#how he just punches that rifle down

[clopinasworld]

[ATTACK]

[spooky-pomegranate]

Through The Door:

Captain Price x F Reader (18+) 🔥 Word Count: 2.2K

Summary: Ghost doesn't trust you and when he hears you and Captain Price fighting in his office he stops to listen. But he hears and sees more than he ever expected.

It’s been ten days of this. Ten days of watching, following, and listening. And somehow it still hadn’t been enough time. Ghost still hadn’t caught you. But he knew he would. He just had to remain patient. He’d keep watching. You’d slip up eventually. He was sure of it.

Even if you did have everyone else fooled.

In just ten days, you had already made fast friends with Johnny. The two of you were always laughing and telling one another stupid jokes and stories.

The last thing you’d carried on about was music. You preferred old-school rock and roll. The Stones, The Who, The Beatles. But you liked classical too. You made fun of Soap for his favorite genre, cheery electropop. You called it music for “love-sick teenage girls” and teased him endlessly. He called you “a walking iPod shuffle” and said you were confused about your own taste. You playfully punched Johnny in the arm before you both laughed like hyenas.

It was like you were siblings, the way you constantly bantered and bickered. It set Ghost on edge. You both were so comfortable around each other. It was so familiar, so natural… It wasn’t right.

And Gaz, he wasn’t any better. You had asked him for additional training and on most days, Ghost found you two at the shooting range long after the recruits had left for dinner. At first, your conversations were shallow. In between firing rounds of high-caliber ammunition, you asked him about his life on base and how long he’d known Soap and Price. But the conversations eventually grew longer. And they grew deeper. Gaz told you about his family, his hometown, and his childhood. You told him about how difficult it was to leave the States and move to the UK on your own.

Ghost could tell that as the days were passing and as your conversations were growing more meaningful, the two of you were starting to trust one another more. And that frustrated him. Why couldn’t Gaz see what he saw in you?

He wondered if your skills were what threw the others off.

Ghost couldn’t deny that you were better than most of the other recruits. You were a natural at the shooting range. You picked up on techniques quickly and put them into practice almost flawlessly. And even though you pretended to be intimidated by it in the beginning you were especially good with a sniper rifle. You always asked the right questions about the winds, the terrain, and any potential bullet drop. And while Ghost found that suspicious, Gaz seemed to be amazed by it. Proud even. He joked with you about how quickly you could do math in your head and how that would come in handy if you were ever posted up in a sniper’s nest someday.

“Over my dead body,” Ghost had mumbled to himself as he watched you both from the shadows.

But you weren’t perfect. When Ghost did pull himself out of the base’s dark corners and did talk with you, you were always nervous. You spoke at breakneck speeds. Your sentences mushed together, like a quickly moving mudslide, totally out of control and unpredictable. You struggled to look him in the eyes. You fidgeted, stared at your shoes, and gave him any excuse you could to get away.

 “Sorry can’t chat, Johnny wants to train in the gym.”

 “I think I just heard Gaz call my name.”

 “Gotta go. Price needs me.”

And Price… you definitely had that man wrapped around your little finger. Or at least Ghost thought you did until one night when he heard you two fighting inside the Captain’s office.

“Price, why won’t you tell me what you and Laswell are planning for the raid?”

Your words had stopped Ghost in his tracks. He glanced down the empty hall to make sure no one was around before sinking to his knees and pressing his ear to the door of Price’s office.

“Come on, love we’ve been over this,” he heard the Captain answer.

“But I can help!”

Your voice was pleading. You were practically begging Price. But why did you care so much Ghost wondered?

“I want you to focus on training. You asked me to teach you to fight remember?”

“I know… but you also promised to let me take some of the weight off your shoulders too.”

“You’re too smart, you know that.”

“Price…” you whined the Captain’s name and Ghost rolled his eyes. He imagined that on the other side of the door, you were probably looking up at Price with doe eyes. Needy and wanton. God… you probably were pouting your lips too.

He could only hope that Price would see through you.

“I want you to be as prepared as you can be before then. I can handle this, I promise ya I’m fine. We’ve got more resources and men now. It’s not like before. We aren’t alone anymore. Ya trust me don’t you?”

Good man, Ghost thought to himself. Don’t give in to her so easily. As long as Price continued to keep his cards close to his chest maybe they’d all get through this in one piece.

“But what if he’s there? What if he has my briefcase there and he’s figured out how to use it? He’ll see you coming. Price what if this is a setup?” You were doing that thing where you spoke 100 miles an hour again, your words sloshing and sliding into one another.

“Laswell’s been surveilling the area. He hasn’t been there. Your briefcase isn’t there.”

“Price but what if-”

“Shhh. It’s okay. Come here, love.”

Ghost heard the sound of a chair scrape and footsteps shuffle away from the door. He knew you were walking over to Price. He could practically see you standing in front of him in his mind.

Then you sighed.

“I’m tired, Price.” Your voice was softer. Ghost could barely hear you now. He tried to press even closer to the door. The metal was cold against his ear. “I know I asked for this… learning how to fight. But it’s harder than I thought it would be and…”

You stopped.

“Go on. Say it.”

“Your Lieutenant…”

Shit. Your voice was muffled.

Shit. He needed to hear this.

Ghost slowly reached for the door handle and carefully, he turned the knob. The door opened the smallest crack. He peered inside.

You were sitting across the room, straddled on Price’s lap. Your head was buried against his chest. The Captain’s hands rubbed against the back of your t-shirt in lazy circles.

“Ghost? What about him, sweetheart?”

At the sound of Price’s voice, you pulled your head from his chest.

“He hates me.”

Price stilled and his jaw clenched. Neither of you spoke. Ghost held his breath before looking to his left and right. Thankfully, the coast was still clear.

“He doesn’t trust you,” Price eventually said, breaking through the silence.

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

You sighed loudly and moved to stand, but Price reached up and quickly pulled you back toward him by your hips.

“Don’t leave,” Price said, his voice low and firm. “I trust you.”

“Then why doesn’t he?”

Because I know there’s something else going on with you, Ghost thought to himself. Because I know there’s a secret you’re hiding.

“Because he doesn’t know you like I do.” Price replied, his hand moving up your spine to hold the back of your head. “He doesn’t know how smart you are. That you can build something from nothing. He doesn’t know that you’re a fighter, that you’ve been dealt a shite hand in life but you’ve always soldiered on.”

Price leaned forward and kissed you.

Ghost looked down at the floor. He should leave, he thought. He should go back to the barracks and sit behind his computer and look for dirt on you that way. It would be less awkward. He’d feel less strange.

But Ghost didn’t move. He couldn’t.

What if this was the moment you finally slipped? What if you said something? He needed to be more patient. He’d stay a little longer. If only for Gaz, for Johnny. If they got hurt because he missed something he’d never forgive himself.

He watched as Price leaned back, pulling away from your lips. A smile sprawled across his face.

“He doesn’t know how sweet you taste either, sweetheart.”

You laughed, running your own hands through Price’s short hair as the Captain dove into your neck.

“I mean it, love. If any of those boys got to taste you like I do, if they got to feel you like I do…” Price pulled back from your neck and looked you in the eye. “If they got to fuck you like I do… none of them would ever distrust you.”

“Price, that isn’t really reassuring. You’re just saying you trust me because we’ve fucked.”

Ghost’s grip tightened against the door knob. Was that what Price was saying? Was that really all you were to him? A plaything?

He opened the door another inch. He needed to see your face better. He had to know what this was between you and his Captain.

“Remember the first day I brought you here? And I took you to my room. And I showed you all my scars. Do you remember?”

Ghost watched as Price tugged on your hair. Your head tilted back toward the ceiling and the captain dove into your neck again, kissing you just below your ear.

“Yes,” you answered with heavily weighted breath.

“And do you remember how you kissed me? How you teased me before you slid your sweet little tongue into my mouth? Do you remember?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed in affirmation.

“And do you remember how good it felt when my tongue was in between your legs? How it felt when my beard brushed against your thighs.”

Ghost felt his face grow hot. The scene in front of him made him feel like an intruder, a dirty and unwelcome voyeur. He knew he should leave.

But he couldn't make himself move.

He needed the truth.

He watched as one of Price’s hands left your hair and trailed slowly down your body. His fingers moved from your collarbone. Lower. Grazing your breast. Lower. Lingering over your stomach… Lower.

“Yesssss,” you whined as Price’s hand slid underneath the waistband of your pants and disappeared from Ghost’s view.

“And do you remember how hard you made me? Just by tasting you? Tell me you remember.”

You whimpered. It was a sound Ghost had never heard from you. Sweet. High-pitched. Soft.

Price’s shoulder moved up and down. His hand still plunged between your legs.

Ghost swallowed against a lump in his throat.

“I- fuckkkk,” you bucked your hips toward Price, “I remember.”

“And tell me you remember how I fucked you. When I first pushed inside you… how was it? Do you remember was I fast, like this?”

Ghost watched as Price moved his hand quicker. In and out. His right shoulder rose. Up and down. Faster, faster, and faster.

You yelped. The noise was loud and short. Your hands left Price’s hair and dug into his shoulders. You were clawing into him desperately. Falling apart with every second, every movement.

“No… no you weren’t fast,” your voice wavered as you answered.

“Good. Good girl. You remembered. Yeah, I was slow, just like this. Wasn’t I?” Price eased his pace, slowing down the movement of his hand buried in your pants.

“Yes… just like that,” you moaned as your eyes rolled back. You were lifting your hips up and down on Price’s lap now. Matching his pace.

Ghost shifted on his knees. His hand tightened against the doorknob as he continued to watch you both from the dimly lit hall.

“Has anyone else ever made you feel like that before, sweetheart? Has anyone ever made you feel that good?” Price asked as his voice dropped lower. He was practically growling at you.

And you…your face turned pink. Your lips parted. Your eyes closed. And your breathing… it became sporadic. Each inhale became a gasp. Each exhale became more desperate than the last.

This was wrong. Ghost shouldn’t be watching this. This wasn’t his intention. He never meant to see this. His eyes fell to the ground. But still, he stayed. He listened.

“No,” you moaned.

“That’s right. And no one has ever made me feel as good as you did either. You felt so good, love. So fucking good. And you want to know why I trust you?”

Ghost eyes snapped back to the two of you. This was the answer he needed.

“Mmmm tell me...” you gasped. The Captain picked up his pace, his hand delving between your legs with greater force. God the sounds your body was making. They were so loud. “Please tell me, Price.”

“It’s because I love you, beautiful. I’m so in love with you. You’re so perfect. I trust you with my life because I love you. I want to fuck you like that all the time… because I love you. If anyone got to love you like I love you they would trust you. Forever. Always.”

Ghost heard enough. He quietly backed away and gently closed the door.

He had found a truth today. Even if it wasn’t his place to hear it.

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

(More from this story on AO3)

[indulgentdaydream]

Hello!

Can you do Jason todd x reader where he's crushing on the newest vigilante in Gotham?

Thank you

New in Town

Jason Todd x Reader || Fluff || Word Count: 1,185

Warnings: profanity (swearing), death mention, violence, low-key stalking but not really??

Wrote half of the fic. Was nearly finished. It didn’t save. 😩 the ONE time i decide to write outside of the notes app

I love the idea of Jason crushing on someone like a teenage boy because he never actually GOT that chance as a teenager so he never learned how to cope with those kind of feelings, so I sprinkled that in here.

I feel like this is poorly written forgive me 🙏

He hadn’t heard of you until six months ago. He hadn’t cared then, either. You kept to the other side of the city, you didn’t pose a threat, and he was already preoccupied with his own things to deal with. You weren’t that important to him.

Jason was walking across rooftops. Two weeks, roughly, since he had caught wind of the new name, aligned with the rest of the bats.

It was a night where the rain had let up for once. It wasn’t perfect, though. Never was. The clouds still too thick to see the bright moon and stars.

He was looking for an address, one that seemingly didn’t exist. He landed on another rooftop of a short apartment building. Jason could hear the sounds of two people fighting down in the alley below him.

He walked to the edge, looked down, and there you were. Dressed up in your vigilante gear, fighting some thug.

He crouched, watching. This was much more entertaining then his fake address.

The thug was much bigger than you, but you handled yourself well. The thug lurched forward. You planted a hard, flat, kick to his stomach. He stumbled back. You got in a good punch, a right hook. The thug went with it. He bashed his back off the corner of a dumpster before crumbling to the ground.

Jason nodded once in approval. You didn’t play.

You both saw it at the same time. The clouds parted for a moment behind Jason, the light of the moon shining down over Gotham for just a moment.

The shadow of the top of the apartment split the alleyway below in half, with Jason’s crouched form’s shadow landing right in front of the thug.

He stood up and stepped back from the edge just as you started to look up. He was out of sight before you could see him. At most, you saw the glint of his helmet, but nothing else.

He walked away. He didn’t want to deal with this.

Three weeks later, Jason’s standing on a catwalk in one of Gotham’s many abandoned warehouses. He’s high enough up, hidden within a shadow, that they couldn’t see him even if they had the brains to check up instead of around.

He’s holding his AR-15, pointed down below at the drug dealers he’s been following all week. His aim is steady, mind going over the motions of the possibilities.

“Psst.”

Jason whipped his head up. He aimed the rifle in front of him. There, on the other catwalk, ten feet away from him, was you.

You were leaning on the railing, smiling. Jason didn’t like how his first thought was the realization that this was the closest he had ever been to you.

“Want some help?” You whispered loudly, your smile pulling into a grin.

He looked back down, fixing his aim, “No.”

You leaned further over the railing, exposing nearly half your body to the drug dealers below if they so happened to look up. You whispered your name. Your vigilante name, that is. He didn’t respond.

