your blood, your expression eases into a look of smug superiority as you begin to move forward and ascend the steps in front of the mansion. 

Virtanen was inside those doors, and your ears twitch, listening to Gaz peel the car away into the night; plucking out the forged invitation from your jacket pocket, you can’t help but call John forward to memory. Carefully maneuvering your way up the last flight of stairs, you reach the doors and imagine your husband right behind you, clothed in a suit and tie like the one he wore to your wedding, waiting to take you by the arm and lend you strength. 

Keep me aware, You want to ask his phantom, Make me see the hidden details so I can bring you home to me. 

Invitation in hand – which Ghost had to go through quite the killing spree to get accurate – your lips flick into an easy smirk.

Your silver tongue would come in handy tonight, but you hoped you weren’t too tired to miss important social cues. You needed to figure out where John was by tonight, or there was the possibility of losing him forever. Aarre Virtanen was the target yet again, and you would do whatever was necessary to get information to spill from his mouth like prayers; the party was an obvious front to impress buyers. 

And you could play that part quintessentially. 

“Hello, Handsome,” Purring, you move fluidly, body swaying as you come to a stop, letting your fur jacket slip down around your elbows and display a delicious amount of skin around your adorned neck, “So sorry you’re stuck out here in the cold, I can’t imagine what a bore it’s been.”

The man couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, eyes wide as they bore into your form from behind a silver mask depicting a bird of prey. His eyes slip, and a very audible swallowing of saliva makes his throat jerk – the poor individual's face was undoubtedly beet-red, seen extending down his neck and ears. 

“I-It’s really no problem, Ma’am,” He stutters, grabbing the slip of paper from your outstretched hand and barely opening it before he shoves it back into your chest, “You’re all good! Please, enjoy the hospitality of Sir Aarre Virtanen to the fullest of your abilities.”

“Why,” You show an all-teeth smile, “I’m sure I will.” 

Slipping through when he opens the door, a woman in a cat mask offers to take your jacket to the coatroom, which you agree to immediately, and disappears a second later. 

“Did you just flirt with the doorman, Hen?” Soap’s voice nearly startles you, but with a subtle flick of your hair, you play off the flinch as you step through the extensive foyer; slipping past other well-dressed individuals to make it to the ballroom, “Tch, naughty, naughty.”

“You’d be surprised,” You mutter and send a polite smile to a man who ogles your form, his eyes boring into your flesh, “How fast people can look over an invitation if you give them an incentive. Simon’s forger misspelled the street name.”

“Bloody fucken’ bastard,” Ghost growls lowly under the line. 

“So vulgar, Simon,” You smirk, waltzing into the marble-floored ballroom and clearing yourself a path with wide eyes and stares, “We’re at a party. Aren’t you excited?”

“You’re not the one holding a damn plate of champagne, Little Lion. Feelin’ like I might bash someone over the head if they wave me over with a fucken’ finger again. Like I’m some damn mutt.”

Stifling a deep laugh, your fingers splay over your lips, “Easy, boy. Don’t go barking up the wrong tree.”

All you hear in return is a grumble and a muffled giggle from Soap. Gaz is most likely scrambling to get his tux on and tie a bowtie like how you taught him on the far street corner back in the city. Slowly, but surely, it was coming together. 

Soon, You tell yourself and imagine a steady hand splayed over your back; digging into your skin.

“Excuse me?” A presence slips up to your left, and you turn with a slow head and an even slower smile. Already, your cheeks were hurting from the constant fake expression.

“Oh, hello, Love,” It’s a man who wears an all-black outfit, fitted with silver buttons and a red pocket square, “How can I help you?”

“That’s one of the target’s guards,” Soap slithers out over the line, “Saw ‘em scheming not five minutes ago near the snack bar.” 

“I was wondering if such a beautiful woman might not humor me. I’m in desperate need of company for the auction later this evening.” Your smile turns deadly, a glint forming in your eye that should have deterred anyone who saw it – but sometimes people overlook the snake in the grass if it’s pretty, regardless of its fangs. 

Getting close to this man got you close to Aarre. Your hand reaches up to caress the wedding ring on its chain.

“Well, how could I say no to such a dashing man? But you must tell me, where did you purchase your tux? My brother has been looking for one that looks the same; you understand, of course, the kind that hugs the body just right…”

—

“You’re a fucken’ minx, you are,” John moans under you, hips sputtering and jaw clenched. He’s panting as you finally slip off of him, choosing to collapse to the bed just by his side with a breathy sigh. Your legs are still shaking, but the deep-rooted ache of pleasure takes hold in your lower body nonetheless.

Chuckling while sucking down breaths, you smirk and turn your head to the side, finding deep blue already digging into your skin despite the glaze over the orbs. Perspiration leaks down his flushed forehead, getting caught in the hairs of his eyebrow before you reach up, and flick it away with a firm finger.

“And you’re a lousy bottom, Captain, how many times did I have to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?” You ask, eyeing the way the brown strands of John’s hair stick up at odd angles with growing amusement. He looked like a porcupine, “You don’t listen very well. I’ll have to fix that.”

“Damn woman,” He groans, turning his head away with a huff escaping his lips. Your ears twitch when he cracks his neck, stifling a chortle behind your fingers as he levels you with an unamused look, “Need to figure out a way to tire you out quicker. Gettin’ too old for this.”

“Hm,” Rolling your eyes, you shift till you’re laying on your stomach, legs sliding over the ruffled sheets, “I like you like this. Just perfect.”

“Yeah? Tell that to my hips, Love.” Now that really gets a laugh out of you, hiding your face down in the covers for a moment and feeling John’s eyes lovingly gracing down the curve of your spine.

Reaching over, your fingers grab onto the bare skin of his toned thigh and pinch.

Grunting in surprise, the Captain’s hand snaps to your wrist and grasps it as your giggles fill the air with softness. You turn your head up and rest your chin on your free hand, looking over and letting your eyes wash down John’s physique; a primal sense of possessiveness leaks into you when you know no one else gets to see him like this. The nail marks track down his pecks, over his abs and deliciously lower atop his navel, and over his neck and collarbone is the fresh array of black and blue hickeys. Just like you, his heart was still racing, seen moving under the skin.

He looked positively, beautifully, wrecked. The Captain’s eyes never left yours, side-eyeing you with a half-open mouth. A small sigh leaves his red lips.

“C’mere,” John mutters, and you squeak when his grip is suddenly pulling you right up next to his chest so that you were more than half lying on top of him. 

Moaning out in contentment when you feel his heat leak into you, your body goes limp against the man; leg thrown over his upper thigh. Eyelashes flutter over your cheek when his large hand keeps you against him, settling on your ass heavily. He squeezes gently in payback for the pinch, and you smile, knowing he can feel it against his chest by the way he purrs like a cat as you press a kiss to his sweat-slick flesh.

The moment of content silence leads long, but just when your eyelids are nearing their final shut is when you hear it, muttered on teeth-bitten lips for the first time, though it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Love you, my Sweet Girl,” John mutters deeply into the air, but you’re already drowned in sleep, satisfied and more at ease than ever before.  

But no matter, he’d just tell you again in the morning; make you say the same as he gripped your hips and used his tongue for more…carnal types of confessions. 

You had no idea at that moment, but two years from that day, you’d both be married. Husband and wife in every sense – bonded and promised to each other until the sun and moon collided; till every city burned and only dust remained. 

There was really no other pair so carefully crafted than the two of you. 

—

“Here you are, Lovely,” The guard, whose name is Mikael, hands you a champagne glass as you both stride forward to the bidding room. It had been two hours of entertaining this man – dancing, flirting, brushing off compliments that made you want to hurl – but none of that mattered. No matter the cost, you would see this done with a smile and a knife through Virtanen’s eye.

“Thank you,” You sing, toasting with him and taking a slow sip. The liquid sits bitterly in your stomach, a rock that bounces around with every clipped step. 

Choosing back-row seats, you sit in what could be described as a theater of sorts and place the glass on the floor. There was a large stage at the front, with rows upon rows of plush chairs.

How many people are here to buy smuggled contraband? You can’t help but wonder silently, eyes wide as more and more people flood through the doors.

“Do you usually get so many buyers?” Asking Mikael sweetly, you keep your gaze moving, filing every face into the back of your mind for later. 

His hand moves to rest on the back of your seat, and you have to hold back a grimace, “This is more than the last times, but, uh…well,” Sensing hesitation, you shift closer and peer up into his eyes, blinking innocently and smiling.

“Well…what?” 

You swore you heard Soap gag over the line and soon after a sharp shushing sound. At your side, Mikael’s expression gets giddy, pupils dilating as his vision darts down to your dress before righting itself. 

“My boss has got something good tonight – a new piece of merchandise that everyone wants to get their hands on. Apparently, some people here have been waiting for a score like this for years.”

“Oh?” Wondering aloud, you lean back out of Mikael’s hold with a furrowed brow and ignore his light huff of annoyance in your ear. 

Narrowing your eyes, you scrunch your nose at the thought.

‘New piece of merchandise?’ What the hell could that mean? The target mostly specializes in weapons – certain ones that are manufactured so that they can’t be traced…what could be so new?

“It’s starting, here,” The guard whispers as the lights dim, and hands you a golden-colored bid paddle designed with lace-like designs. You twirl it in your hands with an unimpressed look.

“How pompous can this guy get?” You mutter under your breath and startle when Ghost’s voice pipes up.

“Get me a new G18, yeah? Johnny lost my last one.” Resisting the sudden urge to cover up your face and hide your smile, you lightly hum in the back of your throat.

“I did not!” Soap starts a ruckus as the Auctioneer comes onto the stage, and you ignore the fast man’s voice as he begins a bid for a stack of RPGs – wheeled out in a crate by three other individuals in animal masks – in favor of the amusing argument, “I told ya’ where you could blood find it.”

“It was in the middle of an active war zone, MacTavish.”

“You’ve never complained about it before, ya’ bawbag. Canny be my fault if you don’t go an’ get it.” The Scots accent gets more prominent as the Auctioneer sells the current merchandise to a couple sitting two rows down, “‘I lost it’...utter shite.”

Gaz groans and you see a shadow near the door, leaning on the wood from the corner of your eye. The badly presented bowtie gives away who it is – you’d have to have John teach him how to do it properly when you got him back.

“Would the two of you shut up? Bloody hell, I’m about to scream.” 

The bickering went on for a while, making your tight chest just a little looser. John would be proud of them. 

“Finally,” The Auctioneer calls out, yelling over the crowd, “The grand attraction for tonight – a product put forward by our esteemed host Mr. Virtanen!” 

Your body straightens, spine tensing, as Mikael tries to get your attention fruitlessly to talk about a product he won. You ignore the guard, watching with a unique type of hatred as the weasel of a man swishes his way on stage from behind the red curtain. Immediately all conversation in your ear is halted, and try as you might, a growl builds in your throat.

“Easy, Lion,” Simon mutters, but all you see is red; red around an expensive tux and a lithe form of the man who had stolen away your husband from you without thinking of the consequences. The bandages over his nose gives you cruel satisfaction that someone, whoever they were, had gotten a hit in.

You had half the mind to tell Soap to take the shot but knew that if you did, John would be lost forever. Your Captain had always said violence and timing were the most important aspects of a mission – you had to politely disagree. 

Ops could be accomplished without violence, though it was rare, it could still happen on occasion and timing was all relative. One person could say it was time to act while a million others disagreed; this was shown in your case. You wanted to rush the stage, tackle the thief, and beat his head in – Gaz, Soap, and Ghost would all disagree, of course, but that was because you were thinking only about John and nothing else. 

What really mattered was cunning and drive. You had the silver tongue, and you, without a doubt, had the drive to see this through. 

