#i do give john a knee brace though

[mea-trinitas-profana]

someone should draw john using a cane tbh or some sort of walking aid

[birdkatze]

"But werewolves aren't real?" || werewolf! 141 x werewolf! reader Part 2

Future pairings = poly 141 x reader

Chapter pairings = You meet the boys this chapter!

Words = 2.2k

[Chapter 1] --- [Chapter 3]

Summery: After moving out of the big city and into the forest, you meet some men that might have some awners about whats been causing your pain.

Talks of injury and EXPLICIT under the cut

Behind the door was a very handsome man. He was wearing a boonie-hat and a partially unbuttoned red and black flannel shirt. You stood there blue-screening for a moment just staring.

“You alright there love?” The man asked, looking incredibly concerned. He ran a hand over his beard “I heard you fall..”

You snap out of your staring “Yeah I did..” you lift up your wrist, it was already bruising and swelling, “Sorry, I didn’t get any sleep last night…I had a chronic pain flare up…” You say dizzily.

The man stepped into your house, carefully looking at your wrist “I can go run back home and grab a brace…?” He looked at you earnestly.

You nod, “I don’t think I could even drive right now..” blinking back tears as another wave of pain crashes over you, you let out a stuttered gasp and your knees buckle. 

The man looks even more concerned “Let’s get you somewhere comfortable, I’ll call one of my boy’s to bring it down..”

Carefully the man picked you up and brought you over to the couch, laying you down with such gentleness it surprised you. He had held you with a shocking amount of care, he was so warm too, like a heated blanket but better. He stepped back quickly typing something on his phone before looking back at you.

“Is there anything I can get you, love?” he crouched down next to your head, moving strands of hair out of your face.

“On my bed there is a heated blanket…” You explain breathlessly, wincing as the pain got worse.

The man nodded and walked upstairs to grab the blanket. He quickly brought it down and plugged it in “What setting?” he asked, holding the controller.

“Four please” You whimper and start crying feeling embarrassed.

The man sets it on level four and sits down next to your head, “Do you have any medication?”

You shake your head “no..not really, I only have muscle relaxers but it’s not gunna help”

The man nodded “I forgot to mention I’m John Price, I was in charge of taking care of the cottage while it was up for sale, I saw you moved in and wanted to give you the key back..” he anxiously checked his phone “The boy’s should be down soon love, can I get you anything else?”

“No thanks” You start crying again as your body feels like it is trying to come apart, “I’m sorry” you gasp out and curl up into a ball on the couch “It’s not usually this bad..”

“You’re okay, Love,” He reassured you, smiling.

You hear a knock on the door before the door creaks open and two men step inside. One had a mohawk and another had a baseball cap on, that's all you could see through your glassy tear filled eyes.

The men speak in hushed tones before Price sits back down next to you and gently grabs your upper forearm, close to your elbow “Gunna fit the brace on alright love..?”

You just groan softly “Okay” and watch hazily. 

Price rotates your arm and freezes as he sees the bite scar on your wrist “What happened here?” he asks softly. His touch easing some of the pain.

“Got attacked by a dog, it broke my wrist, the doctor p-put something in there to help with the infection and to set it and so it’s really tender..” you quietly explain. 

Price set your arm down “Love, what did the dog look like?” making you whine in pain, Price instantly picked your arm back up and the pain leveled out. Sighing in relief you manage to cobble together some understandable thoughts. 

“Uhm, it was oddly really dark out since it was a full moon…it was massive though, the nurses joked it was a werewolf, the doctor got oddly mad at them..it was kinda funny” slurring your words as you feel another wave of pain. 

Price looked at your wrist and then at you, “Well I think your body is rejecting it, I can see it starting to come out, can we take it out? Gaz here was a field medic and can take it out, he has his med kit..?” pointing at a small lump on your wrist that had been getting bigger over the years. 

“Sure..” you slur out feeling delirious from pain.

The guy with the baseball ca-Gaz slowly gives you some pain pills, making sure you swallow them before he puts on some gloves. You fell asleep before he even started.