“Rude,” he heard you mutter. You stayed silent for just a moment as he watched the dealers walk around their table, complaining about their business not showing up. The business that Jason had left dead in an alleyway an hour ago.

Silent treatment wasn’t going to work. You spoke up again, “Why didn’t you say hello? When you saw me in the alley?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to.” Except he had wanted to, just not like that. And not like this.

It was your turn to stay silent. Jason looked up without moving. With his helmet, you couldn’t tell if he was, or was watching the men below.

Standing up straight again, your head was turned away a little, obviously listening to somebody babble away in your ear.

He looked back down before you turned your head back, “Welp, should’ve accepted my offer. I gotta go.”

“Buh-bye,” Jason said dryly before you were walking off down the catwalk.

What can he say? He was intrigued after that. He’d watch you fight from hidden corners, never daring to step out. He waited for the right opportunity to talk to you again. He… did it for too long. A couple months too long.

It wasn’t stalking. That’s what he told himself. He hadn’t pushed to discover your identity, hadn’t learned your exact schedule. He just… kept looking for a chance to talk.

Jason hated it. Hated that he couldn’t come up with a way to approach you. Hated how he got tongue tied thinking about it. How his palms got damp. What could he say?

He ran into Dick one night. They sat on the edge of a building and talked. Which turned to bickering for a while, before it came into a “Who had the worst Bruce experience” argument.

He shut up the second you landed on the roof behind them, “I could hear you two from an entire street over.”

Dick clapped his hands together, a smile breaking out at the sight of you. Jason turned to watch. He walked over, happily calling your name. He got to you, pointing at Jason as he slipped an arm around your shoulders, “Tell this guy he’s wrong.”

You frowned, “I don’t even know this guy.”

Jason remembered he had taken off his helmet, left in only his domino mask. You couldn’t see the rest of his clothes from the fact he’s sitting facing away from you.

Speak! Dammit! He chided himself. He picked up his helmet from his side, bringing it around to show you. He watched your eyes widen in recognition.

“Ooooh,” you immediately nodded, “Yeah. You’re wrong.”

Jason found his words with an amused smirk, “You don’t even know what for.”

You shrug and Dick laughs, “That’s the spirit!”

Jason turned back around. He pretended like he was watching the city line, but he was really listening to yours and Dick’s conversation. He kept trying to look for ways in, ways to talk to you.

Now! Nope, Dick said something unrelated, too quickly. Now your conversation went in that direction. Here! Too late. He hesitated.

He stopped listening, pursing his lips in annoyance at his own stupid, boyish inability to talk to the attractive new vigilante.

“Oh… he said he didn’t want to talk to me. Probably annoyed by my presence.”

He tuned back in.

“How rude.”

“That’s what I said!”

Jason looked back over his shoulder. The two of you were standing there, arms crossed, looking at him.

“What?”

Dick seemed to remember something, “Have you two even been formally introduced?”

You grumbled something along the lines of, “Tried that.”

Jason shrugged, “I’ve seen them around,” he met your eyes, “You fight good.”

What kind of fucking compliment is that?

“So do you,” you smiled.

Jason’s eyebrows furrowed a little in confusion. You could see the movement through the domino mask, “You’ve never seen me fight.”

You grinned, pointing at him, “That’s what you think.”

Jason smirked a little. Oh, he liked you, alright.

[simpleeindulge]

The Beast and The Mouse

Info: fem/reader x Kid, 1st meetings, cussing and rude language, Kid in denial, Kid gets a crush, implied sexual yearning, future mature content planned.

Context: Kid develops a crush on a girl, and he can't deal with it.

Part 1.

Part 2. Me Mouse, You Bull.

Kid breathed heavily as his heart pounded in his chest. A mixture of joy and rage with hits of excitement and annoyance sparked his adrenaline to act. Kid had to give this lame example of a pirate crew some credit. It was a ballsy move to sneak attack his crew.

"Rip them apart and burn this hunk of wood!" Kid shouted over the noise of the battle. "I want this ship buried at the bottom of the ocean!"

His crew cheered out to signal that they heard his command. Kid smirked and lifted the defeated captain by his shirt.

"This is why you don't mess with real pirates." Kid sneered as the man struggled in his grip.

The sound of a bullet hitting its target nearby caught his attention, and Kid saw one of his crewmembers wounded. His flaming orange eyes narrowed, and he looked for the perpetrator. The failed pirate captain beat his hands uselessly at Kid’s grip while pleading for his life.

Growing more annoyed and bored, Kid hung the man on the handle of a knife stuck in the central mass of the ship. He then swung his metal-covered fist and punched the man’s face. The impact made cracks in the wood surrounding the man's once-intact skull.

The crushing wet sound satisfied Kid a little, but it didn't make up for how boring this fight had been. Another shot rang out, and Kidd moved his head. The wood in the mass splinters, sending pieces flying onto Kid's shoulder.

That sniper is getting brave to try a headshot, especially since he's a lousy shot, Kid thought as he turned.

The space where his crewmate had been shot was empty. In the air, Kid could get a brief whiff of her scent. This would be his mouse’s third battle, and the silly girl was actually doing fine. Kid scoffed at the mental praise and rubbed his neck as he thought of her.

This battle is nothing compared to his past ones, and this was only the beginning. The bloodshed will get to her eventually, and she will leave.

Kid had to wonder why the girl hadn't left yet but not now. Now, he had a ship to set on fire.

“Heat!” He shouted at his long-time comrade. The man cut down two fleeing enemy pirates and then looked at Kid.

“Light it up! We’re done here!”

Heat thumbs up him as Killer and Wire called the crew back to the ship. Kid didn’t bother to stick around and turned his back.

The gunshot came a third time, but Kid was ready. He used his power to repel the bullet and then used it to summon the rifle. The sniper stupidly held on to his weapon and flew towards Kid.

Kid grinned wickedly, balled up his fist, and punched the man into the sea, knocking him out.

Around him, Kid’s crew fled towards the Victoria Punk with whatever valuables they found. At least they had some decent treasure, Kid observed as he tapped his fingers on his arm. His eyes searched for the girl among the others. Usually, he would just trust that everyone on his crew made it safely back, but…

“Mouse!” Kid shouted out impatiently.

She had a name, but Kid didn't want to be too familiar with her. She couldn't possibly last another week of pillaging, killing, and whatever debaucherous acts he and his crew committed. Or once did, Kid had been cutting back on his usual "habits".

“Yes?”

Kid snapped out of his thoughts and peered down at the short girl. Her hair was pulled up, and on her right cheek was a small bandage. Over her shoulder hung her medic bag.

“Did you get everyone off the ship?” He asked gruffly.

“Anyone that needs help has been assisted.” She replied militantly.

Kid rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. Smartass. He then noted the bandage and motioned at her cheek with his chin.

“You were careless.”

Y/N’s hand flew to the bandage to cover it.

“I was-“

"Careless!" Kid snapped.

Her eyes glanced down, and Kid could see the defiance in her body. It angered him that she wasn't understanding what he was trying to tell her.

"I can't be looking out for you! I need everyone to pull their weight in a fight!"

Y/N winced at the Kid's loud voice, which, in her defense, can be jarring when you least expect it.

However, Kid saw her wincing as something else. Weakness. Weakness was the last thing he needed on his crew, and his simmering annoyance at her flickered to rage.

"GET ON THE SHIP AND STAY OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

With one blink, Y/N had disappeared. Kid huffed and rubbed a hand over his face. What had gotten into him? How could he let his temper get so out of hand?

Why did his mood become unstable every time he talked to the girl? This was clearly on her, not him. Why hadn't he gotten rid of her? And what happened to her face that she needed a bandage?

Kid sighed and quieted his mind as Killer approached him. In the background, Heat spread his fire over the ship's deck, and Wire was busy tying up the rest of the sorry crew together.

"You okay, Captain?"

"Yeah, let's go."

Kid started to walk back to the ship as the screams of the men filled the air along with the smoke from their burning ship.

Killer followed beside him quietly and calmly. There were many reasons why Kid considered Killer to be his best bud. The main thing was that Killer didn't talk just to talk. Kid spat on the burning deck just before boarding the Victoria Punk.

"Bunch of weaklings. Couldn't bother to put up a decent fight! What fucking waste of time!" Kid mumbled to himself. Killer said nothing as he listened to his best friend. Kid walked along the deck side of his ship and opened a door.

"I mean, why bother attacking if you're just going to run when it gets difficult! You either attack and win or have some guts and die trying!" Kid went on as they kept walking.

Killer was still listening to his friend, but now he was wondering why they were heading in this direction. Kid stopped talking momentarily as the image of Y/N's bandage cheek crossed his mind. Killer waited patiently to see if he would say something else, like what was actually bothering him.

"Hey," Kid asked Killer in a low voice. "Did you see what happened to Mouse?"

Kid could see the brows raising behind the mask Killer wore and turned away as he walked.

"She has a bandage on her face," Kid explained with a hint of a growl in his voice.

"She was doing her job, Kid. Mosh got shot by that sniper you punched into the sea, and Mouse was helping him."

Kid considered Killers' words and then asked again. "But did you see what happened?"

Killer sighed, rubbed the back of his head, and said, "It doesn't matter. You already punched the guy into the sea."

Kid stopped cold, and Killer stopped with him out of curiosity. Contrary to what his rival, Trafalgar Law, thought, Kid wasn't stupid. Impulsive, egotistical, and cocky, yes, but stupid, no. He understood what Killer had implied and what had happened to Mouse. That made him think of what could have happened to her, and it angered him.

Kid had never once thought, "What if...", but ever since that damn girl joined the crew, his mind had been filled with nothing but "What if...".

His shoulders shook with anger, and Kid's steps hit the floor with a heavy sound as he started walking toward the medical ward. Killer's shoulder heaved as he sighed, then followed behind his captain.

Y/N was busy putting away supplies and restocking her medical kit. Thankfully, the battle wasn't that bad, and there were only minor injuries to treat. Most of her injured crewmates were in the mess hall drinking while the others were resting in their rooms. Still, she wanted to be prepared for the next time-

"YOU!"

Y/n hated that she squeaked at Kid's sudden outburst of anger, and she stepped back as the jar she held in her hand slipped and exploded on the ground. Kid had this annoying habit of shouting at her whenever he came near her. She guessed that it was a silly tactic to frighten her off. All it really did was stoke the flames of her own simmering temper.

Oh, god, what now? She thought as her eyes met Kid's while she focused her breathing. The last thing she wanted to do was get in a screaming match with her Captain. One, she would lose, and two, it would hurt her throat.

Y/N stood still, not wanting to step on the broken glass and spilled ointment. Her hands gripped the side of her pants as she mourned the broken jar of salve that took her three months to make. Maybe she could salvage some of it?

Kid was used to her eyes by now, and by used to them, it meant he trained himself not to look directly into her eyes. He stormed up to her and ripped off the bandage from her cheek.

"Ouch!" Y/N cried.

Her hand went to cover the mark, but Kid grabbed her wrist and gripped her chin to turn her face. The wound looked red and puffy. It was barely two inches long, but had she not been lucky, her jaw could have been shot off.

The sniper was a lousy shot, but Kid would have lost his mouse if he had more skills.

"Captain," Y/N said in a harsher tone than he was used to hearing. "Captain, please let go of my face and wrist."

Kid blinked and released Y/N from his grip. Y/N noticed that he was standing on her homemade salve. There would be no saving any of it now, and it angered her.

For the first time, she glared up from her lashes at Kid. His anger simmered down, and he took a step back. Y/N knelt down to see what, if anything, she could still save.

"Y-you," Kid started to say, then glared down at her and shouted, "You could have been shot dead today!"

This again?!

"You were careless doing your job, and you could've-"

"Well, I didn't! I didn't get shot, and I didn't die! I did my job!" She shouted back as her face snapped up at him. Her eyes brightened with anger, and Kid and to glance away before he could get lost in them like a damn fool.

Killer stayed leaning in the doorway in case he needed to jump in to defend the girl, but it looked like Kid's 'little mouse' could fend for herself. He was tempted to leave but wanted to see how this would play out.

"Are you raising your voice at me!"

"If it will get you to listen to me, then yes! Captain! I am!"

"You have some gull-"

"And you're rude! Look at my salve! You made me drop it and stomped all over it like some raging bull!"

"Are you calling me an animal!"

"Not to insult the beast, but yes, I am!" Y/N said as she stood to her feet.

Kid blustered and paced before her. He wanted to punch something. Not her, no, he could never hurt her, but he wanted to punch something hard to release everything he was feeling. That "what if..." feeling, along with his desire for Y/N, he wanted to punch it all away.

Y/N watched him carefully as she shook with frustration. She could tell he wanted to hit something. She bit her lip and clutched her fists, ready to run in case Kid decided to make her his target.

Y/n didn't think he would, but the past was something to learn from, and she didn't know him completely yet. Killer had to be by the door for a reason. Would he jump to help her out? Why did she think joining this crew would be good for her?

A better question is, why did she fall for Kid's charismatic offer? For him?

She stopped asking rhetorical questions when she saw Kid stop and raise his fist above an examination table.

''Don't you dare!" Y/N shouted in a commanding voice.

Kid flinched and felt chastised as his fist fell short. Killer snorted and felt impressed as he turned to leave. He had seen enough to know that the girl had a fair amount of sway over his short-tempered friend. She would be alright.

Kid held his fist over the table with the temptation to slam it down, but he stared at Y/N. Stared right into her beautiful, stern eyes. How strong they looked without being cold, and her lips pressed calmly together looked tantalizing to kiss till they were red and swollen.

With his mind clearly drifting, Y/n walked around her ruined salve and put her hands on his fist. Kid raised a brow as she tried to move it away from the table.

"What are you doing?" He asked with a corner of his lip turning up.

She grunted and said forcibly as she continued to push on his arm.