But nothing could have prepared you for what came next. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aarre Virtanen called out, his thin face ugly and punchable, “May I present the star of tonight's bidding wars – an esteemed and highly sought-after mystery man! Captain Jonathan Price!” 

The curtain rolled back, and, tied to a chair with a light shining above his head, was John. Beaten. Bloodied. Barely recognizable besides the tufts of his brown locks and the glittering of golden metal under the ragged remains of his clothes. You can see his wedding band around his neck, and you go to grip your own in a flashing second. There was so much blood. Your heart ceased working, body suddenly very numb and stone-still despite the heat in it, as if you had been shot in the throat and all you could do was gasp out in panic. And gasp you did. It was involuntary, instinctual, like you could feel every ounce of pain and agony that he was undoubtedly in deep in your own marrow. 

What?! 

A loud, horrified, sound rips from your throat; the air was hard to suck down as your hand snapped to your mouth, muffling the exclamation of terror. Your eyes are so wide you’re afraid they’ll pop out of their sockets as you lightly hunch into yourself like a bug.

“Now, now!” Aarre Virtanen continues over the muttering of the crowd, oblivious to your panic in the back row. Mikael is giving you strange looks, lightly pulling away from you in confusion at your reaction; you don't register any of it, “I know what you’re thinking, my lovely patrons, but I can say without a doubt that this man–” He points to the limp figure, “Is the one and only Johnathan Price! Do you want to know why?” The crowd cheers, and in that instant you want to torch the entire building and laugh as it burns to the ground, “Because he and his precious 141 tried to attack me on my own property! The idiot’s explosive went off before they could run!”

Over the ruckus of gleeful laughter, Soap on the line is hissing curses under his breath, voice heated and full of hatred. 

What I’m I supposed to do? Your mind’s running. For the first time in your career, you can’t focus clearly. Gaz is saying something in your ear, his shadow slinking closer step-by-step, and Ghost is nowhere to be seen or heard. 

Oh, John, You feel like crying, eyes running from one injury to another as if he were just a punching bag – his body was broken, but still, you knew he hadn’t given anything away. In the chair, you can see the small inhalations of his lungs, jumpy and shaking, but he was still breathing.

“How did they figure out his name?” Simon grunts over the line, and his tone is the only one unaffected by emotion, even if you could feel the anger wafting out and mirroring your own. 

His dog tags, You want to tell them, He keeps them in his vest pocket because he said he wanted to wear his wedding band instead. 

Your hand tightens over your matching piece, one half of a promise to protect one another even in the direst of circumstances. 

Freezing, you snap back into focus as the bidding starts with Aarre Virtanen laughing and clapping on stage like some demented jester. So be it. Your mind halts and a rage-induced calm encompasses you as your eyes stick like glue to John. Tossing the joke of a bid paddle at a startled Mikael’s lap and slipping past him, your heels connect with the floor with muffled thumps, carrying you down the middle of the aisle. 

“Ma’am–!”

“Lion, what in the bloody hell are you doing?!”

“Playing the game,” You growl over the chaos in the comm, “Gaz, find a way to get on stage from behind one of the curtains,” People are starting to turn and look at you now, accusing glances that bounce off you like flies, “Soap, have a line of sight of the target – do not let him stray from it no matter what. And Ghost,” Your heart is speeding when Virtanen’s gaze snaps to yours, expression blanking. John groans weakly from where his head is downturned, and you can’t help but take a shaky breath at the sound, “Go find out where they store the sold items. Find something that’ll come in handy. Take out anyone you need, I give full Execute Authority.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” They all say it at once, and the line goes silent not a second after, flipped off so everyone can remain focused. Steeling your body, you put on a cloak of indifference, even as your eyes bug and sweat stains your palms – the stakes had never been this high, and if you messed this up…

The both of you would be going home in body bags. 

If I had known he was going to be here, I would have come more prepared. A knife in a carry bag or a hairpin – Something. But John had stated before that he loved you for your intuition. 

You simply needed to move your pawn piece and hope it wasn’t in the way of a bishop.

Sliding over your husband's slumped body once more, you have to rip your gaze away, else your cover be blown and everything falls apart before it’s begun as a sting forms in the back of your nose.

Just a little longer, Love, just hold out a little bit longer.

The Auctioneer halts when you stand just below the slightly higher plateau of the platform, and Aarre digs into your body with his dead face, body bent to stare down at you. All around you, the world is deathly quiet. A minute…two…

“And who might this be?” Virtanen spits, lips pulling into a sneer as his eyes crinkle, “I don’t have to tell you, Dear, that all purchases are final.”

Don’t look at John. Don’t look at him. 

“You said this is Johnathan Price?” Your voice carries; it's stronger than you would have imagined, even as your legs shake, “Well, I don’t believe you.” You swore then that your Captain’s head moved slightly, his face turning to the side, but you can’t be sure. 

Gasps are hidden behind hands and handkerchiefs.

“...What?” The smug look on the man's face falls in an instant, just as you had hoped it would – Virtanen relied on his power; ego, and unquestioned superiority. What you had to do first was break it down to a point where he was frothing at the mouth, “What is it that you are implying? That I would…lie to my loyal customers?!”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Your feet carry you away to the stairs, scaling them up to the stage and shoving past shell-shocked guards who didn’t know what to do, “Where’s the proof, Mr. Virtanen? I believe I would like to see it before I make any definitive financial choices. You could be selling us any stray British man you found on the street and we’d be none the wiser for it.”

There was a pause before a murmur of agreement from the crowd. 

Aarre gapes at you, mouth opening and closing as his face gains a red sheen, blood rushing to his head and making his eyes rapidly flutter from the guests to you. Swallowing down saliva, you saunter up to John, fingers shaking as they reach out to brush his arm. You nearly break when his flesh flinches and becomes tense, muscles writhing as you hook a finger under his chin all too aware of the eyes on you from every angle. It helps that one of them is Soap, though.

Looping the digit under him, John’s beard scratches your skin just like it always did when you ran your hands over his cheeks or around his square face. Moving his head up, your grip vibrates with anxiety when you’re finally able to take a full look at his visage. 

Please be okay, Love.

You can’t help the widening of your eyes when they lock on the bruises, the cuts, and scratches littering his large nose and forehead. His eyelids flutter over sunken cheeks, bags of severe color under his orbs as a rumble echoes in his battered chest.

Did they even feed him?

“I don’t – I don’t like what you’re implying, Miss!” The Target continues to prattle, but already your shoulders have squared, “I would never, in a million years, make such false claims–!”

When John’s eyes shutter open you seem to forget where you are entirely, head completely going silent off all fears or concerns. As the lids slide back, you notice one optic is bathed in red – the veins in the gentle sensory organ having been popped by relentless fists…but the other, oh, oh, the other. A shade so familiar it twists your lips and makes your heart clench. Storm gray; ocean blue, flecks of moonlight trapped just for you. 

John’s focus is blurry, his mind confused and in need of a dark room with a glass of chilled whiskey to put on his forehead, but...that finger under his chin. His gaze narrows, lips pulling tight under his beard hairs as a shadow stands in front of him. Why did it feel so familiar? So…warm? 

“John?” A soft voice graces his ears, leaving them twitching as his arms burn more than a thousand suns, “John, please, look at me.” 

His face scrunches, eyebrows turning in. Blinking, the man only succeeds for a few moments, consciousness so rapidly fading because of the wear on his body, but a few moments was all he needed. 

It was you – looking at him with terrified eyes, mouth slightly parted in awe. John’s heart skips beats. 

She’s here? He questions, weakly moving his arms to try and embrace her before the rope stops his bloodied and shredded hands, Why? How? And…oh hell, is that a dress?

Blinking at the navy gown, his eyes widened at the heavenly sight in front of him. Was he dead? No, he realized, you wouldn’t be here if he was. But that was the only option to see something like this in front of him when he was where he currently was. 

“L-love?” He gasps out, letting his full weight fall into your hold. 

Your hand brushes over his beard, tangling in the bristles and flinching at the open wounds that you find. 

“It’s me,” You whimper, “I’m right here.” 

If possible, he gravitates toward you even more.

“--Are you even listening?!” Aarre Virtanen yells, and people are standing from their seats out in the crowd, calling out in confusion. 

John murmurs out comments from under your grip, but they’re so weak you can’t make them out as he nuzzles your limb. From the corner of your eye, a figure rustles one of the stage curtains, held back in the shadows.

“I’m here,” Gaz says a second before Simon does.

“I found something that might come in handy...When I throw it, get Price out of there and take cover.”

“Soap?” You ask, voice low and gaining a sheen of ice. Slowly, your head tilts to the side, gripping your husband by the back of the head and drawing him to your stomach, caressing his scalp through his hair as he sighs into your dress.

“Yes, Ma’am?” 

“Take it.”

“...With pleasure.” The ear-ringing shot fires off, breaking glass and rustling half-drawn curtains, but it meets its mark with expert precision. 

Aarre Virtanen’s head pops like a balloon, and a moment later a smoke bomb is being chucked from halfway across the room by a Jackal-masked waiter with a strong arm. Before the guards can even get to their pistols around their thighs, Gaz has rushed through the smoke and sliced John’s bonds with a serrated cake knife. Both of you grab your Captain by one of his arms and drag him off to the side, disappearing just as the first screams wail out. 

The 141 works like a well-oiled machine, and not five minutes later everyone is in the limo that Gaz had re-driven and parked down the dark roads of Poland, rushing off as you press table cloths against your husband’s leaking cuts. Tears dribble down your cheeks, with large hiccuped gasps as you lean over John – who could only barely keep his eyes open to look at you as Soap and Ghost watch anxiously from their seats. 

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack, y’know that,” You sob out, practically sitting on top of him to stop the crimson leaking over the cushions, “I need to keep a bell on you, my Love.”

Your wedding band sways just above his face, and his own glints below you, bunched on his collarbone.

“Go on,” He says in a low voice, eyes incredibly soft but still distant in a way that told you he was concussed. It was a miracle he was even conscious if you could admit it to yourself.

The man’s shaking hand travels to your cheek, brushing away tear tracks only to leave blood stains behind instead. He pulls away slightly, staring at the mark in disgust as his complexion gets even paler. Snapping your grip up, you bring it back, making him cup your flesh in his big hands and splay his fingers over your ear and weave into your hair. 

John hums under his breath, “Beautiful.”

Then he goes limp, and you start screaming.

—

Stripping your face of makeup, you step into the shower with only your necklace on, letting the water slap against your head as you take a deep breath in. You lean forward, letting your head connect with the porcelain of the hospital’s washroom as your body begins to shake – finally allowed to fall apart and feel the genuine horror that had lived in you for a week straight.

John was just a door away in the hard bed of some random hospital Gaz had driven to. Quite recklessly, you should mention, but it’s not like it mattered. 

Ghost was on the phone with Laswell, getting a protection detail in case anyone attempted to break into the room and stab someone with a scalpel, while Gaz and Soap also got ready for sleep. No one was leaving the hospital tonight. Garrick had explained the situation in broken Polish to the local authorities, and the staff was kind enough to give out a free office room with pillows and blankets. It was a good thing that the room was connected to John’s, otherwise, you might have refused…even if the bags under your eyes threatened to block your line of sight.

Wiping blood and grime from your body, you take less time than you should have in the shower – too occupied with being by your husband's bedside. The new stitches on your recently ripped-open thigh wound were red with irritation, but you had all but forgotten about it entirely. 

They had only just gotten John stable an hour ago. 

“They, uh,” Gaz’s eyelids crease, “I think they said that they had to re-” He halts, face going slack, and sending you a slow look, “restart his heart.”

“They nearly beat him to death,” You whisper, hands coming up to weave over the top of your head as you sob into the wall, “They…God, John. I was nearly too late.” 

Your words trail off in a weak whimper, muffled over the sound of water and the whirring fan in the ceiling. What if you had been five minutes late? Three? Would he have…

Would he have died in your arms?