When you woke up you felt eons better, nothing felt as sore. Looking at your wrist you realize it wasn’t even bruised or sprained. Groaning softly, you sit up and look around. Rubbing your eyes blearily.

“Good to see you up” Gaz sat on the other side of the couch smiling “You feeling better?”

You nod sleepily “What did you even do? It’s not even bruised anymore?” you ask confused, looking at your wrist surprised.

“That was all you Duck..” Gaz smiled kindly, “Why don’t we get some food in you and talk, yeah?” Gaz gently helps you up, leading you into the kitchen.

Mohawk was heating up soup on your stove top, he was humming softly. Price was sitting at the table looking at his phone with the implant sitting on a paper towel. He looked up, smiling at you.

“Glad to see you up, love!” He looks at you and then the implant “Soap brought down some soup, which is..?”

“Done!” Soap places five bowls on the table “Ghost is on his way down..”

“What kind of name is Soap?” you ask curiously “Did your parents want you to have a unique name?”

“Ach noo, it’s a nickname, my name is John and so is Price’s and apparently everyone else here is named John so it helps us keep everyone apart..” leaning against the counter Soap explains with a smile.

“Ohh..” nodding as you think about it “Most of the men I used to work with were named John and it was a nightmare to distinguish which was which because none of them wanted to go by their last names”

Sitting down you look at the implant curiously, it looked like a small silver ball.

“Makes sense that was messing me up, I’m allergic to silver!” You explain looking a bit surprised “I’m surprised I didn’t keel over and die..”

Suddenly all eyes are on you.

“Did I say something wrong” you ask confused looking between all three men.

“Duck, let’s get some food in you before we go any further…” Gaz spoke softly 

You nod nervously “Alright..” 

Someone knocked on the door right as you started sitting down. The door opened to reveal a tall, strong but not muscular, blonde. Your mouth dried up instantly, he was just as hot as the other three.

Then it hit you, you had four unknown men who were all extremely attractive were in your house. You had let them perform a procedure while you had been knocked out from pain medication. However, no alarm bells rang out in your mind, if anything you've never felt so safe and content. 

“Don’t think too hard, pup” the blonde one who upclose appeared to have eyeliner on. Smirking at you as you realized you were probably staring. 

“Sorry..” you flush, feeling a bit embarrassed looking at the table.

 “You’re okay Duck, let’s get some food in you..I have a feeling you missed breakfast.”  Gaz’s soothing voice pulled you from your embarrassment as he softly brushed his hand over your back. 

You nod and watch as Soap serves everyone soup. You anxiously waited for someone to eat first, an odd anxiety created as a child from praying before eating or else you’d be punished.

Price took the first bite and you immediately started eating, you felt famished and half-starved.The soup was potato-bacon soup, it was hearty and delicious. You almost moaned from how good it was. 

“Soooo..” Soap started “Where are ya from?” He was looking at you with curious eyes.

“I moved here from the city but uh I grew up in a smaller town north here.” You smile while finishing up your soup. “Some of our property went into the woods and so me and my friends would camp out there, then I got attacked by some dog and we moved almost right after….”

“I assume you guys are from here?” You return the question with a small smile.

“We've been around here for a long time, pup” Scraping his bowl, Ghost responded.

“We live a few miles south of you, love” Price continued for Ghost, also finishing up his soup.

Gaz looked at you quizzically “Did you not go to college? Not to be judgemental but I’m surprised you could afford to move out here so young, Duck..”

Laughing you shake your head “You’re fine, I get this a lot.” setting your bowl to the side you reply “I’m actually 60! Everyone always thinks I’m still in my late teens, I have no clue why I look like how I did as a teenager.. I went to college and now I do freelance accounting work!”

Gaz dropped his spoon in his bowl, his eyes wide staring at you before they darted over to Price. Soap slapped his hand over his mouth with an expression similar to Gaz’s. Price didn’t look super surprised and neither did Ghost. 