"I don't want you breaking anything else in the medical ward! Go, oof, break something in the mess hall, you big bull!"

Kid snorted and then laughed as Y/N kept trying to move his arm. He flexed his arm and held it steady.

"Come on, Mouse! Is that the best you can do?" Kid teased.

"I used too much of my speed strength during the battle," Y/N said, punctuating each word as she struggled.

Kid quieted, then surprised her by grabbing her by the waist.

She gasped and shrieked as Kid lifted her up and sat her on the table. Y/N may have overused her power, but she had enough to escape if needed. Only Kid shocked her again as he slammed his hands down on the table, trapping her.

Her face was close to his, and she felt her breath go still as Kid's red/orange eyes bore into her. Her heart thumped, and her spine heated with a shiver she hadn't felt in a long time. Her lips tingled, making her crave something she shouldn't.

Kid wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her deeply with his tongue, tasting her while pushing her down onto the table to feel her. She would taste good, and her whimpers would be like sprinkled sugar on an already delicious treat.

It was hard not to lick his lips as he, for once, thought of what he would do. What he would do her.

"You need more training, Mouse," Kid said in a warm, gravelly voice.

"This battle, along with the other two you were in, is nothing. I have seen worse, and this was nothing."

Y/n's eyes widened, and she sucked in her bottom lip nervously. God damn, Kid didn't think she meant to do it on purpose, but he ached for her. Seeing her soft, pink lip moving like that made him ache in the worst way.

"Alright," She sighed, looking down at her lap. Kid had to shift to keep her from seeing and winced painfully at what he hid from her.

"I'll train harder, but you need to stop yelling at me for no reason."

"I have-"

"No!" Y/N said in a sharp, pleading tone. She then touched his chest, and Kid instantly calmed. "Please, Captain, you can't barge in here and scare me into dropping things! That salve is expensive and takes a long time to make."

"Fine."

Kid pushed off the table and crossed his arms. Being scolded again by this little woman made Kidd's aching lessen, but only a little.

"I'll give you the money to make it again."

"And you'll help me make it!" She added cheerfully.

When Kid tried to argue, Y/n held up her hand and explained, "So you will understand its value. It's a family recipe that helps with cuts and burns."

"I don't-"

"Please."

She gazed at him with that soft expression that warmed the blood in his heart. As he gazed at her, sitting calmly on the table with that mark on her cheek, Kid started to feel a vague sensation that had not been felt in a long time.

He looked at the ground where the salve was smeared and found a glob that looked clean enough to use. He picked part of it up with his finger and swiped it upwards on Y/N's cheek. She closed her eyes at the cold ointment touching her skin.

A small part of her wished he would kiss her, but when his hand left her face, she knew it was hopeless to wish. After all, she wasn't his type.

Part 3

@ella157 , @bdudette ,

[solarmorrigan]

“That’s it?” Steve asks. “You’re not going to go to prom because you don’t know how to dance?”

“I’m uncoordinated enough! I don’t need to be out there making even more of an idiot of myself in some floofy dress,” Robin insists.

“Rob, no one at prom knows how to dance. Everyone kind of looks like an idiot, that’s half the point,” Steve says.

“Oh yeah, Steve, you’re really selling me on the experience,” Robin drawls.

“No, listen, I’m not done,” Steve says, giving her a nudge. “The other half of the point is just… going and having the memories, y’know? You get to dress up and take the dumb picture with your date, and avoid the punch because someone probably spiked it, and you get to dance and be close to someone and just, like, be carefree for a night.”

Robin says nothing. She doesn’t agree that prom night is paramount to the teen experience, she doesn’t tease the shit out of him for having such stereotypical expectations of a dumb high school dance, she’s just… watching him. She’s turned sideways on the sofa, one leg drawn up to her chest, and she’s looking at him like he’s something between a fascinating puzzle and the saddest thing she’s seen all day, and he knows what she’s thinking.

Steve hadn’t gone to senior prom. He’d been planning to, of course, at the beginning of the year – he’d had Nancy then, and even as early as October, he’d been fantasizing about the flowers he’d bring her and the dinner they’d go to and the way they would sway slowly to whatever shitty songs the DJ put on. But by the time spring had rolled around, he not only hadn’t had Nancy, he hadn’t really had any friends in school at all—not real ones—and so he hadn’t seen the point in attending.

He'd gone to a movie with Dustin that night, instead (he’s at least eighty percent certain the little shit had set it up as some kind of pity outing, since he’d known Steve wasn’t going to prom, but it had been kind of nice that someone had cared enough to even try). It hadn’t been bad, but it hadn’t been exactly what he’d wanted.

Stiffly, Steve glances away from Robin and shrugs. “Or whatever. That’s what it’s like in the movies, right?”

Robin opens her mouth, but her eyes are still soft, and suddenly Steve doesn’t want to hear what she has to say. Instead, he levers himself up off the couch and turns to her, holding out a hand.

“C’mon, I’ll teach you,” he says, cracking a grin. “Then you won’t have an excuse not to go.”

“You… want to teach me how to dance,” Robin asks flatly.

Steve shrugs. “You got anything better to do tonight?”

Raising a sharp brow at Steve, Robin starts to smile, too. “You sure you wanna subject your feet to that?”

“I think I can handle it,” Steve shoots back, and then Robin is up off the couch and helping him push the coffee table out of the way.

They rifle through Steve’s collection of tapes until they find something he deems just the right tempo, pop the cassette in, and stand in the middle of the living room.

“Okay, give me your hand,” Steve says, taking her right hand in his left, “and your other goes on my shoulder.”

Robin does as he says, glancing dubiously down at her feet as Steve places his hand on her waist. “I’m not actually sure this is a good idea,” she says with a grimace. “I might be unteachable.”

“We haven’t even started yet,” Steve reminds her. “Seriously, relax, this is super easy. It’s just a box step waltz.”

Despite her uncertainty, Robin can’t help but smirk at him. “A waltz, huh?” she teases. “Did your parents make you take fancy-pants, rich kid dance lessons when you were younger, or something?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No. My mom taught me,” he says, and then rushes on before Robin has anything to say about that. “So you’re gonna start by stepping back with your right foot when I step forward, alright?”

Brows furrowed, Robin nods and looks down at her feet again, and Steve squeezes her waist gently to get her attention.

“Look up at me, not at your feet. It’ll be easier, I promise.”

“How am I going to know what my feet are doing if I’m not looking at them?”

“You’re attached to them, Robin.”

“That’s debatable.”

Steve tries not to laugh. He really does. “Okay, you’re in marching band, right? This cannot be harder than following whatever steps that involves while also playing an instrument.”

“This is different!” Robin insists. “I can’t step on the French horn’s feet! The French horn isn’t gonna judge me if I fuck up! Like, the worst that’ll happen in marching band is that the drum major will yell at you, and the drum major is always yelling, so it doesn’t even make a difference anymore, and–”

“Hey,” Steve cuts in, squeezing Robin’s hand this time. “I’m not going to judge you if you fuck up, okay? I am literally the last person qualified to do that.”

Robin huffs out a little laugh. “Right. Two of a kind,” she says.

“Exactly.” Steve grins. “Now c’mon, Buckley, I know you’ve got this. On one, back with your right foot.”

Nodding, Robin glances down at her feet, but looks right back up at Steve. “Okay.”

“Okay. One–”

Steve steps forward with his left foot, and Robin immediately steps forward with her right and kicks him in the shin.

“Ow,” Steve says, dry and flat because it hadn’t really hurt.

“Sorry!” Robin ducks her head, laughing nervously.

Steve shakes his head. “Let’s try that again. Back with your right foot.”

“At least I had the right side?”

“Yep, now aim for the right direction, yeah?”

This time, when Steve counts off, Robin’s right foot goes back, and his left follows her.

“Okay, now what?” Robin asks, looking down again.

“Now, you’re gonna bring your left foot–” gently, Steve judges the top of her left foot with his right, “back,” as she begins to slide back, he moves and taps the inside of her ankle, “and to the left. Just like that.”

“No injuries this time,” Robin quips, and Steve smiles.

“Now move your right foot over next to your left.” He nods as Robin gets her feet back together. “Forward with your left foot – good,” he encourages as he steps back to mirror her. “And now forward and to the side with your right. Like you did with your left before, but opposite.”

“Uh.” Robin makes the move slowly, still staring down, but she looks back up at him when she gets her right foot planted. “Like that?”

“Yep. Now left foot over, and–” Steve follows her, bringing them back to the same position they started in, “that’s it!”

Robin blinks at him. “That’s it?”

“Easy, right?” Steve says.

“Yeah.” Robin nods hesitantly. “I think I can handle that.”

“Of course you can,” Steve insists. “Now let’s try it again. Back with your right foot. One–”

Robin steps forward with her right and kicks Steve in the shin.

“Sorry!”

Steve quickly becomes glad they’re both in their socks, or he’d be sporting much more serious bruises by the time they reach the end of the tape. Robin doesn’t have any trouble keeping the order of the steps in mind, but keeps moving in the opposite direction of where she’s supposed to be going, and Steve has been kicked and stepped on more times in the last half hour than he thinks he has been in his entire life.

“This is ridiculous,” Robin groans. “This is the literal definition of women having to do everything backwards and in heels!”

“You’re not wearing heels,” Steve points out.

“I would be at prom,” Robin says. “Why do I have to go backwards?”

“Because you’re following.”

“Well why can’t I lead?”

“Because you don’t even know how to follow!”

“Exactly! I’m starting from scratch either way!” Robin aims pleading eyes up at Steve. “Can’t we just try it in reverse? How much worse at it could I be?”

The thing is, Steve’s only ever led when dancing – he’s never had reason to learn how to do the follow part. But then, he’s already been reversing the steps in his head all night in order to instruct Robin; following couldn’t be that hard, could it?

“Fine,” Steve groans, letting his head hang back for a moment. “Fine. Trade me.”

“Yes! Trade!” Robin pumps her fist once in triumph, and Steve can’t help but laugh.

He lets go of her right hand and instead takes her left before putting his other hand on her shoulder.

“Hand on my waist.” Steve nods to his to his left side, and Robin moves into position. “Right, so you’re gonna step forward with your left this time, okay?”

Robin nods. “Forward with my left. Okay.”

“Okay. One–”

Steve steps back with his right foot. Robin steps back with her left.

They stand there, each half balanced on their back foot, staring at each other, before Robin bursts into laughter. Steve follows suit.

“I– I told you I was unteachable,” Robin giggles once they’ve caught their breath, her forehead resting on Steve’s shoulder.

“Nope, this is a personal challenge now,” Steve insists, still grinning. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a quitter. You’re going to learn to waltz if it kills me.”

“Shouldn’t it be ‘if it kills me’?” Robin draws back to ask.

“My death is looking a lot more likely at this point,” Steve says, and Robin snorts.

“God, you’re so dramatic.”

“Yeah, okay, Miss Unteachable. Ready to try again?”

Robin takes in a breath, wiggles her shoulders, and puts her hands back in position. “Ready.”

“Great. Just remember–”

“Forward with my left foot,” Robin echoes, overlapping Steve’s instruction perfectly.

Steve grins. “Okay, then. One–”

Somehow, Robin makes a better leader than a follower. Once she gets over the initial nerves, she manages the reverse order of steps just fine, even getting confident enough to stop looking at her feet after several sets.

(The fact that Steve has no trouble immediately reversing the steps himself and still instructing Robin receives no comment, though it does receive a brief glare, which gets a smug grin in return.)

They rewind the tape again and keep going. Steve lifts their joined hands to spin Robin around when they hit the second song and she follows with a laugh before insisting that, since she’s leading, she should be the one spinning Steve. He has to duck a little to get under her arm, but they feel the maneuver is quite successful.

Robin offers to try to dip him, but Steve declines, insisting he doesn’t feel like getting dropped on the floor today, earning a pinch at his waist even as Robin laughs.

As the evening wears on, they give up their carefully-held waltz positions and lean in close, until Robin’s head is resting on Steve’s shoulder again, her arms wrapped around his waist, while Steve drapes his arms over her shoulders and leans his head on top of hers.

“This is the kind of slow dancing I would’ve expected from Steve Harrington at prom,” Robin says as they sway in gentle circles to the beat of the music.

Steve hiccups out a little laugh. “Yeah, well, I had to make sure you knew how to do the real thing, first.”

“And?” Robin asks. “Do I pass?”

“I think you’ve got the hang of it,” Steve says. “Now you have no excuse not to go.”

“Steve,” Robin draws back a little, enough to look up at him without pulling away, “who the hell do you think I’m going to be dancing with at prom? It’s not like I can ask– anyone I’d be interested in.”

Steve’s heart sinks a little, the same way it always does when he’s reminded of how fucking unfair the world is to Robin and to other people like her. He shrugs a bit lamely. “You could go with friends?”

“I guess,” Robin says, staring at the front of Steve’s shirt, suddenly lost in thought.

Steve frowns. He doesn’t even remember what had gotten them onto the subject of prom—it’s January, the dance is months away—but what had started out as something fun is starting to make Robin feel bad, and he can’t have that.

“Hey, I didn’t mean–”

“You should go with me,” Robin cuts in, looking back up at him.

“What?”

“To prom,” Robin says. “You should be my big ol’ platonic date.”

“Right,” Steve drawls. “Because going to prom the year after you’ve graduated doesn’t scream that you haven’t moved on from high school at all. Definitely not sad, or anything.”

“Sure,” Robin agrees wryly. “About as un-sad as not going to your senior dance at all.”

Steve cuts a sharp look at Robin, who just smiles at him.

“I mean, I’m just saying: who better to give me the whole prom experience?” Robin shrugs, tone entirely too innocent to be trusted. “If you go with me, we can dress up and get the dumb picture together, and we can avoid the punch, and you can tell me all the gossip I know for a fact you still know about at least half the people there, we can dance… The whole shebang.”