You spend the rest of the shower wondering, and as you dry yourself off and slip into sweats and a hoodie from the gift shop, your tears splatter the floor. Rubbing your nose, you sniffle; reaching to grab the ring and pull the chain out above the fabric. Your fingers caress the item for a minute or two, and your eyes flutter shut. 

He’s okay, You tell yourself, He’s just a door away. He’s alive.

You open the door and let the steam waft, itching at your neck before you take a steadying breath. John lays still on the hospital bed, body hooked to machines that display screens and vital signs with glitching green lights that pierce your eyes as if a mocking little beast was behind the glass. 

Your husband’s wounds are all stitched and glued back together; wrapped tightly and tucked in by your gentle hands with an extra blanket. He usually complained about how cold it was back at your shared flat in London and around the multiple bases the Force traveled to…you would hate for him to shiver here. 

It was the least you could do.

Drawing your eyebrows in, the red ring around your eyes doesn’t help the sting, but still, you gaze at your husband with all the tender concern in the world. 

If was determined, then, that you wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was awake; until you saw his eyes soften on your figure. Until he was tracing the very makeup of your genetics like no other being could even have a glimpse of you in their features – like the aspects of your form were holy and utterly unique, never seen besides out of legend and fable. You longed to bathe his flesh in the feeling of your touch. If you believed it hard enough, you could convince yourself that you could make him forget this ordeal, forget the wounds. 

But you were no fool. A cunning nuisance, perhaps, but not a fool. 

All you could do was wait for him to wake up, and so your socked feet carry over the tile and bring you to the chairs beside the bed, grabbing one and pulling it out. Your fingers intertwined with his, weaving the calloused pads and scared flesh that mirrored your own like an echo of history together. 

Bringing his limb to your face, you rest your forehead on it, feeling the pump of his blood like a hymn and letting it calm you. A presence in the room makes your once closed eye crack open, slipping to the side. You had only just noticed him.

I really must be tired.

“Doctors say he’s stable,” Gaz mutters lowly, leaning against the wall in the far corner. It was like he had known you wanted someone to watch John while you couldn’t – even if only for a few minutes, “They came in while you were showering” 

Your lungs inflate, “...Thank you, Kyle.” 

You feel his eyes on you, but as you lay a gentle kiss on your husband's knuckles he speaks once more.

“You sure you don’t want to get some rest, Love? It’s late, y’know – sun’s gonna come up in a few hours around here.” It was a nice concern, and you knew that after Ghost’s call with Laswell that he’d get some sleep as well; Johnny was already snoring away, the sound nearly heard through the walls. 

Gaz, well…

“And am I to expect my Sergeant to get some rest if I do that?” Your voice is hoarse and weighed down, but the message is clear. The man lets out a chuckle, pushing off the wall and coming over to you. He rests a hand on your shoulder and you lean into it.

“I have no problem watching over him for you – he’s my Captain too, Lion. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you have to carry the burden more than the rest of us.”

If you could have rolled your eyes, you would have. A teasing tone sneaks into your words as you snort.

“Gaz, and I mean this in the best possible way,” Your lips utter out, still gazing at John’s face as it scrunches and twitches in his sleep, “Respectfully, fuck off, yeah?”

A moment of silence passes before a thick laugh echoes out over the room.

“You act a lot like Cap. when he’s out of commission, Ma’am.”

“Of course I do,” Your grip travels up John’s arm, tracing old blemishes and kissing across bruises, “If he brings all the hard-headedness away with him, none of you lot would get anything done.”

An easy air keeps the both of you in a tight embrace and Garrick’s hand squeezes for a moment; a piece of you breaks open as your gaze slips to the floor.

“I’ll take the night shift. Please, I…,” Your voice borders on unheard, “I can’t sleep until he’s awake.”

He sighs but nods his head.

“Say no more. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you just come get me, yeah? Don’t worry if you have to be loud – been trying to get used to waking up abruptly anyways.” His hand disappears, and you huff.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. You better.” Gaz’s feet carry him away and through the side door, slipping into the office. A rustling of thin cotton is heard a moment later before the door completely closes on its own. 

You stay in that chair for another hour and a half before John moves an inch. When you feel his finger twitch you jerk up, drool falling from your chin to the sheets before you wipe it off.

“John?” Breathing out a gasp, you shake your head to focus better, and pause when his hold on your hand suddenly gains strength. Your heart soars.

“...Love,” He grunts out, face scrunched, and tense. 

At that moment you swear your body loses all weight, and you pull the chair closer as you wetly speak.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m right here. D-don’t move too much, just let the painkillers work.”

“Bloody things make my damn head lose,” He groans, head falling to the side on the pillow as his eyes flutter open. 

You place his knuckles to your lips to hide the shuttered breath you take when you see his eyes – even if one was still red. It was still your John. 

He looks at you for a moment, eyes glazed, with his jaw clenching and unclenching to gain bearing. The covers hide his chest, but you hear the way he breathes as his messed-up bedhead leaves you chuckling. But the longer you were chuckling, the more you wanted to cry, and soon nothing could stop the swell of vile sobs falling from your mouth. 

“Oh,” John whispers out, voice weak as his digits twitch under your shaking lips, “C’mere, Love. None of that, now.” 

Your body falls forward, and the man hides the grunt in his chest when you unintentionally hit his ribs as you burrow closer into his side. He doesn’t mind. John’s hand goes to the back of your head, weaving through the strands as the covers catch your tears – he’s looking down at you with such blatant worry it hurts. 

He shouldn’t be worried about me, look what happened. He’s in the fucking hospital.

“Y-You,” You’re gasping for breath, chest tight and vibrating. ‘Take a breath’ it tries to tell you, but getting the words out was more important. John’s hand gets tighter, and he longs to kiss your forehead, “I didn’t know if you were dead, a-and then when they had you on stage I was trying so hard to keep it together, John. But…but then you were bleeding all over the car and I was screaming at you too–”

“Breathe,” Your husband pleads, authority leaking into the comment, “Please, Dear, take a breath for me, Yeah? I’m right here.” 

You weep but do as he says, feeling the muscles under your grip move as he shifts his weight. Taking a deep breath, your nose is shoved into the fabric of the blankets, inhaling John’s scent and letting it encompass you entirely. 

He was there. He was right there. 

Letting out one last whine, your Captain prompts you to lift your head with a muted brush of his finger over your scalp. Pulling yourself up, you scrunch the bedding in your hands around John’s waist, practically leaning all the way over him. It was a good thing the bed wasn’t too high. 

He smiles softly down at you, his grip moving to slip past your eyebrow and swipe away the salty water that itches your chin, “There she is. My beautiful wife”

Your watery chuckle wraps him in more warmth than any blanket ever could. 

“Do you need anything?” You mutter after a minute of staring into each other’s eyes, head tilting to the side as your heart rate finally slows to a pace that copies John’s. 

One of your hands goes to smooth his hair, carefully flattening down the patches and being mindful of the bandages and band aids over his visage. You swear he purrs at you, body rumbling under your chest.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead focusing on mapping out your face – as if for the first time. But when he does speak he brushes off the question entirely.

“I had a dream.”

“A good one?” You ask immediately, voice equally as low and vulnerable as his. In his orbs, you see stars blinking with every movement, deep hues of blue in every shade.

“Hm,” He affirms, a slow smile blossoming on his lips, “You were there.”

“That, my love, could mean many things.”

“No. Only one, Mrs. Price,” Your eyebrows raise, eyes watering as rogue drops tracks fall down your cheeks once more. 

It was all so much. Getting him back; seeing him like this, having him talk to you like that again – with all the love in the world. He was beaten, but alive, and already awake beside the gargantuan odds.

But you didn’t marry him just because you thought he was buff and could give you a good time. You married him because he was John, and no one else could be.

John’s gaze washes over you, narrowed in that expression he always had on his face when he’s thinking. When he’s studying you with more care than anyone has in your entire life. Like he could figure out everything and anything about you in the way your lips curved, or how you looked at him so delicately as if he was made of glass and not stone or metal. 

He could never understand how you loved him so much, how every bit of stardust was reflected into your body and leaked out of you whenever you moved. 

How he managed to get you by his side…well, he’d never know. But the feeling was mutual.

“Oh,” Your thumb caresses his cheek, running over the bristles and skimming over the skin, “And what’s that, Mr. Price?”

“..Means I’ve been blessed to see you not only when I open my eyes…but when I close ‘em too.”

In Poland, two people are finally able to press their lips together for the first time in a long while; they themselves would say it felt like ages. That was expected, naturally, because a match such as the one made between you and Jonathan Price was forged with steel and tempered in rough waters. Nothing could break it.

Their wedding bands clink together as they pull back, glinting gold more vibrant than the sun…but not quite as warm or adoring as the looks in their eyes.

TAGLIST SIGN-UP || Here

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @antigonusyuki, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @lora21, @330bpm-whiplash, @michirulol, @john-pricee, @cl0wncxre, @jade-jax, @anna-banana27, @lothiriel9, @halfmoth-halfman​

[rzyraffek]

Yall im bored and i have dol brainrot. Here u go random mostly sfw headcanons. Most of them are just jokes btw don't take this seriously. Beware i am not dol master so If something is inaccurate pls dont crucify me. Request open btw

Includes: what kind of music they lisen, random stuff they do, ect.

I used they/them for both PC and love intrests so some of those sentences were a hell to write

Tw: me going crazy over Avery (i have issues, pls if what I wrote was weird, just close your eyes and idk explode irl idc)

Random DOL headcanons

Kylar

IM FUCKING CONVINCED that this owl plushy that they give to PC has a camera inside. Im not sure if thats mensioned in game AND I didnt see anyone talk about this. But this dude litteraly says "make sure to put it somewhere high so it can protect you/watch you over" (im not 100% sure what they said but it was along those lines)

Wants to have matching black nails with PC

If their heart wouldnt beat so fast everytime PC gets close to them, Kylar acually would OFTEN fall asleep on PC's lap or shoulder (especially in school)

If s/o is afab, Kylar is defnitly into period sex

Had a huge zombie phase and has whole plan (in details) about how and what to do in case of zombie apocalypse acually happening (and they would acually lighten up if PC mensions anything about zombies, Kylar will talk about them whole night!)

Average phonk listener

Sidney

Sometimes wakes up in middle of night after nighmares and wishes PC would be there

High purity sindey will nervously figet with cross-neckace everytime they have lewd thoughts about PC

Overthinker

Sometimes when they pray together he pretends to have eyes closed but they acually look at PC cuz omg love, you look stunning

Watched Barbie with PC (liked it very much)

Lisens to Mitski

Pure Sydney cried after lisening to cupcake songs

Great Hawk

Dude is a simp

Loves when PC has flowers in their hair, and please give them some too!

If PC praises hawk when they give PC expensive objects (jewellery, wallets, purses ect) this harpy guy/gal will call them "little crow"😭 cuz from Hawks perspective thats how it looked like- they find wife, wife sad, they give shiny, wife happy.

(Alr guys this one is a 50/50 cuz im not sure if harpys have hands? Or just wings?) He discovered hand holding and now he wants to hold PC hand all the time!! But his claws sharp so be careful

Likes when PC has colorful hair

Sounds of Forest and other birds (and bird-people) are only sounds he music he needs 🦅

Got scared bcs there was a rock/metal music concert in city and it was loud and he was very upset

Eden

Dude wants to have kids so bad😭😭

Very tall!