Sighing Price looks at you sincerely “Love, you're going to think we are crazy but you’re a werewolf.”

You just stare at them blankly.

“What?” You ask incredulously, looking at each of the men. They all had genuine looks on their faces, you could tell none of them were lying. “But werewolves aren’t real..?”

“Let’s head outside and we'll show ya, pup.” Ghost stood up and opened up the sliding glass door, Gaz and Soap quickly walked outside looking excited. You followed hesitantly with Price gently leading you outside.

Gaz and Soap are stripping out of their clothes, it didn’t surprise you that Soap was commando. It was a pleasant surprise to see Gaz wearing lace panties. Your face heated up as you turned away and pinch yourself unsure if this was real. “Um, what are you guys doin?” You ask, blushing. 

“Don’t wanna rip the clothes pup” Ghost huffs, while also undressing. 

“Oh!” nodding you glance up only to find them all naked, you avert your eyes to the ground immediately. 

Soap walked up to you, looking confused “Why aren’t ya..”

“Soap..” Price grabbed Soap’s shoulder “Go over with Gaz.”

Gently lifting your chin up, Price held your face so you were looking at Gaz and Soap. Price chuffed at the boys and motioned for them to get on with it.

Soap grinned at you as you watched as his body transformed into an actual wolf. Gaz did the same, it was an odd mix of animorph-type transformation and something out of a horror flick. 

Gaz and Soap trotted up to you licking your hands and brushing against your legs. Lifting your hand you hesitantly brush your hand over Soap’s head, much like you would a dog, it seemed like he had a ‘mohawk’ even in wolf form. Gaz just sat next to you leaning against you. 

“Love,” Price grabbed your attention as he spoke. “Now they can just do a regular wolf form, however, there is another form which I’ll show you now…” 

Price stepped a few steps back before he shifted, it was an interesting mix of human and wolf, it vaguely reminded you of a furry but more wolf-like. He could stand on his back legs but also could easily run on all fours, then he shifted all the way to a wolf form.

Clasping your hand over your mouth you look at them in awe. You pinched yourself to make sure this wasn’t some insane dream. Maybe they were right?

Ghost clasped a hand over your shoulder, startling you from your awe. “Wanna try? It’ll feel good, ease that ache?”

You look at Ghost a bit confused on how he knew about the ache…

“I um, don’t know how to...” you look at Ghost curiously. 

“I’ll help ya’ pup” sighing Ghost tightened his grip on you.

It was an odd feeling shifting, it was quite painful but it was over fast. You have a shocked look on your face looking between everyone. You huff once you realize that you're smaller than Soap, Ghost, and Price. You and Gaz are roughly the same size which eases the frustration quite a bit. 

You walk around a bit getting used to walking on all fours. It felt odd and wrong- but also right? Feeling conflicted you look up at everyone else, Soap and Gaz are play wrestling, Ghost and Price are sunning themselves pressed up against each other.

It was clear the pack(?) was very close with one another. It made you feel oddly left out…sitting off to the side you watch the men-wolves? It was a really nice day out and for once in the past few decades you felt no pain. It was relaxing and so incredibly soothing. Resting your head on your paws you doze off, still quite exhausted from the past few days.

[axnrxn]

How They Kiss MW HCs Pt. 2 (Rudy, Gaz, Price, and Graves x GN!reader)

@governessknt609 Hope you enjoy this, love<3

Absolutely, I needed to make a part 2 anyway! Sorry for the delay, I've been busy with college:)

As always, minors DNI.

TW: none really, just fluff and sappy stuff from this point forward. Some mentions of violence, smoking, nothing excessive.

Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra

Rudy likes to be gentle with you, usually reserving kisses for the calmness only available in private.

Kissing Rudy makes you melt in his arms.

He'll gently massage your neck and shoulders as he kisses you.

Won't say much while kissing you, he prefers to show affection through his gentle touch.

He touches your face so lightly at times that he'll accidently tickle your face.

You love the abrasive rub of his 5 o'clock shadow against your cheek, the burn serving as a nice contrast to his gentle kisses.