When Steve had been imagining prom night with Nancy the year before, he’d imagined romance. He’d imagined meeting her eyes across the dinner table and sneaking kisses on the dance floor. He’d imagined going back to his place afterwards and making love, spending the rest of the night worshipping Nancy and making sure she knew how beautiful she’d looked and what a wonderful time he’d had with her.

But when he thinks about it now, he thinks about making jokes at dinner with Robin, about standing around in the tinsel-strewn gym and making catty remarks about who’s dressed terribly and whose dancing is even worse. He thinks about them dancing together, still, and maybe they’ll still go back to his place afterwards, where they can watch terrible movies for the rest of the night.

It doesn’t sound at all like what he’d wanted a year ago.

It sounds perfect, now.

“You’ll have to buy the tickets,” Steve finally says, and Robin’s face lights up. “And I expect my corsage to be very fancy.”

Robin laughs. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t be a cheap date, Harrington.”

“We can go Dutch on dinner, if you want,” Steve says.

“How generous,” Robin deadpans, and Steve doesn’t bother to hold back his own grin.

They both know he’s probably going to pay for dinner. He doesn’t mind.

“You’re serious, though?” Robin asks, looking up at him. “You really want to go to prom just to waltz with me?”

“Well, I went to all the trouble of teaching you.” Steve shrugs.

Robin bites her lip around a smile. “Do I get to lead?”

“For the sake of my shins, you’d better,” Steve says, and Robin laughs, leaning back in to cinch her arms around his waist again.

“You are my favorite person, you know that?” she says softly, just audible over music still crooning from the stereo.

“Yeah,” Steve says, pressing his cheek to the top of her head and closing his eyes. “You’re mine, too.”

[Prompt: Slow dancing]

[the-californicationist]

Troubleshooting

For @glitterypirateduck's super fun Oh, Captain! challenge. This is for prompt #8 where our deceptive captain tries to hide a secret from his gunsmith.

She could smell him long before she saw his hulking form stop in front of her office door. The sweet scent of his signature Romeo y Julieta cigars gave him away; a jewel from Villa Clara, Cuba. The tight-rolled tobacco smoldered amber and gold in the dark, its rustic funk and black licorice smoke gently curling out of his parted lips, trapped under his dirty boonie hat.  

When she had been assigned to his team, she’d been dreading the constant relocating and high profile secrecy. It was hard enough to find 5.56 ammo for that mouthy Scot’s Steyr bullpup, much less have it delivered to a black site without a postcode. But, as she let her eyes wander up his mountainous shoulders, tracing the outline of a sharp, scruffy Adam’s apple, watching as his jaw rippled and clenched to bite down on the soft end of his cigar, she admitted to herself that she could deal with a few shipping delays as long as she got to enjoy John Price. Now, just a few weeks into this roughshod operation, she ached to see what lurked under all that gear. 

She cleaned up her station, carefully screwing on the cap to her powder and putting it under the workbench. When he spoke, it was always confident but soft, like a stage whisper, words only she was meant to hear. 

“Smithy,” he took a long drag from his Cuban and pulled the creamy smoke in through his nose, a very casual French inhale, breathing it out and down sharply, purposefully avoiding her face.

He’d never called her by her name, only by his clipped version of her title of Chief Gunsmith. She knew he must be aware of it since he requested her transfer, but she had always been “Smithy” to him. 

“Captain, how are we this evening?” She gazed into his eyes with intent, hoping he would see her desire in them and be pleased. 

“We’re alright,” he took the cigar from his mouth and let it rest between his fingers, smiling down at her as he loomed, his height making her feel small. He removed his hat, placing it on her bench before leaning against the table, his huge hand spreading wide across the stainless surface. He continued,

“You know, this M4 has been giving me a bit of trouble. I cleaned it, but even after a full breakdown, the bolt isn’t sitting flush. Think you could help me get it all the way in?”

She let his quiet rumbling voice wash over her like a wave, lapping at her mind and making her breath catch in her chest. The double entendre was so obvious as to almost be in jest, but his suggestive tone - though subtle - was enough for her to believe in it. 

“Did you use enough oil? A little lubricant goes a long way, Captain, but some parts need more than others. Especially if it was a vigorous cleaning,” she threw him a bone in hopes he would bite it. 

He did, replying with a sly smile,

“Perhaps I went a little rough with her. Think you can take a look?”

He licked his lips, watching as the flush tinted her neck and cheeks, hungry for her attention. She watched him shift his weight, rocking forward towards the bench, flexing his hips. Obviously, she was getting to him. She turned up the heat, pushing her luck,

“Rough is just fine, John, but with the size of the bolt head you’ve got here, you just need to make sure she’s slick enough to take it.”

She smiled sweetly, taking the rifle from him and laying it across the bench. Now that she had turned her attention to the gun, she could only watch him from the corner of her eye. But, she knew she had landed a punch when he had to turn his head away from her and pull at the inside leg of his pants, adjusting. 

Then, as she took apart the barrel from the bolt and its lever, she realized he had been lying to her. He had replaced the trigger assembly before the bolt, effectively causing the problem he was asking her to solve. Price knew this gun better than the back of his own hand, and he had come down to her office with this game, hoping to score. 

Her heart raced when she discovered the error, and she tried her best to maintain a straight face, not wanting him to realize she’d caught him yet. She still wanted to play. 

She rebuilt the weapon, glossing over the false mistake, and pulled the bolt back flush. 

“There,” she sighed, “good as new.”

The ball was clearly in his court and she waited to see what he would do. His voice had dropped into a deep, threatening register, and he was leaning so far over the workbench that she could see his pupils dilate, pushing back the bright blue and revealing the blackness behind it,

“What was the problem, Smithy?”

He began to stalk her around the edge of the table, taking impossibly slow steps toward her side of the bench, eyes fixed on her mouth. She saw his chest rising and falling faster and stronger, lifting his protective vest and causing the lingering smoke between his lips to billow chaotically around his dark beard. She held her ground, turning her body toward his as he walked,

“You made a rookie mistake, Captain Price. One that you’re not capable of making...”

His eyes sparked to life, focusing on hers now, and he knew that he’d been discovered. She continued to dismantle his farce,

“…and I wonder how it can be possible…”

Price rounded the first corner of the table, hanging on her every word. He took his cigar and pulled a long drag.

“...that such an experienced…”

Another step. The leather of his boot creaked as he pressed it down.

“...intelligent…”

Another step. She could smell his cologne now. Vetiver. Musk.

“...diligent soldier…”

He crossed the second corner, letting the smoke fall out of his mouth, pouring like water down his chin and tangling in his beard, holding his breath to let her view the effect. His teeth were clenched together behind his full mouth, and he began to smile in a sinister, pained way. She went on, quieter, her voice betraying her nerves,

“...would somehow forget how to put his own gun back together.”

Price’s cigar had come to an end, and he crushed it out under his boot as he stood in front of her, too close for propriety, just close enough to smell her coconut shampoo. He hummed, playing along, falsifying a sense of wonder and mystery in his tone.

“That is quite the mystery, innit? Must’ve been distracted by…” Price brought his hand up to touch the tip of his gunsmith’s long braid as it lay draped over her shoulder, laying on her breast, “…something important.”

“John,” she whispered, leaning toward him instinctively.

In the half-second between her speaking his name and the silence that came after, he struck like a snake, wrapping the rest of her braid around his fist like a rope, yanking her head back and pulling her to his body, letting their gear and clothes rustle between them, not caring where the vests and belts and buckles twisted and pinched, letting the tension linger. His free hand grabbed her jaw and neck in his wide, open palm, fingers pressing into her skin, warm and callused. 

His voice was so strained and full of his want that it seemed like a growl, rambling in a rushed, fervent monologue,

“You’ve been teasing me again, Smithy. Ever since we got back from that damn operation. You’ve been coming to the gym at night, when I lift, and you wear those fucking shorts and you show off that thick arse, bending over in front of the racks, pulling them up higher so I can how see your wet cunt is soaking right through them,” his hand yanked her head back, making her gasp. He loved that noise,

“Delicious. Your pretty little cunt, ready to eat. Right within my reach. A whole gym, empty, and you pick that spot every damn time. Moving past me in the lockers, letting me smell you, and now I want a taste.” 

She felt the stinging tightness of her scalp as he tugged on her braid, locking her body in place against his, controlling her head, moving it toward his face. He grimaced like he was in agony even though she was the one under his fist. His touch was such a relief. She’d been torturing him for weeks, and she surrendered to him, pliant to his whims, hoping he understood that her lack of resistance was essentially her begging him to forgive her for leaving him starving.

“Alright,” she smiled, still at his mercy, “If you want a taste, you can have one.” She watched as his eyes grew wide with anticipation as she unbuttoned her pants and tugged down the zipper. She bit her lip and shrugged, “On your knees, soldier.”

AO3 Link

[daisygirlwrites]

Rookie Mistake

Summary: Alternative title, How You Got Your Call Sign

Warnings: Descriptions of violence, minor character death

Pairing(s): Task Force 141 x fem!Reader (Platonic)

Note: No use of (Y/N). Only description of the reader is that she’s short

a/n: hey there! first and foremost, big thanks to @einno-arko​ for editing it! please check out her page! it has been a long time since i’ve written a fanfic so do forgive me for how rough this is. it is also 3 in the morning as im typing, woops. also, would love to hear feedback so i can make improvements in future works. thank y’all!

Being short has its advantages at times. For your job as a sniper, you could be placed anywhere without being seen. During your basic and special forces training, where most people are at least a head taller than you, you were taught techniques for someone only your size can pull off. 

The man in front of you is probably the tallest person you’ve seen on the field. At least two feet taller than you and all muscle. ‘Tank’, his teammates call him. Truly matches the description.  You try not to think about how one of his hands can wrap around your neck and squeeze the life out of you.

Instead, you pull out your knife and charge towards him. He runs towards you, arms up and ready to take a swing. Expecting a punch, you lean your upper body forward, keeping your head low. On your last step, you push upwards with your foot. Tank misses you, his stance uneven and his legs still wide open.

For a millisecond, you thought about slicing the area between his thighs, making things easier for you in the long run. Instead, you stick with the training that’s been engraved into your head. Diving in the open space between his legs, you run your knife through his inner thigh, hoping it’s deep enough to at least damage the femoral artery.

Tank lets out a scream and staggers forward as you slide down on the floor. With his back to you, you push your body up and sprint towards him. The ideal situation is for you to get to him and pull his head back enough to slice his throat. But life isn’t always ideal.

To your shock, he quickly gets up onto his feet and turns around, facing you. As if his strength doubled, he knocks the knife out of your hand and, for a split second, your eyes follow the knife as it flies across the room. That was all Tank needed, grabbing both of your arms and lifting you up. Yeah, you should have just sliced his dick.

It was at this time that the rest of the team entered the room. The sight was almost comical; you being held up, legs dangling like a rag doll. Tank casts a quick glance from the corner of his eye. All four men with their rifles up, pointing towards the two of you, but it was the one with a skull mask that made his body break out into a cold sweat. Four against one are really bad odds, especially with an injured leg.

Tank still has you held out, practically using you as a human shield for the upper half of his body. But with your insistent wiggling and attempts at kicking him, it becomes more difficult for him to keep a grip on you.

He knows that he probably won’t leave this room alive, and he’d rather die than to surrender. Tank goes through his options, looking at the small soldier in his hands. ‘Should have grabbed them by the neck.’ As soon as he makes a move, the men in front of him will too.

“Just drop them mate!” A heavy Scottish accent is heard throughout the room.

Tank stays silent, eyes darting around the room, trying to find the means of escape. His train of thought became illogical. As he looks around his environment, he tries to avoid meeting the eyes of the man with the skull mask. ‘Ghost’ is his name. His dark eyes never leave Tank’s.

If he’s going to Hell, he won’t be going alone. Spotting the window to his right, his body moved before his brain could process what was happening. Tank twists his upper body and, with the last of his strength, he hurls you through the glass

During your time with the team, which was about six months when you first joined, you’ve kept quiet. Never raising your voice and only talking when you’re addressed. So, when they hear you yelp and let out a high-pitched scream as they watch your body crash through the window, they would have laughed if the circumstances were different.

As soon as your body stopped shielding him, Ghost took the shot. He watched as the large man slammed down to his knees, blood running down his face from the bullet hole on his head, before finally falling forward.

Getting thrown out the window sounds fun, besides landing on the glass and the very high chance of death. Any other person would have a couple of broken bones, but it seems like you had lady luck on your side today. For one, the warehouse is only one story high, and you’re all padded up. Without your gear and helmet, there would have been more puncture points from the shards. But the impact from hitting the ground doesn’t leave you unscathed. Something is probably broken, sprained, if not bruised. You don’t feel it now but it’s going to suck ass later. Laying on your side, you look around, trying to not move your body in the process. There are probably hundreds, maybe even thousands, of glass shards surrounding you.

“ROOKIE!” Soap comes running towards you.

You open your mouth, wanting to tell him to be careful but Ghost’s rough voice cuts you off. “Dammnit Johnny, watch out for the fuckin’ glass!”

Soap slows his movements, making calculated hops to avoid the sharp shards. “Heya lassie, how ya feeling?”

Not having the energy for a filter, you responded. “Felt like I got thrown out a window. Fuckin’ hell, Soap, what do you think?!”

Seeing his eyes widen, you immediately regret the words that came out of your mouth. “Holy shit, Soap. I am so sorry.”

He lets out a hearty laugh as he stops before you. He gives you a look over, trying to find any visibly large shards of glass embedded in your body. Seeing as there isn’t any visible, Soap sticks his hand out. Surprised to find how badly your arm is shaking, he gently grabs your forearm and pulls you up.