If Pc is tiny/short, this guy/gal will pick them up with one hand and just carry PC back to their home

PLEASE kiss their old scars, and complement them! Eden doesnt really like how they look (they are not insecure but they just dont find time to pamper themselfs and look all fancy)

Sometimes wakes up in middle of night with cold sweat and checks if PC is still there

Conteplated if plant people are eatable

Hates deep water

Will say "I dont lisen to music" and then gets judged by PC and me. ( he enjoys some romantic old songs, i guess he likes Micheal Jackson? Maybe the ink spots??Idk)

Avery

Dude just wants to have good reputation😭😭 and nice looking PC

Tbh I would enjoy Avery-dad-figure content😭 like PC just doing all this stuff just to be accepted by some guy that could be their dad😭 their are fatherless afterall😭. Like hear me out PC just craving platonic love from this dude while he just wants to smash😓 (tbh he is not always doing sexuall stuff, sometimes he just vibes)

Pls dude is like 40 wtf is he doing with his life

*in car* "I swear PC if you say anything more about kpop im leaving you in forest"

Lisens to chrismas music😭

Ivory

Dude ate a squirrel once

I wanna cuddle them

Pls they look wet and cold, give them a nice towel and later blanket

Definitely got scared by their own reflection in mirror once

Can talk to animals

Lisens to gothic music

Likes bugs (months, Beatles, bees)

Alex

Dude lisens to Pitbull while working at farm

Picks PC up and throws them on hay piles for fun

Alex and Remy should settle this beef for good, they both should do kahoot about farm animal knowlage and no more "no its my farm not yours!" Bullshit

Watches soap opera when bored

Wears cowboys hats

Ginger

Leninghton

Rizzing up people twice younger than him (hes like 40 or something)

Enjoys board games and omg he loves card games

Hes probably married tbh

Has reddit account😔

The photos he takes in classes? He sells them

He and Bailey should kiss in meat grinder for beating PC ass for no reason🤩😍

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Thoughts on yan!assassin with unbothered reader(g/n or fem idc). Where reader accidentally discovers his identity and he's like "you better read your prayers because you gonna die now" and reader is looking him right in the eyes with a bored/unfazed gaze which baffles him for a moment but then reader says something like "you doing it or nah? I'm getting late for work". Then poof he interested now!

Yandere! Boyfriend! Assassin! x gn! Nonchalant! Conglomerate Heir! Reader

I raise you this plot anon! Established relationship but yandere is of course, an assassin to kill you~!

Yan Assassin name: Azrael

TW: Child abuse, Religious misusage

He who is raised in a convent, with a father who despises his presence as he reminds him of a sin he can't go back, which is having an intimate relationship with a prostitute, creating Azrael.

His father, the head priest, hates his existense.

He will always repeat that again and again, while punishing him.

This let Azrael's mind get so twisted.

Why does a man who preach about love, prosperity, and peace, was relishing in whipping his own son?

Hypocrites. That's what they are.

Then and there, Azrael knew he had to stand on his own two feet. He fought tooth and nail in that damn convent that resembled hell more than the safe haven his father and his parish claims.

Then one day, in a particular bad stormy night, his father was doing his usual sermons to Azrael. Verse upon verse, he misused the quotes and used them to inflict punishment on Azrael, saying he's a child of sin, and should be eradicated.

It was going smoothly, until the words came out of his father's mouth.

"Tell your prayers, for you will be lifted up to heaven afterwards."

Azrael looked up, and saw the head priest holding a candelabra up his head and about to strike down. His face resembling the demons in his nightmare.

Azrael shook, and knew he had to stop this.

That night, Azrael took off, the rain washing away his blood and sins. The headpriest's corpse displayed in front of the altar, the candlabra shoved down his throat.

Azrael had his first kill that night, but it won't be the last.

Azrael forgot how he got into the organization, all he remembered was the brutal regime of being trained like bloodless robots. It was a dog eats dog world.

With the proper nurturing, he became the top assassin the organization has to offer.

The success ratio of his missions is at almost one to zero, saying that he always succeeds.

So the organization gave him a task. To gather information about the Billionaire, Mammon, and kill his child, his heir, Y/N, to trigger a full on hysteria.

Azrael agreed, and sought you.

At first, he only approached you for the mission, flirting and scheming, making you fall for him, "loving" you, confessing to you, becoming your boyfriend. It was going smoothly.

You let him in your heart and your circle. Freely asking him to come home to your mansion.

Azrael smirked. You were too trusting.

He snooped around the mansion, finding useful information that the organization can use or sell, finding every single dirt on Mammon, and of course, Y/N.

And, with his mission done, he grabbed his weapon, and went to your bedroom.

Azrael creeped in, slowly walking to your bed as you slept. You were only wearing a lace robe that draped over your body carelessly. Showing off skin that even made the cold blooded assassin blush.

Azrael cleared his throat quietly and climbed on top of you, his eyes darting at the humidifier with an essential oil that will induce deep sleep that he gave to you as a gift.

So that you won't wake up when he kills you.

Yet, when he raised his arm to stab, your eyes dart open and blinked.

Azrael froze.

You both stared at each other for a while before he laughed. A deep rumble on his chest.

"Unbelievable." *He muttered.* "The oil didn't work?!"

You only stared at him with curiosity. Not even a sliver of hostility there.

"I can't let my pristine record die." Azrael glowered before pressing the knife cold against your neck.

You asked him what he's doing. And Azrael laughed.

"I'm an assassin sent by an organization you don't need to know about. I have gathered useful data, and now, for my final mission, I will kill you silently." *Azrael ranted.* "And yet, you woke up... I'm sorry, angel. But you got to go."

"Say your prayers before I send you to... God..."

Azrael blinked.

Why do you look... Deadpan? Bored? Nonchalant?

He trembled.

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you done? Make it quick. I still have my recital first thing in the morning."

Silence was all he gave out before his whole body shook with laughter.

Interesting.

"Alright, you win, angel. I'll see you tomorrow at your recital." With that, Azrael left your room in a blink, making you question if that really happened or not.

But all Azrael could feel was his fast beating heart and your bored, clear, and serene eyes boring into him.

He wanted more of it.

He needed more of it.

Desperately.

Muffled screams of pain and agony echoed through the tiny balcony in the church as you played your piano, playing Vingt Regards sur l'Enfant Jesus by Messiaen, hauntingly difficult to play and dissonant to hear. But to Azrael, it was the perfect piece to eliminate someone.

But that person wasn't just someone.

It was your father, Mammon, whom he talked to earlier, discussing on how Azrael should break up with you.

"Here's a million dollars. Break up with my child!"

"... Why would I?"

"You... You have this sinister look in your eyes! Your stare is making me shiver!"

"But i'm not directing it at you, am I?"

"Y-yes, but as a father, I can't let y--"

"Silence. You're just a pervert who preys on young women. Do not be a saint."

"What?! How did you--" "N-no! Spare my life! I'll give you everything! Money, mansions, even my child's hand in marriage! Yes! You'll have them all by yourself!"

"Tempting offer. I'll take it, especially your child. But, you preaching your fatherly love on your child, yet easily giving them away once your life is in danger is fucking disgusting."

"You know what I hate most of all? Hypocrites."

And he plunged the knife deep to Mammon's hands, with his mouth covered with a handkerchief to muffle the screams. Your father tried his hardest to scream loudly, but your performance with the piano on the altar was mesmerizing, distracting the audiences with your pristine playing.

With one last plunge, blood dripped down Azrael's knife as he raised it, done killing your father.

"Making Y/N break up with me is not the smartest move you had, Mr. Mammon." Azrael's stare bore holes on your father's corpse. "But i'll give it to ya. Making Y/N break up with me to marry her off to a rich conglomerate is a solid plan to fill up more of your coffers. Your greed knows no bounds, even family."

Azrael leaned on the railings, watching your divine figure play Regard de l'eglise d'amour, the last piece of the day.

And when the sunset rays hit the stained glass window above you, it shined, giving you an organic spotlight that took away Azrael's breath.

Your eyes found his, and saw the blood on his body. Azrael smiled and waved your father's glasses around.

And as expected, your eyes didn't have any reaction, just a blank stare and a nonchalant attitude as your fingers fly across the keys.

It made Azrael tremble in excitement.

Oh, he's going to have fun with you, trying to get a reaction out of your body.

Should he kill your mother next?

With one final stroke of the key, he whispered under his breath.

"My angel."

And just like angels, he will test your limit on how partial and nonchalant can you be with his sins until you break.

[moonlit-escape]

‧₊˚꒰♱꒱༘‧⊹ Zane Mystreet headcanons !!

i love this lil emo freak i NEED to get wine drunk n watch ponies w this guy

hetero. (comfortable with this label, but honestly his attraction isn't limited to cis women and he has even had crushes on femme men (he just wants to be the token hetero friend))

he mostly dresses casual emo, but sometimes my guy wants to rock a pair of demonias and a fishnet bodysuit with some heavy, pure silver chains and rings, alri

piercings,. piercings piercings piecings. no lips piercings... septum and eyebrow, though. and DEFINITELY gauges in his ears. and ABSOLUTELY ones with cute shapes.

if he didn't cover his mouth all the time, i think he would like wearing dark, cool colored lipsticks

and it'd be smudged all the time bc he keeps fuckin snacking on sweets

of course he paints his nails, and he treats them well bc he hates chipped nail polish (rich boy gets the highest quality, strongest clear nail protection youve never seen before in your life)

honestly all the ro'meave brothers are a bunch of gnc kings like okayyy!! pop off boys w your dresses, heels, skirts, n makeup!!

god can that boy sing

idc he listens to vocaloid and his favourites are vflower and rin kagamine

also listens to emo songs (ofc) and cartoon songs

prefers rock band over guitar hero

one time he smacked vylad in the back of the head with a rock band drumstick and he felt so bad he ran off and cried

boy is the most fuck-ugly crier

secretly steals stuff from people he cares about as keepsakes (like, little things: garroth's old gameboy, vylad's old sketchbook, aph's other half of a pair of lost earrings, nana's ribbons and pastry wrappers)

actually has pretty high metabolism, and one time he gloated abt it to aph and accidentally made a joke in poor taste, and she kicked his ass. so, he just lets her call him a lil fat boy as his eternal penance for being an asshole

okay this isn't a headcanon but sort of is but, why were him and dante like Tightrope-walking that fucking incel line as teenagers. like they were one wrong step from falling into an incel category. thank god their brothers would NOT have had that from their baby brothers anyway bc Wtf

anyway

honestly, he doesn't feel as cold toward vylad as he used to as a teen, and kind of wishes he had the strength to show that and reach out and ease the tension between them. but, he's afraid of making it worse by being awkward, so he wants to wait and hope that vylad makes the first move, if he ever does. (and if not, he'll probably ask garroth to do it for them)

has rejection sensitive dysphoria, made even worse by a rejection complex from: garte's blatant favouritism, bullying and rejection in school, and isolation as an adult. it's part of why he became so attached and possessive of aph. but, he's safer now

he was a harry potter kid. garroth was the percy jackson one, and vylad was warrior cats.

he always thought he was a slytherin but i think he's more of a hufflepuff than he realizes (nana on the other hand.)

he has a lot of sanrio merchandise. more than he will ever admit. his pony merchandise does outweigh it, though, of course

yes, his main comfort character and obsession lies with pinkie pie cake. but, the rainbow dash backpack Objectively fucks

[hisokakissmeplz]

✨Random Heacannons✨

Sorry I've been so inactive lately I am working on a one shot for Hisoka but it might be a while because I really haven't found the motivation for it yet but in the mean time here are some head cannons for the adulttrio

Illumi

Sleeps with a fan on no matter what

Cold hands always

Listens to like Paramore and Green Day

Also Hinder

All his laundry is either neatly folded or ironed and hung up

Likes awkward silences and prolonged eye contact

He thinks of it kinda like a competition like whoever stays silent the longest wins

He always wins obviously

Doesn't have a skin care routine

Probably doesn't understand why you need one

Wears rings a lot

He loves any gift you give him no matter what

Your gifts mean the world to him even if he doesn't show it he has a special place for all of them and he really does cherish them

Secretly wants you to play with his hair

Chrollo

Let's you wear his jacket

Loves candles

Specifically like Christmas-y scents

He reads romance and mystery books

He'll read anything but prefers those

He listens to The Cure

He like boys don't cry probably his favorite from them

He always makes his bed in the morning

Huge coffee drinker

He has to have it in the mornings

He has a long ass starbucks order

Probably makes you order it for him though

There's a lot of stray cats at the hideout and he tries to be them all

He likes when you sit in his lap and listen to him talk

Hisoka

I feel like he's a heavy sleeper

Like I know he's gotta be alert all the time and stuff but also idc

Would force you to cuddle with him in the morning until he's ready to get up

Likes to bake with you

He knows a few things but he prefers to be a menace and steal frosting

Sometimes he bungee gums things to the roof and waits for you to have to look for them

You always catch him looking at the roof then giggling though

Let's you paint his nails and do his make up

You guys do skincare together

He loves when you guys can be vulnerable together so it means a lot to him

Would also join you in the shower

Not necessarily for sex just to be close to you

He loves intimacy

I've said it before but big PDA

Doesn't care if people are looking

Likes to show you off to Illumi and Chrollo

[as-i-watch]

Straw Hats as Fashion Trends that makes me go insane*

*you can wear whatever want to express yourself or whatever you like idc. What i hate if when brands™ overprice shit bc is "trendy" or set stupid trends like these. Seriously, dont look up the price of some of these

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. Enjoy!