Despite his gentle nature, he's violently protective of you. Hence the lack of PDA. Las Almas is a dangerous place, and you being there with him is already a major risk. No need to put an even bigger target on your back.

When you're alone, he cherishes you. Worships your lips and neck for as long as he can.

Will leave marks that only he will see.

Loves to pull your back into his chest and lightly kiss your jawline.

Will guide your head to the side to give his lips better access to your neck, sucking just lightly enough to not leave marks that the team can see.

You love to feel the veins in his hands and forearms as he holds you against him.

Captain John Price

Would 100% shotgun kiss you if you let him.

He'll tilt your head up towards him as he exhales cigar smoke into your mouth, the peppery taste making your mouth tingle.

If you don't like his smoking habits, he won't quit, but he will wash his mouth out before kissing you if he can. On missions, though, you'll have to deal with his tobacco breath.

Gentle dom. He won't demand submissiveness from you, it's just the dynamic you two naturally fall into.

Outside of passing smoke between you two, Price is relatively reserved. It takes a lot for him to relax, so you'll practically never share much more than a quick peck at work. And that's a rarity.

Due to Price's status in 141, you happen to fall into being a parent figure to the squad as well.

Most of 141 will avert their eyes from your PDA with their captain, or simply try to ignore it the same way they would with their parents.

For this reason, most affection between you two is reserved for in private.

In private, he practically pounces on you.

He'll leave rough kisses down your back, leaving some hickeys for you to cover later.

He loves to tug on your hair and give you sloppy open-mouthed kisses as you two take full advantage of the little time you have together.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Passionate, but rushed. Tooth-rotting sweetness.

Always tries to squeeze in as much affection as he can because he feels like there isn't enough time.

Consistently checks for your consent, though.

Loves it when you curl your hand into his hair and massage his scalp as he kisses you.

Will pick you up and brace you on his knee against the wall or wrap your legs around his torso as you kiss him.

He loves the feeling of you above him.

Will check in every time before he goes further, asking if you want more.

Will always be focused on your pleasure, doing as much or as little as you want.

If you want him to slow down, just start rubbing his cheeks and reassuring him that you aren't going anywhere.

Will dote on you endlessly.

If you want to get him to moan, push his head to the side and suck hickeys into his neck. He'll become a mess.

Gets extremely turned on if you assume control and start to pleasure him. He'll start blushing and squirming under your touch.

Philip Graves

Insists on dominating the kiss. Will almost always be the initiator.

Rough and fast kisses. Handsy and sloppy.

Does not care about kissing you in front of the Shadow Company.

They're his men, they have no say in what he does.

Will pull you into his lap during missions that he's remotely supporting. One hand will be on the controls, the other firmly gripping your hip.

Will leave hickeys for all to see. Has a major marking kink.

Extremely possessive

Will always talk dirty, saying things like "mm you like that, babe?"

Smirks when others notice the dark bruises he left behind.

If he ever goes too far, he will immediately cater to your needs and apologize. It might be a half-assed apology because he gets off on being rough with you, but it's an apology nonetheless.

You're just along for the ride with Graves, hope you like the journey because it's going that way whether you like it or not. Never non-consensual or pushy, just matter-of-fact 'this is how he is' atmosphere.

Will occasionally be more romantic with you, typically outside of work. He likes to partake in vanilla domesticity at times, enjoying the intimacy of pretending to live normal, non-violent lives.

During his romantic moments, he'll hold you gently in his arms and kiss your cheeks and nose. It's a rare sweetness he gives you.

A/N: DO NOT SMOKE Y'ALL. But if you end up with a cigar or cigarillo, DO NOT INHALE. You aren't supposed to inhale them. If you do, you'll probably end up throwing up or feeling really sick. They are for puffing with your mouth only. Sincerely, your filthy whiskey aunt <3

[xappetites]

this was supposed to be a little Price thought but it got away from me and it's 1112 words

warnings: fem!reader who's decided kids aren't the best idea for her, mentions of sex and breeding kink, brief mentions of a disordered relationship w/food

“Are you still planning on children?”