“You really are Ghost’s mini-me,” he chuckles.

“Huh?”

“Already picking up his humor and stealing his catchphrase.”

“Oh!” You look down, thanking your balaclava for hiding your flushed face.

With his arm under yours, you lean on him, slowly limping your way towards the rest of the team. Price took another look at you, spotting at least a dozen little glass shards that punctured your jacket and pants. “Best to have the med team take them out of you. The heli will be here in five.”

You can feel Ghost’s eyes burning holes into your head. You realize that during your next training sessions, he’s going to roast the ever living fuck out of you about what happened today. Dread begins to sink in.

—

 With your left arm bare and the interior of the heli cold, you try to minimize your shivering so that the medic can properly do their job. You guessed that the guys would at least wait until you get back to base before they made jokes, but you were very wrong.

“Rookie, you literally got yeeted out the window.” Gaz was the first to break the silence.

“Yes, Gaz, I know.”

“We should have a contest to see how far each of us can throw her.” Soap barked out, joining in on the teasing.

“I would prefer not, Soap.”

And it went on for a little while longer, and you, again, were thankful for having your balaclava on so they wouldn’t see that you’re dying on the inside.

“Probably gonna stop calling you Rookie now.” Much to everyone’s surprise, they turn to Ghost.

You tilt your head, confused, before he continues. He stares at you, the heli quiet besides the hum of the wings. A beat later he speaks up again, “I think I’ll call you Crash.”

You follow with an immediate, “Oh hell no.”

At this point, Soap and Gaz are giggling like schoolgirls. Price turns away, lips pulled tight but his shoulders shaking up and down in muffled laughter. Ghost’s eyes narrow, but you can tell he has a smug grin under his mask.

“Crash it is then!”

“Don’t encourage him, Soap!”

“Sorry lassie, it’s law now, we outrank you.” He smiles at you.

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, you let out a quiet chuckle. Lifting your head up from your hand, you quietly say, “Fine. Just don’t tell anyone about this”

You watch Soap nod and Gaz give you a thumbs up before you pull down your balaclava, giving them a smile.

[lennadanvers]

Three times Simon wanted to hug you (and the one time he did)

This is the final part! I was supposed to post it yesterday but fell asleep. You can find parts 1-3 here.

Simon’s birthday wasn’t a special day. Only one person knew about it (Price), and all he got from him was a “Happy birthday, son” and a pat on the back. It was okay, though, because the captain couldn’t give him the only gift he wanted.

He had tried. Really. But he just couldn’t bring himself to ask you for a hug. How did people do that, anyway? Initiate that kind of contact?

Ghost was pretty sure you wouldn’t turn him down. You were too nice to him. But he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Didn’t want it to be uncomfortable, or weird. You were so… Human. So warm, so much expression, skin, so much life.

He, on the other hand, had the name of a lost soul and the face of an abandoned body.

A poor combination – one that couldn’t manage to think of an effective strategy, by the way. Whenever he saw you, he opened his mouth and all that came out were sarcasm and dad jokes. An it really wasn’t that bad, because you were laughing a lot -and in his birthday, no less-, but he wanted to know what it felt to be safe. Unbroken. Close to you. Maybe then he’d be infected by your humanity.

He had watched Soap. How easy it was for him to touch people. But Ghost had put up a barrier, a boundary, and now it had become a prison. How was he supposed to cross it? To get out? He was a soldier. A fighter. He could stop people. He could kill. But Ghost wasn’t a fucking climber. And feelings can’t be pierced by bullets or cut by knives. He could hit the punching bag all he wanted: his knuckles still ached for a soft caress, not because of the blow.

It would have been the perfect birthday gift. Scratch that, it’d just be the perfect gift in general.

But no, the only perfect thing in Simon’s life were the sturdy defenses Ghost had installed around him.

Well, you were perfect too. Not in the same way, of course. You were so much better. You were unpredictable, flawed, changing. More than perfect. Simon could rely on you, even though he could never guess what was going to be your next move. You were always there, always close, but never enough (though he wasn’t sure it could ever be enough- can one melt into somebody else? Could he make himself a home inside of your ribs?). Always seeing, even when you weren’t looking (you didn’t look at him that much- maybe slightly longer than at the rest of the people at base, but his expression was always harder to read with the mask).

He, on the other hand, was blinded by your light, unable to see past the brightness you casted over everything.

That’s why he found himself hiding in the kitchen, just a couple minutes away from midnight. Ghost liked the kitchen. It reminded him of you. Like anything else, if he were to be honest. But in the kitchen, he felt the warmth of the oven and could pretend it was your heat, finishing cooking the parts of him that were still raw. The fridge was full of the time, dedication and love you had put into baking whatever sugary thing you had been craving recently. It tasted better than a birthday cake, even if it didn’t fully satiate his craving for something sweet.

He'd figured he would be able to enjoy his pathetic beer on his own.

Not in peace, though, because- as usual- you were there. At first, just in his head. You were in the buzzing of the fridge, in the condensation of the bottle, in the empty space between his fingers.

But then you were also under the doorframe, looking at him.

Your head had the same inclination it had when you were perched on a rooftop, eye against the rifle’s scope: you were searching for your target. You said hello in a sleepy voice, and all the lack of air in his lungs allowed him to do in response was nod. As you walked towards the fridge to get some water, he turned back to the table. There were eight chairs. The only one occupied was his.

What if you decided to sit down with him? Make a birthday toast, even if you didn’t know it was his birthday? Maybe all the years piling on his back would weigh less, huh? Especially if there were still seven chairs unoccupied after you sat down.

You didn’t sit. You stood there, quietly sipping water with your hip against the counter. Simon felt your eyes scratching at the back of his mask.

He ran out of beer rather quickly. Maybe a little bit of alcohol would help? But it was just a bottle, after all, and even though he smashed it as hard as he could against the wall surrounding him, it didn’t even make a dent. It just shattered. Ghost knew he’d still be finding shards of glass the next morning.

Taking in the absolute failure, he stood up and fixed the chair against the table. There, as if he’d never been here. Ghost threw the bottle in the trashcan next to you, the fabric of your pajamas was cotton, and pulled down his mask. He muttered some variation of “Sleep well”.

You were wearing shorts, goosebumps on your legs. His hoodie was warm. And big. He was almost certain you both could fit in it.

You blinked at him and left the glass on the counter.

“G’night, Simon.”

You took one step towards the door, and he was already willing his body to move, to open the way for you to leave first.

Ghost had always known you had better sight than him. You were an amazing sniper, out on the field, of course, but also out in life. You saw all the stupid little things: the defeated tilt of his eyelids, the dead motion of his hands hanging at his sides, the chains around his ankles that reached all the way to hell. And, again, you were an incredible shooter. An empathetic one.

Another step, and you were inside. Your arms held his waist softly. It was a slow movement- inhaling before pulling the trigger. Your cheek rested on top of his chest, the shot going straight through your target.

He felt your weight against his ribs, your hair on his neck, your fingers in his back… Simon felt you. He felt you.

His hands tripped to hold you; the grip stronger than socially recommended. But he was doing his best- he wasn’t a climber, after all. The height scared him. So, naturally, he held on for dear life.

Simon ducked his head, nose against your hair. That way he couldn’t see the empty space under his feet- it was easier to pretend he was still standing on the floor, and not floating above it. He took a step towards you, boots almost bumping into bare feet. It wasn’t a big step by any means, but it was the first.

Behind his mask, he could finally smell you. It wasn’t just your shampoo. It was your perfume (faint, subtle, fresh against the heavy air in his side of the fabric), you: special, delicate, and so different from him. Clean- somehow you had managed to get rid of the blood and gunpowder, the guilt, the grime. The last time the sun had touched his face (the first ray of a cool morning): that’s what you smelled like.

Outside.

Good, beautiful things on the other side of the wall.

No humidity, no rotting, no locked darkness. Clean, healed wounds. Life growing, symbiosis, instead of desperate survival. Even though he was so much bigger than you- back hunched, arms wrapped all the way around your ribs, body practically eating you, absorbing- Simon understood his own insignificance.

It was such a relief not being the strongest person in the room.

Simon’s lungs swelled, his knees and brows relaxing, lips and hands trembling. Finally, there was someone in his side of the wall.

If you have any requests/ideas, you can send them and I'll do my best to write them.

[cerastes]

so Drimo for those of us who do not know what is the Armored Core series about [leaves out convenient soapbox for no reason]

If you asked a room of 100 people nowadays, "do you guys know FromSoftware?", the majority of them would stand up and answer, "oh, yeah! The guys that made Dark Souls, right?" You would hear about people wondering when Bloodborne will be ported to PC, or when it will get a sequel. You would hear lamentation for the lack of Sekiro DLC. You would hear praise and anticipation for Elden Ring DLC.

If you were in 2008 and asked a room of 100 people, "do you guys know FromSoftware?", maybe 4 would stand up and say "Oh, the guys that make Armored Core, right? My cousin had it, it looked ok."

The truth of the matter is, FromSoft was a niche studio before Demon's Souls planted a seed and it grew into the massive tree we know as Dark Souls, and its countless branches lush with beautiful flowers, like Bloodborne, Sekiro, and Elden Ring. It even inspired nearby trees, all beautiful in their own right! Trees like Code Vein, Nioh, and others.

But I'm not here to talk about fucking trees and their god damn branches.

I'm here to talk about the sterile wasteland, the wilderness of fallen angels, where the ocean meets the sand. I'm here to talk about pre-Soulsborne FromSoft, when FromSoftware was an unknown, niche, small video game developer barely hanging on to relevancy. They had games like King's Field. They had games like Shadow Tower. They had games like Armored Core. Hell, all of these games still live on in Soulsborne! Did you know? The notorious Mushroom enemies that punch your entire lifebar out from Dark Souls are originally from 1999's Shadow Tower:

Iconic boss fight, Seath the Scaleless from Dark Souls? He's originally from King's Field 2!

The well-loved bald rascal with a penchant for annoying fighting styles and kicking, Patches? Originally from Armored Core! Lucky Patches AKA Patch the Good Luck:

The Moonlight Greatsword? That's originally from King's Field:

Knight Commander Dragonslayer Ornstein? The Bloodborne Reiterpallasch? Armored Core originals, baby:

The truth is, Soulsborne is as dear to old school FromSoft fans such as myself as it is because it carries the past of FromSoft, it carries part of all the old games. The old, niche, unknown FromSoft that we fell in love with lives on in this new, successful, popular FromSoft of nowadays, all without selling out. FromSoft's design philosophy and mission statement has always been to make things that are out there, that aren't generic, that have that slab of esotericism to it, that are inspired and raw and difficult and challenging and oh so rewarding. Soulsborne wasn't a surprise hit. Soulsborne exists built on a foundation of trial and error that carries in its DNA years upon years upon years of difficult, niche titles. I've not even mentioned all the Tenchu references that Sekiro has! How the Powderkeg weapons from Bloodborne are mostly Armored Core weapons scaled down to human size, such as the iconic Stake Driver being the mighty Kiku from Armored Core!

Armored Core was the biggest franchise FromSoft had prior to Soulsborne. The biggest. And it wasn't too big, to be honest. A rather niche, unknown game franchise with numerous titles that did just well enough to justify sequels, with strong cult followings, Armored Core is all about that mecha high octane action, right? Well, it's 50% about that mecha high octane action! Your average Armored Core is a high intensity, breakneck fast game full of machine guns, laser swords and huge explosions when you're in the field, but in order to be able to do that, you must construct your machine, your Armored Core, piece by piece. Not just the chest core or the head piece or the arms, we're taking about generator, radiator, targeting system, thrusters, subsystems, all of that! And each given piece has a stat screen that looks like this:

This is a single laser rifle's stat screen. Every piece has about this many numbers to it. As you can imagine, it wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but for those that took the time to understand it? That familiarized themselves with the game well enough to just be able to look at a piece and understand what it did and roughly how well it performed? Oh, this was to die for. The amount of unique builds, of mechs that were your very own, unique creation, catering to your own specific tastes, was basically infinite. You could make your own dream gameplay machine, that operated in exactly the way you wanted it to. 50% of the time, you were in your garage, tinkering, mixing and matching different parts to improve your Armored Core more and more, to make it better, comfier, stronger, cooler.

Do you know what was influential in Dark Souls' success? And I say this with all the love in my heart, as a massive Dark Souls fan: It was simplification. Dark Souls is a different beast in many regards, of course, compared to Armored Core, but what Dark Souls did was simplify the Armored Core formula, in both comparative gameplay execution and building, and focused on other aspects, like making incredibly cool unique enemies, polished combat, great enemy placement, the works. But end of the day, Dark Souls is a simplified Armored Core. You're not boosting around and firing laser weapons in Dark Souls, but the fundamentals are all there: Tempo based fighting, with intensifying speed, lots of numbers to play with in order to optimize your character to your preference and needs, and the flexibility to switch around builds to certain degrees, more so in the mid game and late game. Hell, the ever-present "little plain white number above the enemy that shows you how much damage you did recently" and how Poise works in Dark Souls are both originally Armored Core things. Most every Armored Core veteran that I know, myself included, that played Dark Souls just felt it click naturally after a bit. Because it's an extension of Armored Core (and King's Field/Shadow Tower).