Detachable Shorts

Of course this feature was a need in the trouser world, think about the people with hot knees

I think it would be funny if Luffy wore this and undo the buckles to get into fight mode. The trouser equivalent of putting down the straps in your crocs.

Tits Out. [period]

Your arms are always cold? Hate vests? Well this is for you!

Still, i think this is so fitting for Zoro, we respect our tits out king and adds a little bit of himbo energy i appreciate.

Oda draws weird shit like this all the time

Yes this item was for sale and not on etsy. Why? beats me but here we are

I think its a nice refference to pre timeskip Nami outfits, but it actually fits into the post timeskip fanservice theme. I seriously see Nami wearing that.

Cool but why

Its a cool recycling project but im not even going to talk why brands selling these upset me.

I think i would be a fitting addition to Usopp's funky hats collection. Not only he would pull it off, he would steal the desing and make one himself like the king he is.

Pretty but WHYYY

I really like the effect and sawing this fabric is hard af but is more of a texture thing for me. Also my little practical self is screaming at this gloves but i see the aesthetic pleasing side i guess

So naturally i gave the gay gloves to Sanji. Tell you you cant picture him wearing these with his WCI white suit, come on do it, lie to me.

A classic we love to hate

Not you Chopper you are a delight. Im talking about the clear plastic backpacks. In case you missed thia trend, the issues with this are as clear as the bag itself.

So naturally, bc he always carries one, i gave the backpack to Chopper. Hope he fills it with colorful candy

I have vivid memories of this being a thing at some point

This are more of a pre timeskip item since they are from mis 2000's but yeah. They are useless, impractical and they offend me

Yet, i think Robin could've feature a look in a filler or something with these...anklets? I guess? Not the most far fetched imo

Cut and pin.

Not an issue of looks but of pricing. This are cute little tops but overpriced af, they just cut it and pin it.

Nevertheless, they scream Franky to me. They even kinda follow Franky's own stiches on his chest lmao

At a lost for words

I just dont get it. This is not a price thing, just a ok but why? thing.

If someone can do weird shit and get away with it is Brook and i love him for it. He could show up one day at Sunny wearing his coat backward and i wouldnt question it. I imagine him wearing that as a fancy look in a movie. He already wears high heels on the reg, and idk why but i know he has a pair of fishnets.

This fuck me up to this day

I dont mind the ilusion drawing idea, but seeing a whole rack of these in a sleep deprived state kinda fucks up your mind. I dont think it was a clever trend for clothes tho and im glad it died away.

I dont think Jinbe would wear the shirt, but hear me out. His kimono but in that stile, custom made. One day Usopp, Chopper and Luffy will paint it in and is going to be hilarious to see Jinbe walking around like a Father that let his kids do his hair and nails.

You can find more idiot post like this in my tag #straw hats as i make no promise of quality but i have fun

[angelwonie]

BITCH idc write me smth about making out with jisung rn!!! 😤

pairing: jisung x fem!reader wc: 600 warnings: semi smut, fingering, dirty talk, degradation, this got out of control oops

"Fuck, you're so hot."

You giggle at the words mumbled against your lips by your boyfriend, his hands roaming your body like he's been waiting to touch you for ages. Which is funny considering his hands have been on you all night, ever since you walked out of the house in that little dress Jisung likes the most.

You don't feel much like laughing, though, not when Jisung's lips crash into yours again, fingers brushing over your cheeks as he pushes you against the wall of your apartment. The surface is cold and it has you gasping softly, opening your mouth just wide enough for Jisung's tongue to slip inside, a groan escaping him when you tug at his hair. He rolls his hips into yours slowly, smiling against your mouth when you whimper.

"You drive me absolutely crazy, you know that?" He pulls away to press open-mouthed kisses to your jaw as his hand slips under your dress, brushing over the inside of your thigh. He teases you for a while, but his patience quickly fades and he runs his knuckles over your clothed core, feeling how soaked through your panties are already. "Always so fucking needy for me. Always ready for my cock, isn't that right?"

Goosebumps form on your skin at his words, and you buck your hips into his hand, whining softly as you nod your head in response. This isn't exactly how you imagined this night to go, especially after feeling so tired on the drive home, but you can't bring yourself to feel sleepy when Jisung's fingers keep brushing over the fabric of your panties that grows wetter with every second. Is he trying to drive you insane? Because if he is, it's certainly working.

"Ji," You mumble as you feel his clothed erection press into the side of your thigh. "Please."

"Please what?"

He's enjoying himself way too much, but you can't bring yourself to think about that right now, much less scold him for it. All you're focused on is how his fingers push your panties to the side and graze your clit ever so slightly, making you grab at his biceps for support when your legs feel weak.

"Please, need you to fuck me," It comes out breathy, more high pitched than you intented it to because now, his fingers are smearing your arousal all over your cunt and you're slowly losing focus.

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Jisung flashes you that annoyingly hot smile of his and finally pushes one of his fingers inside of you, making you gasp out, leaning your head against the wall.

That doesn't last very long, though, as he grabs at your hair and pulls you in for a messy kiss. Another finger enters your pussy and you whimper into his mouth, spreading your legs to give him better access.

He doesn't hold back, driving his fingers into you quickly and making sure they reach deep enough to make you see stars with each movement. Once he finds that one spot that makes your knees weak, he hits it repeatedly, making you clench around him, nails digging into his arms. His lips move to suck marks into your neck and one of his hands grabs at your tits, fingers curling as they leave and enter your cunt. You're close already, that familiar feeling of ecstasy stirring up in your stomach and a string of moans escape past your lips.

"Fuck, babe, you're taking my fingers so well," Jisung groans, rubbing circles on your clit when he sees your legs starting to shake. "Gonna cum for me? Cum all over my fingers like a slut?"

You can only nod, whimpering as your pussy clamps down on Jisung's fingers when you reach your high. His arms hold you up when your whole body feels like jelly, and the corners of his lips quirk upwards when your eyes meet his, your fucked out expression making his cock strain against his pants. It only makes his smile widen when he sees you eyeing the tent in his pants hungrily.

"Wanna help me out a little, pretty girl?"

[gothghostiie]

Saw that one anon just now and. First of all, who the fuck thinks like that.

Second of all, to purge the dash/your mind of that, I have a humble request:

Somno with Wesker fucking the reader (previously consented to, ofc)

(I know it's been done a million-billion-septillion times before, but I want to see how you interpret the prompt)

idc if it's done a thousand times it's an amazing prompt 😌

cw: somno (duh), praise, creampie, cockwarming

You've been fast asleep for hours already, sleeping peacefully in your shared bed next to him. The two of you had a nice, long talk a few days ago and now he decided to make it happen.

His cold hands started creeping over your body, gently touching the soft skin of your thighs before he fully pushed the blanket off. Wesker admired your sleeping frame for a moment, a smile on his lips, before carefully turning you onto your side, angling your legs up so he could reach what he desired. Quickly he took off the boxers he had been sleeping in, his cock already semi hard just from the thought of fucking you when you're vulnerable like that. he chuckled lowly as he slipped your underwear off too, ever so carefully to not wake you like this.

you made a quiet sound, he just gently hushed you, rubbing your back like he always does. Of course it made you fall right back into a deep sleep, his hands were just magical.. in many ways. Like that, he quietly put a bit of lube on his fingers, not wanting to hurt you after all; before pushing his fingers inside you slowly. He let out a deep breath, biting his lip at the way your tight hole felt around him, making his cock twitch with impatience. He composed himself however and took his sweet time quietly prepping you, just enough so you could still feel the stretch of his cock.

He smiled as you writhed underneath him a bit, rubbing your back again. "There there love... soon..." he hummed softly, smiling as his calmed down again. now was his time. He knelt behind you, one hand on your thighs, the other on his cock as he slowly pushed himself inside you. he groaned quietly, throwing his head back while you were still sleeping underneath him. "Fuck... you feel so good darling..." he muttered, feeling you clench around his length. He waited just a moment, placing his other hand on your hip before slowly beginning to thrust inside you. It was slow and sensual, a smile on his lips the whole time.

He groaned quietly, his fingers rubbing your skin in a soothing way as he could hardly hold himself back anymore, picking up the pace - causing you to finally wake up. You slowly blinked your eyes open, whining in pleasure and burying your face in the pillow. Albert chuckled lowly, shaking his head. "Good morning sunshine.. did I wake you up?" he cooed quietly, you just whined in response. "My poor little sweetheart.. waking up and just made to feel good and full.." he chuckled, thrusting deeper. "You feel so good doll.. tell me, does it feel good, hm? being my little toy to use whenever I please?" You nodded, causing him to give you a light slap on your ass. "Use your words, love."

"Yes... feels s'good.." you slurred, not fully awake and mind clouded over by pleasure. Al let out a satisfied huff, rubbing the spot he slapped gently now.

"That's a good doll.. you're such a good little toy.." he hummed, getting closer by the minute. His well placed thrusts and the praise - and just the whole situation - brought your body closer to cumming too, he just knew you too damn well. "So good for me, aren't you? taking my cock whenever I please.." his thrusts got harder and his voice more firm, he was clearly close. After just a few more minutes he finally came inside you - yet didnt stop. He just paused briefly, then began practically abusing your sweet spot. Well placed, hard thrusts against it, just the way you liked it, made you cry out and dig your nails into the sheets.

"F-uck, Al... 'm close.." was all you could choke out, looking over your shoulder to see him with a satisfied grin on his face.

"That's a good baby, just let go.. show me how good my cock makes you feel angel.." he hummed, keeping his pace up. Just shortly after an almost violent orgasm shook through your body, making you tear up just a little bit as he fucked you through your high. "God you look so pretty when you cum..." He huffed, finally slowing down. For a moment he rested there, then gently stroked your cheek. "You okay darling?" he asked softly, you nodded.

"Yes.. 'm okay.. you?" you asked, head still fogged up from what just had happened. He smiled and laid down behind you, cock still inside you as he pulled you close.

"Yes, I'm good. Now go back to sleep, yea? You did so well, you deserve it."