Armored Core, since its inception, has been about being a mercenary in a callous world where companies that are as powerful as countries, plural, wage in economic war with each other. Rarely has there ever been a good guy in Armored Core, it's the pristine FromSoft absolutely horrid and doomed world narrative that they love so much. You can even go into debt! Your rewards at the end of any mission are affected by how much ammo you consumed and how banged up your AC got, you have to foot the bill for repairs and ammo (unless your client specifically states that they'll cover it for you), and if you don't perform too well and end up going into sufficiently big debt? Why, you forcibly get put into the Human-PLUS program to offset your debt, which actually makes your stronger, since it gives you the ability to ignore Total Weight restrictions and gives you infinite energy! At the cost of, you know, your humanity. At that point, you're literally just a corporate drone with more machine than brain in the nogging. It's a fancy Easy Mode toggle, so to speak, that comes with lore. This game is from 1997. Even from back then, they were making stuff like this. The setting of Armored Core is ruthless, cruel, and brutal... And yet, beautiful, the little things, they are there. But I won't tell you about them. You have to find them yourself. The beautiful things only have value if you find them in a horrid world by your own merit.

This is true for Armored Core, and this is true for Dark Souls.

Armored Core, on a personal level, is what I grew up with, what inspired me as a child, the kind of storytelling that gives you a few explicit morsels, and the rest, figure it out yourself. Armored Core is basically what came before Dark Souls. I consider Soulsborne sequels to Armored Core. They are so very alike.

Brutal gameplay, challenging management, ruthless storytelling... It's heaven.

Armored Core is a series of a gaming era long gone. Armored Core is the opposite of "cinematic experience" games. Armored Core is brutal, it wants to test you, it grants you no quarter, but it wants you to succeed. Armored Core wants you to master its management systems and its high speed combat. Armored Core wants you to be a sharper, better you.

Armored Core is a video game series about giant robots blowing each other to bits.

Armored Core is both a test and teacher, and it wants you to win. It wants you to become the you that can beat it.

Armored Core loves you. Armored Core will do all in its power to prevent you from winning. Armored Core knows you can win, which is why it tries so hard.

Armored Core is a good video game.

[gaeasun]

Cut Lawquane was absolutely a Commando

Ok, crazy theory time.

I think Cut Lawquane was a Commando, or least a Commander. But going with Commando for now. But I don't think he was a rank and file clone trooper.

All of the clone troopers i think should be shown as exceptionally trained, but Cut Lawquane showed incredible skill, even though we saw him compared to Rex the entire episode. Evidences are below:

A) Rex is both a Captain and one of the oldest of the CT's, but the entire time Cut acts as his equal and perhaps even elder. He doesn't talk quite down to Rex, but it reminds me of how people act when they're just a grade apart. Not like they know everything and the other knows nothing, but there is a definite difference between them. Also he instinctively recognizes Rex as a Captain, but is not phased by that at all.

B) He disables Rex, the Captain Rex, with a farming tool in zero seconds flat, and does it without hurting him.

C) He recognizes Commando droids, which are typically only used in special assignments. And he also knows that it takes a headshot to pierce their armor. On Rishi it was Captain Rex who recognized them and said they were brand new. So for Cut to already know exactly what they are, especially when he's been out of the war for months, at least implies he could have been on high stakes missions before right in the beginning of the war. Which is also why I'm leaning Commando instead of Commander, because it's more Commandos who go on missions while Commanders are still often with general forces.

D) He has a highly developed sense of individuality and creative thinking, which was encouraged more in the special forces than general troopers.

E) Cut also says, specifically, "everyone I cared about, my team, was gone." Commandos are specifically trained to work in groups of four as a cohesive team. additionally, with these commando units being so tightly knit, the feelings of complete loss could have played a large role in Cut's desertion.

F) Cut and Rex play a game of dejarik, and while the winner is not shown, by the end they're both down to the last piece, which shows that Cut is around Rex's level when it comes to strategy. And Rex is so good at strategy that Marshall Commander Cody, who the commanding officer of around 36,000 men, considered Rex to be one of the best they had in that regard. Not to mention that Cut is impressed with Rex too.

G) Cut has 3 blaster type weapons that are probably the weapons he had on him when he deserted: an older rifle, a blaster carbine, and a DC-17. Now, it makes sense for a farmer to own a rifle, and the blaster carbine is a general GAR blaster. but the DC-17 is the same blaster pistol that Rex uses, that we have only seen used by ARC Troopers, Captains, and Commanders.

H) This is probably the most obvious one of all, but Cut is an incredibly good fighter. Even our beloved ARC troopers Fives and Echo struggle to take on a few. Cut takes on 20 and lives (granted the droids are not top form but its still impressive). He makes three headshots in a row with his rifle in less than three seconds, and the next three kill shots are all headshots as well. he also throws a wooden rafter-beam off him (that might be dad-strength tho) and hits a metal droid with a wooden chair hard enough to break both of them. he also punched one of them in the face hard enough the droids eyes flashed red (and then slightly regretted it, but it didn't look like he broke his hand either).

I) Cut hadn't been fighting for at least several months, since he deserted almost right after Geonosis. so as incredible as his skills are, he had probably been even better before, so just think about that for a moment.

Edit: i forgot to put this in because it wasnt in The Deserter, but by bad batch he already has gray streaks and a receding hairline. guys an old teenager for sure

So, Cut is a highly trained and skilled fighter in both hand to hand combat and blaster combat, he's at least as old as Rex and is not intimidated by his rank at all, he was in a specific team and felt like everything had no meaning after they all died, he has the weapons of an officer, had seen enough of commando droids to recognize them and their weaknesses, is Rex's match in strategy and combat while being more independent.

All of this points to Cut being anything but a regular CT, and as far as I'm concerned he was absolutely a Commando.

[blingblong55]

Knock 'em dead kid- 141

This is based on a request:

F!Reader, assassin! reader, mentions of blood,

Backstory:

Before working with the team, you were working as a mercenary for a private military company. You dealt with hard missions, always succeeding though. You were one of the best highly trained soldiers your branch could ever seek for. Always completing the mission with no regrets, and no other questions asked. No one in your old team ever mess with you, they knew what you could be capable of if left with you alone for 30 seconds.

You are now a 28 year old soldier, a badass with snipes, automatic rifles, and your favorite an M-16. After Price visited his old friend he found you. You had just arrived from a mission with your team, you were well groomed for what you had just done. He sure thought you were just another young one. No experience under your belt. Now it was hard to judge you, all of your missions had been redacted, the only thing he could see was your name, alias, age and who you were currently working for, besides that everything else was cleared out.

"you are coming with me kid." he said, handing you your assignment. You grabbed your bags and off you went.

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

It has been a year working with the Task Force. They all tried to take you seriously, but you looked so adorable, like a little kid. You were so small compared to them all. And the way you would look up at them with those kind innocent eyes of yours, how could they ever tell who you were when alone with the enemy.

And apparently tonight would be the night they met "grim" the alias you had earned over the years. As the team geared up, soap approached you. Cocky bastard behavior tonight, you thought. "if you feel like you are in danger you call out for me, I'll protect ya lass." he gave you a smug smile. "sure, I'll do that" you rolled your eyes when you turned from him.

By 0300, the team had touched ground, you all in night vision. "Ghost, soap, grim, take left, gaz, delta, you stay with me." Price commanded, the team splits up, you trail behind the men. "Stay close grim." soap said, you nod. At some point you reach your spot. But things turn left quickly. As you all ducked down, two rounds start flying towards you all. Ghost orders you both follow him. He finds a small trench. It was a gun fight for a while.

And after much fight, you guys can finally move forward. Soap always making sure you are behind him. ''Soap watch our backs, Grim, you stay with me." Ghost cold voice whispers. You two enter a building, ghost gets hit in the face by the butt of a gun. You duck down, "soap, come in!" you order at him. But you couldn't wait for him. So you grab your gun, push a few away from your commander and with a knife you stab on in the eye, you cold bloodlessly take the knife out. The man holds onto his face, kneeling down.

You look back at Ghost who happens to still be on the ground. You finish the man with a bullet through the back of his skull. The other men start bolting towards you. You kick one away as the other holds you by the throat. You wish you could make a joke, but you have to protect your team. It was the first time you worked with a full team. It was odd to be selfless.

Your elbow comes in contact with the mans stomach and as the other gets up, you quickly grab the mans arm, biting into it and then you flip him over. He falls to the ground. You hold your knife close, you start fighting with the other man, your knife cutting his skin. Blood splatters on your face, leaking down your shirt. The man slaps you to which you quickly punch him.

Meanwhile, Soap arrives. He was in shock watching you fight. He tried to approach you, "stay back, help Ghost up." you stabbed the man in his abdomen, you pull your gun out and shoot at his chest twice. You turn back to the man you had flipped around. He has a gun pointed at you, his hands trembling. "not so good are you." you grab his gun, throwing it away. You kick his balls, to which you earn a groan. Price walks in, thinking you and the other men had cleared the room. He was in shock, seeing how a woman of your size took down the big guys.

Gaz walks in, and immediately looks at soap. "yep." he nods, knowing the question gaz was about to ask.

You finish the man, shooting him in the head. More blood splashed onto you. You turn to find the team. They had once seen you as the new kid, a harmless little thing, and now you were here standing in front of them. You smile. "done!"

Your eyes meet there's, you start to laugh at their reactions. Even Ghost, although masked, can really be expressive with his eyes. "you should wash that look now. we have a mission to complete."

Price takes a closer look at the men you've killed. "those men were the mission."

"oh..sorry?"

He chuckled like a proud father and walked over to you, handing you an old handkerchief. "wipe your face and let's go home yeah?"

you nod, that sweet little girl look in your eyes. He was really terrified at that. How can you just switch up on them so easily, dont know, but they were impressed, scared and proud, all at once.

A/N: I honestly believe that was the day Ghost was afraid of something...

I really hope you did like it, also I know this is shorter than my usuals, sorry about that

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

[talewrites]

Fragile Part 8

Sorry for the long wait! This is a shorter chapter, because I’m making a poll!! :] Please go vote how you would like this story to end!!

Generation: Bayverse TMNT

Tmnt x Reader Fanfic

Pronouns: Gender Neutral (except ‘dudette’ and ‘princess’)

Warnings: injury, blood, not proof read

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The brothers burst into the lair. They rushed past Splinter and April, who gasped when she saw you. You hung limply in Raphael’s arms. They quickly took you straight to the lab, where Raphael gingerly laid you down on the large table underneath bright lights. Donnie slid on his goggles and checked you, and cursed under his breath.

“Shit. Their blood pressure is extremely low.” He rifled through drawers and cabinets, grabbing various bottles and tools. Donnie filled a syringe with a clear fluid from a small glass bottle and brought it over to you. “Stockman took a lot of their blood. And if I’m not mistaken, they were fed a variation of barbiturates through the second IV in their back.”

“What does that do?” Leo placed his hands on the table at your side, looking across as Donnie rolled your broken arm facing up so he could slide in the needle and administer the injection. April, Splinter, and Mikey all waited by the door.

“Well, it has a highly sedative effects in large doses. That, and combined with the chemical soup that filled their tank, ….they’re starting to slip into an artificial coma.”

All eyes in the room went wide with shock. Raph turned away from the table and stormed over to the wall and punched the brick. Hard.

“And what do we gotta do to stop it?!” He said gritting his teeth.

Mikey rushed over to your side past Leo and picked up your hand, pleading with you.

“Come on babycakes! Snap out of it! We still gotta make fudge brownies together!!”

Leo placed a comforting hand on his little brother’s shoulder.

“Donnie?” Leo asked.

Donnie rubbed a hand tiredly across his face. “There’s not much I can do until I fully assess their injuries. I just administered some pain killers. They’re not strong enough to handle stimulants right now. Administering adrenaline like April did with us will only make their injuries worse.”

Everyone looked solemn. Leo was looking down thinking back to the lab where they found you. Trying to figure out if there was anything they missed. That’s when he noticed a purple splotch peaking out from underneath your shirt. He narrowed his eyes and reached out to touch you.

“Leo, what-?” Donnie swallowed his words as Leo lifted up your shirt marginally, and the blackened canvas of purple and blue skin was revealed decorating your stomach.

Leo let your shirt slip from his finger and his hand fell to his side, tightening his fist. His hands trembled with rage.

They all did.

“Bebop and Rocksteady….” Mikey said lowly. His expression hard and serious.

“Those bastards-” Raph was standing by the head of the table. Looking down and clenched his fists.

Donnie’s eyes looked far away as he reached out and hesitated to touch you.

“This is…. really bad.” Donnie’s hand trembled as he traced your stomach, pressing down in certain spots to feel the damage. Even while sedated with drugs and heavy pain killers you still winced at the probing.

“Three, no- Four broken ribs. Damage to the liver, spleen, and small intestine.”

Mikey turned and left the room silently at hearing Donnie’s report. April followed after him to comfort him. Splinter was standing in the doorway with a heavy frown.

Leo swallowed his anger and looked up at Donnie.

“How do we treat them.”

Donnie turned away.

“They need a blood transfusion.”

“But that’s-!” Raph cut in.

“I know. That’s why I’ll ask April and Casey to test their blood first. But most likely-“

“It’ll be from one of us.” Leo finished for him.

Raph looked between the two and stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

“No, I will. It’s my turn to step up.” Leo looked from Raph to Donnie and nodded his head, then walked out of the room. April passed him by as she walked over to Donnie. She asked him what materials they needed her to pick up from their connection at the hospital, and Donnie started writing her a list. Raphael was assigned to go with her for protection and heavy lifting in case the Foot were out looking for them, and Mikey was sent to go meet up with Casey and bring him back to the lair after his meeting with the NYPD supervisor.

No less than 30 minutes later, Donnie had your forearm and ankle in casts, and two ice packs covering your stomach. Mikey had brought a clean pillow from his room to slide under your head. It was confirmed after some testing that Casey and April’s blood were not compatible with the mutagen in your blood stream. You needed mutant blood to stabilize the transfusion.

You needed their blood to save your life.

Donnie was rushing to get the IV set up. By now you were breathing hard with a slight fever, skin cool to the touch despite the heavy blankets they covered you with.

“If we wait any longer there’s a chance they’ll go into shock!” Donnie said as he wiped down your arm with an alcohol wipe.

“And you said that our mutagen will help them, right?” Leo confirmed, sitting at your bedside with the other half of the IV already set up.

“I said it will give them a boost to heal faster, but we don’t know if it will destabilize their mutation or not. We have a higher concentration of mutagen in our blood than they do. If their antibodies can’t handle the shift, they could end up overwhelmed and mutate like Stockman did.”

“So there’s a risk they’ll end up like us?!” Raph protested. He was worried.

“But their body will reject the human blood because of their mutated antibodies, like you guys. We don’t have any other options.” Casey reasoned with him.

“I don’t want (y/n) to die. I’d rather they live and hate us than die when we could’ve saved them.” Mikey said sadly from the table he was sitting on at the other side of the lab.

“They’ll understand, Mikey. Don’t worry, we’re all here for them.” Assured April.

“We must have hope. Their safe recovery is what is most important.” Splinter said in contemplation.

“It’s a risk we have to take.” Donnie affirmed. He locked eyes with each of his brothers, Splinter, April, and Casey, and once he got nods of approval from everyone, he inserted your IV.

“Now, we wait.”

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[koenigsbleachedshirt]

Please I need some emotions...I need how all three would react to finding YN beat up or something. The emotions, the angst, the possessive and protectiveness....PLS I BEG OF YOU

Bet 🙏🏻

TW: graphic violence, fighting, shooting

y/cs = your callsign

initial situation -> you were out on a mission with your team to deal with a no-name terrorist group. Everything had gone well until the last standing member managed to slam the butt of his gun against the back of your head. You toppled to the ground in pain, vision peppered with black spots. "Fuck... you piece of shit." You hiss when he gets you on your back and starts beating down on you.

Ghost

He hadn't seen or heard of you after calling through the comms, so he grew worried. "Cap', y/cs hasn't responded to my inquiries, I'mma go 'ave a look." Ghost informs Price, who nods in return.

He was decently close with you, so it left a bitter taste in his mouth when you didn't respond. What if someone had managed to mortally injure you and you were laying somewhere and bleeding out?

Ghost hurried through the rooms of the mostly cleared building and came to a stop when he spotted one of the terrorists on top of you, his fists continuously beating down on your, by now unconscious, body. Then he saw red.

Simon ran towards the fucker who dared to touch you yanked him up by his vest, literally throwing him a few feet away from you before proceeding to punch his living daylights out. "Ya fuckin' dare to hurt one of our mates?! I'm gonna fuckin' kill ya, damn cunt!"

He doesn't stop bashing his face in until it's a bloody mess, his fists dripping with the man's blood. He doesn't spare him another glance before going to check on you, blood running cold when he sees the state you're in. Simon's heart is beating out of his chest at the sight; your lip is busted and still slightly bleeding. There's also a laceration on your cheekbone and a nasty bruise forming around it, and not to forget the black eye you're starting to get.

Ghost exhales a shaky breath and gently scoops you up into his arms, careful not to hurt you any further. That bastard has probably beaten more places than just your face.

And he's going to kill them all by himself if he has to.

König

He had just finished absolutely obliterating five of the terrorists in another room and was about to check up on his team when he heard your pained cries from across the hall. König didn't waste any time, running to the source of the sound and kicking open the slightly ajar door.

The man was sitting on your stomach, violently beating you up; you try your best to kick him off, but he's too big. All you can do is try to shield your face, but it doesn't do much because he still got a few good hits on you.

But then you see your Colonel behind your attacker, distracting you enough to catch a fist to the jaw, and suddenly, you're out cold.

The giant colonel did not enjoy that. He picks the asshole up by the back of his collar and puts him in a chokehold. "You made a giant mistake here, du kleiner Bastard." König says into the terrorist's ear, sounding almost demonic, before he manhandles him around.

And then he breaks his back, like a stick that's being snapped over his knee. The man screams bloody murder, but König isn't done. Next, he breaks the arm he used to beat you up with, snapping it so hard the bone broke through the skin. And then the man went limp, either fell unconscious due to the pain, or straight up died.

He couldn't care less, though, as he tossed him aside and moved to kneel down next to your knocked out form. A pang of panic went through him as he hurriedly picked you up to evacuate and get you to a medic as soon as possible.

König is not going to lose you. Not when he finally found a new purpose.

Keegan

He witnessed it all through the scope of his sniper rifle, jaw clenched tightly. How dare this terrorist scum hurt you?

"Sergeant Russ here, I'm going in." He says into the comms before quickly making his way to where this man decided to touch something that wasn't his.

When Keegan arrived, you were already knocked out, his blood running cold. "You dare hurt my y/cs? Oh, you've made a grave mistake there." He says, voice dangerously low as he raises his assault rifle.

The terrorist on top of you freezes, arm raised back for another punch, but not plowing down again. "Get the fuck off of them, hands in the air."

The man does what he's told, but right when he's back on his feet, he moves to take out his gun, probably trying to shoot Keegan.

But instead, he aims it at you. Keegan's eyes widen, and without thinking, he shoots the terrorist straight through the forehead. The man's aim falters but still pulls the trigger, and the bullet lands inches from your face on the ground.

Keegan drops his rifle from the shock; that fucking man almost killed you right in front of him. His whole body is shaking as he flops down next to you, one hand gently caressing your cheek. "You're safe now. Let's go back to base." He says before slinging his rifle around himself and then picking you up and carrying you out of the building.

[suzukiblu]

Excerpt from the next chapter of "think pink", a.k.a "Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it":

Kon flies into Gotham as surreptitiously as possible, meaning "as thoroughly concealed by the smog and cloud cover as possible", which given the amount of smog and cloud cover usually works out pretty well for him. Today's definitely no less cloudy than usual, and he's landing in the marina in no time. Well–specifically, he's landing in a subtle little out-of-the-way corner of the marina that Tim's previously pointed out to him where his neighbors probably won't notice either a Superboy or a Wonder Girl coming down.

Probably.

Eh, it's whatever. If they notice, Kon'll handle it. Not like he's not used to lying to Gothamites about what the fuck he's doing in their city and why they shouldn't flip the Batsignal over it, after all.

Not that said lies always keep the Batsignal from getting flipped, but still. It's been like fifty-fifty.

Well, sixty-forty . . . ?

Maybe seventy-thirty.

Kon waits 'til nobody's immediately around and super-speeds his ass across the dock to Tim's houseboat. There's an unnecessary amount of security on the thing because Tim is a paranoid little freak and a half and every single Bat alive is literally made of trust issues, but he already knows there's nothing that'll clock him on the deck. Well, nothing aggressive, anyway.

This ain't his first Bat-rodeo, and all that.

He punches in the code for the lock on the door, and the code for the other lock on the door, and the code that'll keep the needles covered in neurotoxin from spraying into his face when he opens said door. They wouldn't actually hurt him, obviously, but Tim would get annoyed if he wasted them.

He seriously wonders how the guy was ever under the impression that Bernard didn't know he was a superhero, but he guesses it's possible Tim assumed his boytoy thought he was, like, somebody's evil henchman or a merc or something.

Or just literally insane. Whichever.

And it is Gotham.

The door swings open, Kon very carefully steps on the correct floorboard, and then he slips inside and heads down into the bowels of the boat, or whatever the inside of a houseboat is called. It's a little cluttered down here but not quite a mess, and Kon's been here as many times as Tim's been willing to let him come but still not nearly often enough.

He has an odd, random thought of just staying, for once, and isn't quite sure where it came from. Which–well, he's staying for the weekend at least, right? Assuming the world doesn't try to end again, anyway.

So maybe not so random.

Sometimes Kon really does want to just hang in Gotham with Tim until Batman runs him out of town, but he never pushes it that far. He doesn't want to deal with that fallout or with Tim coming up to him to tell him he's being too much or too needy or just fucking weird or . . .

Yeah. Well.

Kon cracks into Tim's fridge and steals a can of Zesti. He's a little more of a Soder guy, at least lately, but it tastes better coming out of Tim's fridge anyway. It makes him feel kind of like a normal guy who just goes over to his normal buddies' places to do normal things–whatever those are–and has normal permission to just rifle through their normal food and take whatever.

Technically Kon has permission, in the sense that Tim's never rigged the Zesti to explode in his face, but he's never actually explicitly asked. He wasn't really sure if that was one of those things that normal people ask or one of those things that normal people just do, and now it's a little late to check, so . . .

Kon's life experience has been fucking weird and wildly varied and stupidly fragmented and generally speaking he just begs forgiveness rather than ever ask permission. He's a grown-ass clone, he can do that.

Okay, he's technically only physiologically a grown-ass clone but also he's arguably over a thousand years old, or maybe more like four or five, so whatever. Being a superclone is weird and confusing and his point stands.

Kon sips his stolen Zesti and wanders around the boat, idly avoiding assorted traps and tripwires. He doesn't go into the bedroom, although it's kinda tempting to just go wait in there, possibly without the company of any of his clothes.

He wants to talk to Tim at least a bit before they go full long weekend on this situation, though, and also like . . . meet Bernard as an actual person and not just a voice over the phone or that one random disgustingly cute couple-selfie that Tim had very dorkily and shyly and grudgingly shared in the group chat the last time Bart had actually won a bet against him.

That stupid selfie was adorable. Kon had absolutely saved it and is not a weirdo who just randomly looks at it sometimes. There's a lot of stuff like that on his phone, alright, he's got a whole folder of "shit to look at when the world sucks". Most of it's Krypto being dumb and sweet or the team messing around and being silly together or stuff like that. The one disgustingly cute Tim and Bernard selfie is a mere footnote in that folder.

But it is in that folder.

Like . . . of course it is.

Kon thinks about pulling out his phone and looking at that picture again. He's aware it's a weird thought to be having right now, though, so he doesn't act on it. Kon operates on instinct a lot but he doesn't necessarily trust all his instincts, given his thoroughly fucked up socialization experience and random mind control triggers and the biological influence of a certain gene donor who shall not be named.

Kon hears a pair of accelerated heartbeats approach the boat and feels two people step onto and hurry across the deck above, one's footsteps significantly louder than the other's. He hears a lot of buttons get pushed. Then the door at the top of the stairs yanks open and he glances towards it. Either Tim or a very convincing evil doppelganger of Tim is standing framed in the doorway, looking very slightly flustered and just barely winded. Bernard is clustered up behind him and laughing, and much more winded himself.

Well, that's flattering.

"Hey there," Kon says, and grins up at them.

"We need to establish boundaries, hard no's, and safewords," Tim says immediately, absolute freak that he is. Kon is not even slightly surprised.

"God, you really do just look like that, huh," Bernard marvels, his eyebrows shooting up. He's even cuter when he's not being a cell phone pic, and especially cuter when Kon's being gay. Unsurprisingly, Kon figures. "I always assumed a whole lot of really skilled Photoshop was involved in you. Or at least a whole lot of real good makeup and real precise angles."

"He's annoyingly photogenic, actually, you don't even have to try to make him look good," Tim informs him resignedly. "So you can imagine how he looks when you do try."

"That's a terrifying thought, actually," Bernard says approvingly.

"Safewords, huh?" Kon says as he sets aside his mostly-empty Zesti, not even pretending not to be preening under the compliments. So he's easy; at least he's self-aware. "That sounds promising."

"You were talking about some guy putting you in a collar and keeping you as a pet," Tim says flatly. "We definitely need safewords, I might get carried away."

"Promises, promises," Kon hums, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets and sauntering towards the bottom of the stairs with a wolfish grin that he may or may not have learned from an actual wolf. Like, just speaking of certain beast-men that he's known and all. "I told you, I was feral then. You know I'll be a good boy for you, Rob."

"Ohhhhh we've sure gotten ourselves into something here, huh, babe," Bernard says with a delighted grin as Tim puts a hand over his face and just sort of . . . exhales in that one specific way that he does when it's all going to shit in a fight or on a mission and he just needs to steady himself for that one second before the doors blow in.

Kon likes that, he thinks.

He really likes that, actually.

[vinciwolf]

Loyalty Pt 2

(Recom)Na’vi!Miles Quaritch x (fem)Na’vi!Reader

Warnings: SLOW BURN, THIS IS AN EVENTUAL NSFT SERIES, ENEMIES TO LOVERS, capture, romance, reader is female

Warnings for this chapter: this is a shorter chapter but trust me these are gonna get loooong in the future, death, violence

Notes: Na’vi spoken is in italics, but inner thoughts are also in italics. Tags: @perseny​ @mechformers​ @ragingloser

As you came to, your vision slightly blurry, you stared down the barrel of a rifle. You were only out for a few second after the collision to your head, but it was enough for your hostage and Z-dog to have you cornered on the ground, your knife kicked to the side out of your reach.

You tsked and pressed your fingers to your scalp. Blood dripped from the wound.

Bitch.

Your former hostage that you would learn his name was Prager yanked you to your feet by your arm and took hold of your braid with a vice grip, giving you the same treatment you had given him. Z-dog patted you down and took your rifle, throwing it to one of her buddies near where Miles stood, before roughly clipping your hands together with orange handcuffs.

Prager shoved you forward and towards the group, knocking you to your knees in front of the Colonel.

You looked over to Lo’ak and slanted your head at him, your eyes squeezed into daggers as a way of telling him I’ll kill you.

The young Na’vi pinched his shoulders inwards timidly as his way of saying oops before deflecting his eyes to the ground.

Lyle came forward and punched you in the mouth, causing you to bend forward onto your bound hands and spit up blood. He said something about how that was ‘for Prager’ but you couldn’t tell exactly what he said because your head was ringing from that nasty punch. You wiped your mouth with your knuckles before Prager seized your braid again and held you upright.