[autisticlancemcclain]

HIIII, so I just wanted to start off by saying I love and I mean LOVE your writing, you nail the characters and the stories you write them in, genuinely! I especially love how you wrote shadam on the klance oneshot you did, I would love to see more of shadam because I really loved how you wrote them and God knows how much of good writing on shadam is lack on this fandom LMAOOOO

i love adashi too!!!! i’ve always love rarepairs (ik adashi was canon but it had so little actual screentime or information that i’m counting it as a rarepair idc) bc they’re just basically OCs with extra steps lmfao. also i did write an adashi fic if you want to read it 👀👀 it’s called Don’t You Worry About The Distance (I’m Right Here If You Get Lonely) . it’s like this weird dream myth thing??? here’s a lil piece:

Hades.

Shiro did not know how he knew the god, from where the certainty came, but he was sure: in front of him, giant in stature and horrifying in posture, the god of death and dying and riches sit before him.

“Orpheus,” Hades thundered, more final than before.

Shiro knew that Hades spoke to him. He was Orpheus. He knew also, somehow, that he was the one who had demanded an audience, he was the one who stood trembling in front of the King and asked a task impossible, implored the mercy of the god for whom mercy was a slight, an insult.

“Do you understand the gravity of what you ask? I am moved by your plea, by your song. But what you demand is an imbalance. A disruption of the natural order. Your lover died of no unnatural means. To send him back to the living would be to risk the delicate balance of life itself, for no gain for anyone but you and your love. And still you ask me?”

Sweat dripped into Shiro’s eyes, even as he shivered from the cold. He looked over to Adam — to Eurydice — who stood frozen beside Hades’ throne, black tendrils of poison still lining his skin from the venom of the snake that befell him; the lines of betrayal because Shiro could not save him, because Shiro left him behind.

To die.

[krisapparently]

1. "I know it's winter, but you don't have to act so cold!" (Kaveh/Alhaitham)

DISCLAIMER: take this however you like romantic or platonic idc I'm just here to write

▪︎ 556 words because I wrote this at 2am and I'm slepy

▪︎umm cw// cursing and this is fluff i think

▪︎this is boring tbh it's just them fighting and complaining

▪︎I did not proofread who does that lol

"It's so cold here! My face feels so dry and flaky.." Kaveh complained while walking through the night streets with none other than his roommate, Alhaitham.

"You insisted on coming here for the holidays. Deal with it." "Hey, I know it's winter, but you don't have to act so cold!" The blonde rolled his eyes before he blowing and rubbing his frosty hands together.

"I'm not 'cold.' I'm simply stating the obvious. As a matter of fact, this weather is perfectly fine."

"Fine?! What part of this weather is fine?! We are out in the dark, brutal, cold, shivering, lonely, night and in addition, we come from a hot, dry region for fuck's sake!"

"It's not my fault that you aren't used to the cold. Maybe you should go out more instead of shutting yourself in either hammering on your never-ending projects or drinking."

Wherever they are, Kaveh and Alhaitham were always bound to argue about even the smallest, irrelevant thing you could think of. Some would say they're like cats and dogs. Others would say they're like oil and water. But despite their attitudes against each other on the surface, people who really knew them would know that deep down.. they truly care for each other. It was just a matter of Kaveh's anger issues and Alhaitham's bluntness.

"You- It's only because I- Ugh. Whatever. I'm tired of fighting with you." Kaveh crossed his arms as he seemingly walks a bit faster. "Let's just go home and get this over with. I'm freezing my nails off right now."

Alhaitham noticed his change of speed and quickened his pace to catch up with him. He unwrapped his scarf and handed it over to Kaveh. "Here."

"What? I don't need that-" "You clearly do."

Kaveh still felt a bit grumpy but took it anyways and mumbled. "Thanks.. I guess.."

It was a silent but somehow a rather comforting walk. Kaveh glances over at the taller, half-amazed at how he handled the temperature well, but also noticed his slightly rosy cheeks. "Hey, aren't you cold? I mean, I know you're used to it or whatever but you seem like you're still freezing.."

Alhaitham met his gaze and replied, "I would be lying if I said it's colder now but it's not that big of a deal. I'd rather freeze my brains off than hear you complain anyways."

"Tsk, you seriously-!"

"And also, I don't want you to get sick."

Kaveh's eyes slightly widened. He sometimes forgot that even when they get into disputes, Alhaitham was still someone who cared about him. "I-I see.. you didn't really have to though."

"No, I had to. Otherwise, you'd be complaining about being sick."

"I don't complain that much, shut up!"

Alhaitham lifts his eyebrows. "Really now? There was one time you complained about the rain wetting your laundry again even though I had already informed you beforehand that it'd rain that day. There was another time you complained about how hot the weather was, oh unironically like how you're complaining about how cold it is now. And on another-"

"OKAY OKAY SHUT UP FINE I COMPLAIN A LOT, HAPPY?" the architect explodes.

"No, I'm not necessarily happy with your complaints-"

Alhaitham pauses as he noticed Kaveh brisk walking away from him while he also flips him off.

"Heh, typical." The Akademiya's scribe sighs as he watches Kaveh fade into the distance.

[milliumizoomi]

𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

➣ SUMMARY. ; Random TR headcanons I thought of

➣ FEATURED. ; Various Tokyo Rev. Characters

➣ FORMAT. ; Headcanons

➣ GENRE. ; Crack

➣ WARNINGS. ; Cursing + Manga Spoilers

➣ NOTES. ; all of these are completely right and ion want no discussion abt em 🗿☝🏽 /hj ,, i was planning to do a part 2 so pls let me know if I should,, hope you enjoy !!

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED.

MIKEY…

𖢇 there’s no room for discussion wit this one

𖢇 he goes thru AT LEAST 3 pairs of Jesus steppers a day

𖢇 try to change my mind

𖢇 with all them flips and kicks and the way he be gripping them hoes ain’t no way he wearing just one a day

𖢇 AND THEY FLIMSY TOO

𖢇 they be popping,, on the regular 🗿

𖢇 like even in that moebius fight episode

𖢇 HE HAD FLIP FLOPS ON AND KICKING PPL IN THEY HEAD

𖢇 ik them shits was obliterated as soon as he started running from the police

𖢇 he abuses these floor slappers on the regular

𖢇 and he do this to ALL the ones he have

𖢇 so,, in conclusion,, by the time the sun set he be walking home barefoot

DRAKEN…

𖢇 PLS ok so

𖢇 he thoroughly rubs the bald sides of his head

𖢇 that’s it.

𖢇 that’s the headcanon.

𖢇 I believe EXPONENTIALLY that this man head get cold on the regular

𖢇 so 24/7 you him catch rubbing it

𖢇 and it look so funny too

𖢇 like y’all know when people run their hands through their hair to kinda fix it

𖢇 ok imagine that but him vigorously rubbing the sides of his head

𖢇 and he don’t even be realizing when he do it anymore cause he do it so much

𖢇 he’ll be in room just 🤜🏼🧑🏼‍🦲🤛🏼

𖢇 and when ppl see him doing it they just gotta stop and stare cause??

𖢇 PLEASE AND IT SOUNDS SO ASHY TOO

𖢇 The gang DEFINITELY laughs at him when he subconsciously does it while with them

𖢇 he says that he won’t do it again

𖢇 *spoiler* he continues to do it every second of the damn day

IZANA…

𖢇 y’all gon hate me for this,, but when the man was homeless he def had lice

𖢇 IDC WHAT YALL WANNA SAY

𖢇 the man was itching and scratching all over

𖢇 smelling like the garbage

𖢇 absolutely horrendous

𖢇 he’d scratch and they’d just fall out

𖢇 all up under his nails and EVERYTHING

𖢇 eugh

𖢇 scaring the children

𖢇 Looking like a yeti toooo

𖢇 the man was just a walking mess

𖢇 free him from the chains

KAWATA TWINS…

𖢇 sigh

𖢇 i’m sorry to make this unfortunate announcement but from the ages of 6 to 10 they were booty scratchers

𖢇 Both of em

𖢇 Absolutely

𖢇 smiley was first, angry tested it out and all of a sudden they were both ALWAYS elbow deep—

𖢇 Like no shame in it either

𖢇 They at the playground? No problem they just 🤌🏽

𖢇 At school? 🤌🏽

𖢇 SHOOT IN THE GROCERY STORE WIT THEY MAMA? HEAVY ON THE 🤌🏽

𖢇 Just anywhere they would be holding each other hand and just got the other one like 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

𖢇 wherever and whenever they would just.. sigh

𖢇 those were dark days

RAN…

𖢇 mm how’s the best way to put this,,

𖢇 ok so he chews his nails

𖢇 BUT that’s not all

𖢇 the man will spit them at people

𖢇 like just LAUNCH them

𖢇 no matter if they’re long or short he’s going to literally bite them off then look directly at the person he’s gonna launch them bitches at

𖢇 and will deliberately keep looking at the person so they know it was him

𖢇 and they can’t even do nothing

𖢇 cause he’s ran haitani

𖢇 the bitch gets away with it everytime

𖢇 those poor innocent people

𖢇 the boys been doing it since rindou was ankle high

𖢇 at school, in public, AT HIS OWN FATHER

𖢇 he don’t leave anybody unscathed

𖢇 except his mama

𖢇 cause chileeee

𖢇 ik he gotta be scared of her

𖢇 so in conclusion,, the man is a nail spitting canon

RINDOU…

𖢇 he’s a legendary kicker of the back of ppl foot

𖢇 piss him off?

𖢇 ok

𖢇 y’all know the back of y’all knees right?

𖢇 that one lil spot

𖢇 mhm

𖢇 he will kick the shit out of it

𖢇 full force

𖢇 sending your ass flying into the floor

𖢇 with absolutely no remorse

𖢇 he’ll watch you face plant right into the floor and then leave you right there

𖢇 the nigga doesn’t give a damn at ALL

𖢇 and he’ll laugh at you too

𖢇 whether he does it all up in your face or he’s walking away and snickering he gon laugh

𖢇 very disrespectful

𖢇 and he’d take a picture if you fall especially funny

𖢇 then he’d show ran

𖢇 and they’d both laugh🧍🏽‍♀️

©2021 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED — MILLIUMIZOOMI. Do not modify, repost, plagiarize, translate or claim any work posted on this blog without my permission.

TAGLIST: @develith @kej1me @unfazedrose @kiribis-confesion-page @darylthekidd @blackweebtrash @erensbbg @shamwizzy @klodyisdepressed @namjoonswifeyy @cosmiclvsh @bakuhoes-bxtch @megurulvr @dukina @crushsoli @dat-black-bish323 @plutosexc @temsm @kloesklarity @aizawash0e @plxnetjeezy @sukunasbabymama @royalelusts @denkisbaby1 @beezebub @reelogy @myhoodacademia @xseogar @luv-calcifer @we-simp-here @neqtzs @chopp4hehe @mikasacumslut @ccxiia @micahgalore @forwardpair @sageth3w0rld @manjiroarchiviste @1-800-baddie @sir-haitani @lvlydray @crapimahuman @1bravehooman @sscarchiyo @yakifuyu @http-ch1fuyu @flylis @matsukashi @cigarettest @bajisb3loved @satindraco (Open ! click here to be added!)

[placetneplacet]

The thing about Dr. Jimmy

Here I was was, watching everyone start Vice Versa and thinking “Enjoy! Will not be tuning into that…” (GMMTV and I are largely incompatible, I have accepted this)

Then the Dr. Jimmy gifs began to appear…

As happened before, with Bad Buddy, Enchante and even Safe House, I was drawn in very much against my will and started seeking out all of the gifs.

I finally succumbed and watched, not only the aired episodes, but also the “Inside Vice Versa” special. “Charisma” was what I kept coming back to, the man was dripping in it. After reading a post on body swapping though, I had another thought.

@absolutebl used “elegant”, “mannered” and “fluid like a dancer” to describe Dr. Jimmy and a picture began to form in my mind.

Now this is a big comparison, I know!

But!