Taking a handful of your necklaces, Lyle snickered to the others, “She really did go full native, huh?” Then ripped the jewels harshly from your neck, popping the strings.

Your heart ached as you watched the beads fall and spread into the mud, but you couldn’t let them win.

With a bloody toothed smile, you laughed, “Heh, you were always such an asshole to the ladies, Lyle.”

He grinned, fangs showing, fancying his work, “Nice to see you again too, bitch.”

Eywa please kill this fucker.

Lo’ak hissed at the men handling you, cussing all different kinds of things in Na’vi they couldn’t understand, and half of you hoped they never would.

Your vision was still a little watery but you could make out the forms standing before you, even little Tuk who you prayed had somehow gotten away. But life was cruel even to the innocent.

The wound to your brow began to crust and harden from the humidity, blood drying along your face. The sting of your lip indicated that somewhere it had split form Lyle’s punch. Poking your tongue forward, the pain doubled and you felt now big the cut was.

That’s gonna leave a mark.

Then you had to face the one man you thought you’d never see again.

Not in the flesh, you peered over to the rusty AMP. That was assured. But somehow, Miles in a Na’vi body.

“(Y/N)?” he squatted down to meet your gaze, bent index finger holding your face up as his thumb swiped your chin slowly.

“You’re dead,” you breathed, exhausted from being hit in the face twice.

“Yes,” Miles looked over his shoulder and nodded, “he’s dead. But me? I’m built with his memories and the strength of your people. A pretty potent mix.”

It was hard to look away from such a sight. His arms rippled with strength and had the same eagle tattoo sprawled across his chiseled bicep. The Colonel’s ears flattened while he inspected your Na’vi features, trying to figure out if he should like or hate your knew look. When he stood up, he was taller than you with a walk that screamed dominance and poise. And his eyes… you were completely transfixed on him.

“You’re just a cheap copy and paste of the original,” you spat.

Miles chuckled.

Hand resting on his holstered pistol, he used his other free hand to finger an upward motioned at your direction. You pinched your lips and grunted when Prager lifted you to your feet and stepped you closer to the Colonel.

Your head was almost level to his… almost. He was still intimidating but you noticed the soft swell of his lips, and the broadness to his shoulders. You felt so small near him as he stepped closer, Prager holding you head up to keep your eyes from looking away. He leaned in and you felt suffocated, engulfed by his sent, his stare, his fangs when he opened his mouth to speak.

“We regrouped in hell, given a second chance,” he said. “With my skills and knowledge of Jake Sully, I’ll find him. Oh, I’ll find him…” he bobbed his head, lips pursing briefly,” …even if I have to cut it out of each and every one of you tree huggin’ bastards.”

With that, he turned to face his men and instructed them to keep the ‘valuable hostages’ bound and close. He then cuffed his fingers around his neck and communicated with his base for evac.

You were worried about Spider. Having to meet his ‘father’ in another body, a much deadlier body, must’ve been terrifying.

“He’s not your father, Spider,” you reassured Spider.

“I know,” he pressed his lips.

Soon, eclipse fell and the night began to glow, allowing a different kind of life to take over the forest. Nocturnal creatures screeched and chirped. A drop fell atop of your head and you cussed that this couldn’t get any worse, then rain fell from the heavens and you cussed some more.

After a while, you started to tire from being away from your pills for so long. You tried to hold your head up but being punched twice and not having your daily intake of drugs fogged your brain, causing another massive headache to occur. Miles circled the group, assault rifle in hand. As you took note of his lean waste and massive arms, in your haze, you wondered what it felt like to touch those biceps.

Prager tugged your head back when you slacked forward.

Then a sound woke you up.

It was an echo. Your ears peaked from the message. There was another quick ‘whoop’ in the distance.

Mother was coming for her cubs.

Looking around you saw the same reaction from Spider and Lo’ak. Kiri started mumbling her prayers and Tuk scanned her eyes around the best she could while being retrained.

One of the soldiers told Kiri to shut up, moving him just right into position.

An arrow shot through his skull and he fell to the ground hard. Prager looked around as everyone scrambled to retaliate. Tuk bit hard into her captor’s arm, while Spider and Lo’ak pulled the pins to some smoke grenades attached to the soldiers’ vests. You bounced upwards and hit Prager’s chin hard with the back of your head causing him to lose balance, giving you a chance to topple him with a roundhouse kick before running away with the kids.

Through the forest, pumped with adrenaline, you were fast, stopping momentarily to by a sharp rock to cut your handcuffs off.

Everything seemed too good to be true. You prayed to Eywa to keep up the luck.

But Eywa could be funny sometimes.

An explosion hit you from behind, causing the trunk you were running on to shake violently, making you fall onto your stomach, hands latching onto whatever to keep you from falling. You looked down and saw that Spider fall into the undergrowth below. You scrambled to your feet and regrouped your thoughts, while looking down helplessly to find the unconscious kid.

Kiri screamed but Neytiri grabbed her by the arm and pushed her forward. She did the same for you and yanked your hand to keep moving with her, but you were a stone.

She turned and looked at you, eyes wide questioning why you weren’t coming with. Were you mad?

“(Y/N), come! Come!” she yelled at you, voice squeaking, as she tugged your hand again.

“Be well, sister. I must save Spider. Go! Run!” you pleaded, letting go of her hand, and pushing her shoulder to get her moving.

This pained the Na’vi woman deeply because this was the exact thing her father did during the assault on Hometree. He told her to run, only for her to find him later with bark sticking through his abdomen. Reluctantly, Neytiri let you go, heartbreak etching her features as she slipped way with Kiri and disappeared into the forest, bush and leaves snapping and clicking from their haste.

You surrendered to the brief moment of realization that you’d never see them again, that you were going to die saving Spider. And you were ok with that. You wanted to die. It was better than being addicted and having your brain eat you alive with this pounding blood pressure racing through your temple.

Bouncing onto the forest floor, you raced to find Spider. His small body in the thicket looked like a Na’vi babe. He was so innocent.

Shaking him violently, he began to wake up causing your shoulders to slack. The kid was alright and you were happy. He sat up, and with your help, you placed him on his feet, but there was no time.

“Get up! Come! We need to get away from—” you were interrupted by the Na’vi soldiers surrounding the both of you, guns clacking and pointed directly at you.

You stood in front of Spider and, placing a hand behind you, braced him against your backside, ears slanted far back with teeth bared. You hissed at the Colonel’s men.

From the shadows of the woods, Miles approached you and Spider.

“Come with us, and you won’t get hurt,” he bargained with arms outstretch and hands empty.

“Leave us alone!” You yelled, your tail twitching in rage.

His arms fell, one hand finding his hip, as he sighed. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

Your hand flew to block your eyes when a sudden, blinding white light from above pierced the night. The violent winds from the airship flattened the plants around you, muting any sound perception as you and Spider were caught in the middle of the loud whirl from the ship’s rudders.

Even the Colonel was caught off guard from the impeccable timing.

Your head was already spinning from the withdrawals and this loud noise caused even more disorientation. Legs caved and you fell onto hands and knees, holding your head. Spider leaned down and tried to help. You held you head and balanced on your legs the best you could.

Miles didn’t know what was up with you, when five minutes ago you were all teeth and snarls, so he took this opportunity to run full speed and tackle you to the ground and snatch Spider.

You saw him coming but yielded to his blow, took weak to fight back.

When he hit, the force hammered your body into the cold mud, your head striking the ground.

Your mind shut off. A full blackout.

Miles hoisted Spider over his shoulder with him kicking and screaming. He attached his harness to the airships suspension cord while peering at you momentarily.

You looked so peaceful lying in the mud, your body sprawled out unconscious.

A tinge of guilt flooded the Colonel’s gut. Did he really hit you that hard?

Miles then screamed to Lyle to pick you up.

“C’mon baby, we goin’ for a ride,” the corporal chuckled as he slung you over his shoulder.

[honeycomb-fics]

Risky Text

Fandom: One Punch Man

Pairing: Saitama x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1.2K

Slight NSFW/ Minors DNI (Contains: Drunk Texting, Accidental Nude Text)

Summary: Saitama asks the reader for a picture of the flyer for the super sale at the market and gets more than he bargained for.

AO3 Link 

**I feel like i have to put this disclaimer here i do not condone sending unsolicited nude photos- this is a work of fiction**

- - - - -

It was a hot summer afternoon and you found yourself sprawled out on your living room floor, three beers into relaxation mode, soaking up as much of the air conditioning that was weakly spilling in through your run down wall unit. It was almost unbearable the way your shirt was sticking your sweaty back, you casually stripped yourself of the half soaked garment deciding that decency didn’t matter today. You lived alone anyway, who cares? Summer was the absolute pits, you thought to yourself just as your phone buzzed from across the room.  

You groaned at the thought of dragging yourself across the floor to grab the phone but when it buzzed impatiently again, you gave in. You grabbed your phone to see two texts:

Saitama 🥚: > Send me a copy of the super sale flyer for the grocery store near you. Can’t find mine. > HEY?

The only thing your friend was ever incredibly demanding about was the sale day at the grocery store. You had to admit, your local store had some really good deals, but you did not understand how he was willing to brave this heat wave to get them. The man was something super human that was for sure. You admired his dedication to getting the best price and hurried yourself to rifling through the stack of papers on your table.

Saitama was lucky you had a soft spot for him because you were entirely too drunk to be doing this right now, you thought, as you finally grabbed the right flyer checking the date. You quickly snapped a picture, not even checking if it was blurry.

You: >As you requested. Always, your humble servant [2 images]

Saitama 🥚: >Thanks.

After your task was completed, you again tossed your phone and laid back on the floor sprawling out trying to bask in the weak, tepid air blowing from the wall unit from you as you could. You mentally chastised yourself for not begging Saitama to pick you up some more tea or even beer at the store as compensation for texting him a measly flyer. You were almost out of anything relatively refreshing and were on the verge of having to bear the heat wave yourself. Your body had just started to relax and you could feel yourself begin to drift off to sleep when your mind recalled ‘[2 images]’.

What the heck did you send Saitama besides the photo of the sale? Your mind was scrambling trying to think of what was most recently in your camera roll when you felt all the blood drain from your face. Remembering your late night “photo shoot” from the previous night. On occasion, when you felt like boosting your self esteem, you would take rather risqué photos of yourself. Nudes. You never intended them to see the light of day, let alone send them unsolicited to your friend. You didn’t exactly mind the idea of Saitama seeing you naked but this is not how you intended that to ever play out. He had never given you any indication that he was interested in you either other than a few offhanded jokes, but you had always taken them at face value, jokes.

Frantically this time, you scrambled across the floor towards your phone hoping that the second image that was sent was just a meme or at the worst a screenshot of the most personal conversation you’ve had about your feelings for Saitama with your friends. Anything but your naked torso.

You were relieved that the first image you sent was indeed the requested flyer, at least you succeeded at sending that. Your finger hovered over the second image, afraid to face the truth of whatever happened to be behind it. As the image opened, your horror increased, the only saving grace was that it was one of the more tasteful shots you had taken that night. The photo was from your neck down to your waist, you had opted to use your hand to cover your nipples and push your breasts together for what you, in that moment, considered the perfect shot. Even now, you thought it looked pretty damn good but very inappropriate considering the situation.

You were really sweating now. You tried to take a few deep breaths remembering that he did respond to the text, simply just saying “Thanks”. Maybe he was going to just let it go and act like it never happened, saving you the mortifying experience of having to explain why you sent him a half naked picture. You couldn’t actually picture Saitama being angry or disgusted with you, all things considered, if he didn’t like the picture he would probably just delete it and move on with his day. But your conscience wouldn’t allow you to personally not address it and at the very least apologize.

Your catastrophizing was cut short when you heard a sharp knock on your apartment door. Frustrated, you let out a groan and kicked your feet against the floor at the fact you had to get up again. You got to your feet and stomped over to the front door, not even bothering to toss back on your sweat soaked shirt, it was probably just some solicitor you were going to have to chase off anyway. When you opened the door and saw Saitama standing there with his bags of groceries in tow, all you could do was stand in the doorway with your mouth agape. You did not miss the way his eyes quickly ran across your half dressed body and disheveled state.

“Oi. Are you just going to stand there or are you going to let me in?” Saitama asked with an annoyed expression, shuffling his shopping bags around, “It’s like a thousand degrees out here.”

You moved aside allowing him to brush past you into your apartment. He quickly kicked his shoes off and began to make himself at home in your apartment as he usually did. It surprised you at first just how comfortable he seemed everywhere. You wondered if he ever got nervous about anything. He opened your refrigerator and started putting some of his items inside.

“I’m going to be here awhile so, I need to use your fridge,” He explained giving you a quick glance, haphazardly shoving his eggs and pork onto one of your shelves.

“Just make yourself right at home,” you replied plopping back down on the floor.

“Nice tits, by the way,” Saitama continued conversationally pouring himself the last of your iced tea, “Did you mean to send that?”

Your eyes widened and your cheeks burned with embarrassment. You couldn’t even begin to form a response to his blunt question.

“You don’t have to be weird. I liked it. I just want to know if you meant to send it,” He said as he sat down beside you, stretching out on the floor.

“Well, no. I didn’t mean to send it,” You admitted, “But, uh, I am glad.. that you liked it.”

The quiet that followed your admission was unbearable. You could hear the ice clinking together in Saitama’s glass as it slowly melted and shifted.

“Wait.. is that why you said you would be here awhile?” You suddenly questioned, breaking the silence.

He looked over at you with a blank expression, “Yeah, I thought you wanted to uh.." Saitama made a crude gesture. One of his hands making the shape of an ‘O’ with the index finger from the other hand pointed towards it, "ya know? But if you don't, that's cool too.”

You laid back and threw your arm over your eyes and laughed at the turn of events, “Oh, I mean I definitely do.”