I stand by it. Because the thing about Dr. Jimmy, he’s always going to be Dr. Jimmy…charismatic, charming, elegant, funny, mannered. This is the bit that’s going to sound slightly negative, but is not meant to be…Dr. Jimmy is always going to be Dr. Jimmy on some level. Like I can’t see Dr. Jimmy disappearing into a character, at least not a character who isn’t also elegant, charming, funny and charismatic. A Cary Grant, if you will…

I think Thai BL could use a Cary Grant and I would argue there isn’t one currently. There hasn’t really been a use for one. Cary Grant isn’t a frequenter of universities (accept on the occasion of pretending to be Shirley Temple’s boyfriend). But if Thai BL is going to be roaming outside of university, they could use someone whose aura screams adult, worldly, charming and can handle a little humor.

The Dr. Jimmy/ Cary Grant epiphany, however, was not the end of my inspirations…

Inspiration #1

If we are going to have a Dr. Jimmy why not actually have him recreate some Cary Grant roles. The first that came to mind was inspired by Safe House.

Picture this Dr. Jimmy, as a doctor, doing his thing, working diligently on one thing or another when he is sent out to some gala to schmooze a wealthy donor, only to encounter a Neo at his most Neoist!

Only this time the forced proximity leads not to just agonizing frustration, but of course falling “madly” in love with the Madhat Dream Boy, you know Neo would absolutely nail…like you can all see Neo serenading an escaped leopard with a love song, right? Like the moment you realized this is where I was going the image appeared?

I want it immediately.

Inspiration the Second

So obviously once I was in Katherine Hepburn mode, I decided I might as well have a go at a Philadelphia Story remake, while I was at it.

Neo cannot play Tracy Lord, obviously, (at least not any Neo performance I have seen so far) and then my brain jumped to, “well would I cast the same person as Grace Kelly’s character in ‘To Catch a Thief’?”

I couldn’t decide, but I did very quickly realize who I wanted to play Tracy.

Who better to play a disaffected socialite, who married far too young, striving to find happiness with the opposite of his worldly, charming, alcoholic ex-husband who knows him best. Only to discover that everyone else in his life has cast him as an Untouchable, Perfect God, devoid of real feeling. Idc who plays Everyman whatshisface, but you can see Dr. Jimmy as Dexter, right? Worldly, sarcastic and still very much in love with his ex, his first love, the one he drove away?

Now Saint could totally handle Grace Kelly’s part in To Catch a Thief, but!

Inspiration the Last

Francis is an ingenue, and in Hitchcock Blond fashion, cold, seemingly untouchable and deeply sensual.

What I would give to see First in a role like this one. Young, repressed, desperate to feel anything. Chasing after a retired jewel thief, for the rush of danger and lust and the chance to finally be touched.

Obviously, Dr. Jimmy is young for this role, but there is an age gap still there and it’s not like Thai Bl hasn’t hand waved ages for ages now…

What say you BL Tumblr Corner? Fellow Dr. Jimmy Enthusiasts? Am I a crazy person? Have I fallen down a rabbit hole to nowhere?

What say you PD Saint? You a fan of Cary Grant? Want some fresh BL inspiration?

A person can dream…

[cognitosclowns]

I loved your post about their laughs and was really curious about how youd describe their bodies? thank you!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOO <3333 I LOVE THIS SM

nonsexual nudity!!! discussions of weight, bodies and body image, mentions of drugs!!

THESE ARE PROBABLY GONNA STRAY A BIT FROM CANON BUT IDC <33333. Also just some,, general details?? Mostly just whatever comes to mind

Reagan

She looks a lot smaller than she is??? Maybe it's bc she has shit posture but,, he's a pretty tall lady!!

She definitely got her Dad's shoulders - not super broad, but enough that if she started working out they would be???

STOCKY HANDS <333333333 VV square hands, pretty textured bc shes,, Constantly Working With Them!! <333 she keeps her nails super short out of convenience.

CANONICALLY DRY SKIN. She does put a bit of lotion if she remembers, but it means she has,, a lot of texture on her hands and face!! Lots of gorgeous weathering <33

Brett

SUPER FIT. ABS FOR DAYS. We already get to see that he’s Built Like A Greek Sculpture. His muscles are all vvv distinct!!!

the only man here with an ass <3 rip everyone else

I LIKE TO THINK HIS CHEEKS ARE PRETTY SOFT THO??? 

He’s always had squishy cheeks since he was a kid!! When he smiles they all bunch up?? <333 IDK IF IM DESCRIBING IT CORRECTLY BUT <333 Like they’re,, constantly rosy. He breaks out into this,, Peach Colored blush so often?? <333

HIS FINGERS ARE BIG AND CLUMSY. He fumbles stuff a lot because he doesn’t have great coordination w/ em?? His nails are VERY well kept tho <333

JR

This lovely hodgepodge of traits??

He's thin enough you can see a bit of his ribs, but also has a bit of a tummy? He has visible muscle and decently broad shoulders, but his wrists would probably snap if you have him too hard of a high-five? Tent pole legs and a small torso?? Assless, practically concave. His body is hairless and smooth like a skink, except for a Very Pale happy trail.

He wears makeup to get rid of the eyebags + how Deathly Pale he looks. He needs to get more sun, he has a Vitamin D deficiency </3. Truly built like a Tuberculosis Orphan <3

I BULLY HIM BUT I DO IT WITH LOVE <333

ALSO A VV STRONG JAW??? Super squared off n firm. he is so proud of that jawline esp because he didn't have to work for it <3333

THE HANDSSSSS he definitely has Slightly Bulbous Gecko Fingers?? Kinda rosy too bc he chews his cuticles to ratshit. They’re always slightly cold and Exceptionally Soft <333

Alpha-Beta

Y'know what? I'll say it. Quintessential Dad Bod. Nobody can convince me otherwise. They hated Outis because he spoke the truth

BUT LIKE <333 broad shoulders, big stomach n thighs?? Plenty of stretchmarks everywhere!!!

Apparently the original President was an Oops All Tits situation, and while surprised, AB isn’t really complaining?? 

he definitely isn’t a fan of the body hair though ‘Was a happy trail really necessary??? he doesn’t understand why he needed body hair if nobody was ever gonna see him naked??

His skin has a buncha texture?? Laugh lines, crows feet, plenty of Wrinkles and Weathering. 

Glenn

BIG

just in,, every meaning of the word. If he had good posture, he’d tower over the entire gang.

He's the kind of strong of like,, Lumberjacks. A fuckton of muscle n fat, big shoulders - he could probably toss a desk with little to no effort.

I like to think he helped around his parents the farm since a young age, probably picked up odd jobs here and there (friends farms, local fishery) until joining the army when he graduated high school!!

He may not be as active as he was in his 20s-30s but,, Buddy He Could Still Turn You Into Jam If He Wants

MASSIVE FUCKING HANDS. Jesus you wouldn't realize it bc he doesn't Gesture A Lot but,, he could probably wrap his full hand around most ppls throats. ALSO TALONS <333 SHARP CLAWS

His teeth are the thickness of your thumb, a dulled point. He can break bone!! Yes, he’s tested, (I SHOULD CLARIFY : not on people, on Assorted Meats)

Andre

Long and thin - he has trouble keeping on weight, even though he eats like a trash compactor. you can’t see bones, but he’s definitely on the smaller side!!

SUPER LANKY, but unlike JR he doesn’t have that much muscle?? The weight he does have is mostly fat!

HES SUPER FLEXIBLE. He could probably shove himself in one of the cabinets in his office when he doesn’t wanna talk to people lmao. He can stretch backwards and grab hold of his calves (he does it to freak Myc out smdnsd)

Boniest fingers in the universe. you can see the individual like,, joints. They’re also all,, curved?? He’s broken his fingers a bunch on accident so,, they have a bunch of kinks!!

his skin and hair is vvvv oily!! he used to have really bad acne when he was a teen!! Myc lovingly teases him that the reflection of light off his forehead + hair could cook smb like an Ant in a Magnifying glass.

speaking of hair - it has this super textured, gritty feeling??? Maybe cause he forgets to clean it but,, it feels Dense n Sandy?? <333

Myc

he looks way less solid than he is??? it looks like if you poked him he’d dent

he’s actually fairly sturdy!! Like theres some give but he has Structure? He kinda feels like if you coated a Slightly Deflated Beach ball in Aloe Vera.

The bulbs on the top are probably the softest??

The Ball (tm) is straight up a giant crystal ball. There’s a slight give, but it’s basically a Firm Crystal-Like Membrane??

everything about him is slick - but in the Tacky, Oily way that some Hand Sanitizers have?? It feels like you can never get him off your hands </3

Gigi

MNSDMS SHE’S PRETTY SHORT </3 the heels help but she still has to ask Myc and Andre to get stuff from the Top Shelves.

ANDRE TEASES HER BC,, HE CAN WRAP MOST OF HIS HAND AROUND HERS??

Everything about her is very,, sharp?? High cheek bones, edge nails, etc. 

She has the kind of,, Elegant Strength that a diamond has if that makes sense??

HER SKIN IS FLAWLESS, EVERYONE ELSE IS JEALOUS. She has full access to Andre’s Mad Science + her Media Team so,, yeah she always looks like she’s just stepped down from heaven for a quick bite to eat <3

She has freckles!! she usually covers them up with makeup, so it’s very rare to see get a look at em!!! <3333 they really come out in the sun tho <3

IDK IF THIS IS WHAT YOU HAD IN MIND BUT <333 IT WAS A BLAST TYSM ANON

[divinerulerluvr]

Teenage Dirtbag

Suggested by anonymous - Tate Langdon? I can’t find anything new of Tate smut so could you write one? Pre-death maybeee and the plot idc just anything hella kinky

warnings - knife play, fear play, breeding kink, degrading kink, tate has a god complex, mean pre-death tate since he’s on coke during this period, angry sex

- - - 

Loud rock music plays as Tate paces his room. I sit back on his bed, watching him throw his little fit. “I hate her. She wants me to be so fucking perfect. News flash, it’s fucking impossible,” he complains, his features coated in anger.

I just hum in response, keeping up the facade that i’m actually interested. He always complained about his mother and how she had such high expectations for him since he was “normal” compared to his other siblings.

Don’t get me wrong, i’m on his side in this situation. But that doesn’t mean i want to hear him whine and yell about it all the time. It’s gotten worse now that his mom’s new boyfriend, Larry, is trying to act like a father to him.

Tate hates that.

“Are you listening?” he asks, stopping in front of me as he looks down at me. I look into his eyes, a blank expression on my face as he studies my face. The corner of his lip twitches with anger before he reaches down and grabs me by my neck, squeezing firm at the sides.

I whimper softly, the tight grip on my neck keeping me still and at his mercy. He huffs, letting go of me, causing me to fall back onto the bed i was sitting on. “Get undressed,” he demands, stepping back from me and going over to his desk where he cuts up some pills into a fine powder and snorts it up his nose.

Coke always made him aggressive. Not in an abusive way, just in a rough and dangerous way.

I don’t follow his orders, staying unmoving on the bed as i watch his movements carefully. He turns back to face me, his eyes darkening as he sees me still dressed. He huffs, reaching over to his desk to grab a switchblade knife that had a handle decorated with skulls.

He walks to me, pushing me onto the bed so i’m laying on my back before hooking the sharp blade under my tee shirt and ripping it clean down the middle. I’d be lying if i said i wasn’t insanely turned on right now.

Tate pulls the now ruined scraps of the shirt off of me, leaving me in my bra and my skirt. I exhale shakily, the feral and ravenous look in his dark brown eyes making my core soaked. He hooks the knife under the thin part of the middle of my bra, cutting it easily and discarding it as well.

A smug, sadistic smirk spreads on his lips as he runs the flat side of the blade through the valley of my breasts and down my stomach, ending at the waistband of my skirt. I exhale softly, hoping he doesn’t catch on to my arousal.

“It’s so cute when you purposely disobey me, doll. It makes the consequences so much better,” he comments, slipping his fingers under the waistband of both my skirt and underwear before snatching them quickly off of me.

I squirm, the cold air hitting my entirely exposed skin, giving me goosebumps. My heart beats out of my chest, and i almost think for a second he can hear it. He moves the knife over where my heart is, pushing the very tip of the blade just barely into my skin.

A hopeless whimper leaves my lips as i look at him with wide eyes. “Are you scared?” he asks, his breath fanning my face. I shake my head softly. He smiles, his eyes falling down to the knife that pierces my skin just slightly.

“You should be,” he retorts. I hold my breath, not daring to move a single muscle as he runs the cold blade up my chest and over the curve of my neck to trace my jaw with the sharp edge. I move my head away from the blade instinctively, triggering something in him. 

He gets on top of me, using one hand to pin my hands together above my head. “You’re just a stupid, little girl who relies on me to make all her decisions and yet you continue, time and time again, to ignore my words and warnings,” he degrades, speaking lowly to intimidate or scare me.

And it’s working.

“Say, ‘You own me, Tate. You’re my god’,” he demands. I swallow thickly, my eyes watering just barely out of fear. “You own me, Tate. You’re my god,” i repeat back to him as honestly as i could say.

He smiles, running his hand down my stomach and squeezing my thigh before running his fingers through my wet cunt. He hums softly, a proud and cocky smile on his lips. “Of course my useless, dumb brat gets wet at the thought of being killed by me,” he tsks.

I moan softly, my eyes closed tight as he plays with my clit. I buck my hips forward, my hands balling into fists so that my nails sink into the flesh of my palms. He pulls his hands from my center, leaning back and letting go of my wrists to undress himself.

As he strips, i roll my wrists around, appreciating the freedom. I know for sure that there will be bruises there tomorrow. Tate gets back on top of me, my legs spread out on either side of him as he settles down.

He lines himself up with my entrance, not even giving me a minute before slamming into me roughly. I cry out softly, my chest heaving as his tip hits my g-spot perfectly. He starts a steady thrusting rhythm, snapping his hips back and forth roughly, each thrust punctuated with an animalistic groan from his mouth.

My moans were soft and quiet, more like heavy pants as i tried to stay quiet in fear that his mom or siblings would hear us. It was always a fear of mine. Tate, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about them.

His hands go to my neck, using both to choke me. He pushes some of his weight into the hold, wanting to leave a bruise for tomorrow when we go to school. His dick continues moving in and out of me, causing intense waves of pleasure to rush over me.

He knew how to fuck, and he knew it well.

One of the best parts of sex with Tate was his comments. “Sluts like you deserve fucking nothing,” he growls, his eyes dead on mine and his voice deep. I whimper, biting my lower lip. “That’s right. Just get more turned on by me telling you what a pathetic toy you are,”

I wrap my legs around his waist, keeping him close to me as i try my best to muffle my moans. He removes his hands from my neck, hooking his arm under my back and flipping me around so i’m face down, ass up on the bed.

His hands dig into my hips as he starts fucking me again. Even rougher than before. I let out a soft cry, my moans sounding pathetic to my own ears and i’m the one making the noise. One of his hands slides up the curve of my spine, his fingers tangling into my messy hair and pulling at it.

I mewl quietly, my walls contracting tight around his dick as he uses me like a sex doll. And i was perfectly fine with it, too. My knees go weak and i find myself relying on his grip on my waist to keep me up.

“Look at you, fucking dripping like the pathetic little thing you are,” he demeans with a snarl. I continue to let him use and abuse my body. He smacks my ass hard, making me arch my back from the heated sting the strike left in its wake. 

It doesn’t take much longer for him to make me cum. 

I moan a bit louder than i’d like, my walls tightening like crazy as my legs shake under me. His hand reaches around and grabs my throat, the loss of blood to my head only enhancing the euphoria of my orgasm even more.

He follows soon after, cumming inside of me without a care. He fucks me through my orgasm, overstimulating me as his cum drips out of me. He had a very severe breeding kink. He pulls me so that my back is flush against his chest and his chin rests on my shoulder.

Tate pushes my hair to my opposite shoulder, placing a few soft butterfly kisses to my neck and jawline. “You’ve always been my good girl, y/n,” he praises, running his hand down my side. I smile, sighing softly at the comment.

“I love you,” i say. 

“Yeah, doll. ‘Course you do,”

[lustinglilac]

Hey love! I absolutely love your OA Zidan imagines & I was wondering if you could do a full on angst to smut one maybe? Idc what the angst part is centered around maybe where he's mad at the reader? but for the smut could there be a choking kink??? Sorry if this is too detailed or you can't do it , thank u !!!

A/N: I had a really fun time writing this! Even though it took me forever. I really hope you enjoy & thank you for requesting 💜

Warnings: choking kink, condescending talk, angry OA (but then fluff), some arguing, NSFW under the cut, 18+ ONLY

*GIF NOT MINE*

“OA... I don’t understand what the issue is. I invited Maggie over for dinner and Nestor just so happened to be there when I did. Big deal!” She scoffed, walking to her side of the car door.

OA tries to steady his breathing, sighing harshly before pulling open the driver’s side of the door, “The point is he’s a manipulative, selfish prick who has no care about who he screws over—“

“Honestly Omar, if you could leave work at work, that would be so great.” She states matter of factly. She fastens her seatbelt, smoothing down her dress before crossing her arms over her chest, turning to stare at something, anything, out the window.

“Y’know... out of all people, I thought you’d understand that the most.” He chuckles humorlessly, “I’ll keep my opinions to myself from now on.” He turns on the engine, the noise drowning out her heart beating out of her chest as they head for their shared apartment.

Minutes later they’d arrived outside of their building, silently getting out of the car as she held back tears. God, she didn’t even know why she was so upset. Maybe at the fact that they let someone as irrelevant as Nestor get between them? She had no clue.

“I’ll be in our room if you need me.” Once inside, she steps out of her wedges, not bothering to look back at him.

Omar contemplates going after her, his anger towards Nestor really getting the best of him as he replayed the conversation in his head.

Loosening the collar of his dress shirt, he took a seat on the plush couch, leaning his head back against it with a low groan.

She willed herself not to cry, stripping out of her short dress and putting on something more comfortable for the time being. She realized the harshness to her words earlier, pinching the bridge of her nose before making the decision to go out into the kitchen for a glass of water. And secretly to see OA.

She padded quietly down the short hallway, reaching the fridge in no time, throwing a glance Omar’s way before averting her eyes.

He watches her manuever around the tiny kitchen area, an amused smirk playing on his lips as she reached up for the glasses that were usually kept on the top most shelf, a bad habit OA had yet to break.

Her stubborness taking over, not wanting to ask for help as she reached as far up as she could to no avail.

“Here— I got you.” In no time, OA had been behind her, one hand on her hip to steady himself before reaching above her and effortlessly bringing down a cup for her to use.

She huffs audibly, “I was— I had it.” Taking it from his grasp roughly before pushing past him, or at least attempting to. OA was quick to trap her against the island before she could go anywhere.

“Really? ‘Cause it looked like you were struggling.” He hums, face neutral as he looked at his partner. “Are you done having an attitude with me?”

She laughs unexpectedly at the tone of his voice, like a mother scolding a teenager for being bratty. In essence, that’s kind of what was happening here, too.

“I don’t know. Are you done acting like I can’t do shit for myself and need you to help me every two seconds?” She counters, challenging him as she felt his demeanor completely change.

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, letting it go just as quickly and leaning down leveling himself to her eyesight, “Sweetheart— I’d be careful what you say.” His eyes freely roam over her face, stopping for a moment at her lips and then down her neck towards her cleavage.

“Or what—“ Before she’d even finished that sentence, OA had crashed his lips against hers, tongue slipping into her mouth so easily as the glass nearly slipped from her grip before she set it down and kissed him back just as feverishly.

Her hands going straight for his face as he placed her down onto the island, all traces of anger and Nestor gone from their minds as he fumbled with the waistband of her shorts before ridding her of them.

She gasped as she felt the cool surface of the island beneath her bare thighs, leaning back slightly to catch their breath.

“Fuck Omar, I’m sor—“ She began breathlessly only to be cut off again by his lips before pulling back again.

He shakes his head, “I don’t wanna hear it. Not right now, okay?” OA makes sure she understands before unbuttoning his own pants and pulling himself out with a soft hiss.

She nods at him and hums softly at the stern tone he exhibits, the wetness pooling between her legs, a nice contrast to the coolness of the marble beneath her.

OA kisses her neck leaving a mark on the side of it, that she would have no choice but to cover with makeup later, as his hands grab at her tits.

“OA... fuuuck.” She gasps as she feels his hand sliding lower, slotting between her thighs, spreading them just a little to help accomodate him. He pulls away from her neck and looks at her.

“Need me to fuck that attitude right outta you?” He speaks so condescendingly that it makes her nod without hesitation.

“Yes. Please.” She whimpers quietly, thighs threatning to shut around his hand as he kept up a taunting rhythm, circling her wet clit before moving down towards her opening.

Omar smiles, knowing she was right there, right on the brink of cumming for him before he removes his fingers holding them to her mouth.

She pants, breathless, the expression on her face a frustrated one as she looks from his fingers to his amused face.

“Suck.” He presses the wet fingers against her half-open lips, groaning praises when she finally takes them into her mouth and cleans them off with a moan. With his other hand, he manages to rip her tank top down, her breasts spilling freely making her shiver at the cool air on her sensitive nipples.

As he pulls his fingers out of her mouth, he scoots her off the counter onto the ground again, bending her over roughly, tits pressed flat to the cold surface of the marble beneath her.

“So pretty like this... just for me.” He grunts, watching her wet cunt clench around nothing but his words of praise as she arches her back slightly, giving him a show.

“Just fuck me.” She mumbles, nails impatiently tapping against the counter as OA takes his time.

He rubs his cock up and down her pussy a few times making her mewl in pleasure as she tried her hardest to push back onto him, growing irritable with every swipe of his dick up and down her folds.

Her eyes roll shut as he finally pushes in all the way, leaving her no room to say anything but moan and whimper. She was speechless to say the least, until he hit that one spongy spot inside her that made her vision spot.

“Baby— ooooh fuuuck. Feels so good.” She eventually manages to pant out a few words, biting her lip as he kept up a teasing pace.

“Yeah? Right there?” OA teases, grinding his hips into her as his hand came around to cup the front of her throat, pulling her against his chest. His other hand found her clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts as her mouth fell open at the sensation.

“Omar, don’t fucking stop—“ She gasped, his thumb pressing softly on the pulse point right below her ear as she reveled in the feel of his large hand around her throat. She loved when he got pissed off, whether it was at her (rarely) or at something from work, it usually led to the best sex.

Her tits bounced with every movement as Omar sped up his thrusts, whispering about how he was gonna fuck her till she learned not to talk back to him. And she was cockdumb, loving every word he growled in her ear as he choked her. He kissed the side of her cheek softly as he brought her to her climax, her back arching slightly as he continued until he chased his own high.

They stayed like that for a minute or so, and also because she was unable to move yet, his thumb caressing the side of her cheek softly, placing kisses along her neck.

“OA... I’m sorry.” She sighs, pulling him out of her slowly, whimpering at the sensitivity and turning around to face him.

He lowers his head, pressing his forehead against her own, “It’s fine, baby.” He assures her, placing a chaste kiss to her lips before pulling back to look at her, his hands going straight to her thighs.

“You can always talk to me about anything. I don’t care— even if it’s the most boring thing in the world. I never want you to bottle up your emotions about things in your life, okay?” She nods, making sure he understood.

“Really? You’re gonna be sick of me by the end of it.” He smiles making her laugh.

“Never that.” She places her hands on his beard pulling him in for a soft kiss.