It takes John a minute, in the post coital haze, to understand the question his wife whispers from the bathroom doorway, naked in the easy way of years together.

She stands there, skin reddened in the places he was just holding onto like a lifeline, and she looks at the towel in her hands instead of him. It’s steps, between them, but they turn to ice for John, a little Siberia in the middle of South East London.

“Loaded question, isn’t it, love?”

“You brought it up,” she breaks the frost, moving to settle on the edge of the bed, right next to him. Her towel is warm, he realizes, as she works it over where he’s drying itchy with sweat and cum. Barely wet and gentle on his skin.

And John knows what she means, can still feel the words on his tongue: I’ll fill you, love, fill you ‘till it takes. He doesn’t regret them, doesn’t want to regret them because it gets him there in record time, does the job so well for him that just thinking about them has his cock hardening again to the warmth and the wetness and the subtle pressure of her hands.

But that’s all it is, a fantasy that ends here, when he cums. He doesn’t spend his days imagining his wife pregnant in his daily life. In fact, now that he thinks about it, the thought’s strange, leadens his stomach with an irrational sort of anxiety. He spends too much time away, too far removed from this unstoppable woman, to think of her vulnerable and not feel a certain kind of madness tugging at the threads of his self control.

“Do you want children?”

He counters, buys time, though he knows it’s unfair to twist the question on her. They talked about it, once, before the marriage, when they felt younger and the future seemed so terribly malleable. John said it might be good to have a couple. But he didn’t want to be a Christmas dad, seeing his offspring every four to six months and have them cry in his arms because they don’t recognize a man who’s more thought than father to them.

He’d planned to retire, cut back at least, before he’d consider any children. And now he can’t, not with so much to do. He couldn’t sit by a desk and watch other people forced into the kinda shit only he —and Kyle and Soap and Simon— will voluntarily sign up for. So it’s looking more and more like it might not happen for him, and he’s comfortable with that.

But they’d agreed, back then, on an indefinite but small amount of kids. And now his wife, the one with an actual life and a home where she welcomes him, is not looking at him as he refuses to answer. Not until he hooks his fingers in the crook of her knee and smooths his thumb over her thigh. She sighs at the touch, leaves the towel in favor of drawing nonsense patterns over his stomach.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to have children, John”

He frowns, but waits in silence. There’s something sad hiding behind the fleeting smile she gives him, something guilty that makes him brace himself for movement. The impulse he’s felt since the moment he fell in love with her, to fight for her, against the world. Like he’s an attack dog, built for violent resistance in her name.

“My body feels off, some days, like I don’t belong in it. I skip breakfast sometimes, I leave the metro a station back, for the walk.”

Her voice is soft, but her eyes are unrelenting, now that she’s started. And she rushes through the admission, makes it a simple stating of facts, like making the shopping list.

“I don’t think I can survive having someone else in this body without hating them, and a baby doesn’t deserve that. I don’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

John’s heart balloons in the quiet of the moment. He can’t help the lopsided smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, which he realizes isn’t a reasonable reaction. But it’s this, the clarity and the unflinching honesty, why he adores her so completely.

Whatever ache is in the confirmation of closing this particular door, outweighed by the pride of knowing she trusts him with the naked, uncomfortable truths of her. And that, John supposes, is what burns at him and he doesn’t know how to put into words when he talks about filling her up, when he thinks about breeding, in the most primal, basic sense of the kink. He just wants to make himself a part of her, wants to know her to the last little cell and live in the spaces between them.

“So if you want to have children, I think we would have to consider other options.”

That comment brings John’s focus snapping back to her hands, to the way she spins her wedding band, tugs on it until it hits the speed bump of the knuckle, a gesture he isn’t sure is conscious but that telegraphs exactly where her head is at.

“You’re all I want, love. No hypotheticals.”

“John—“

“No,” he catches her hand, pulls it back to his chest. He uses it to anchor himself, sitting up to kiss away whatever objection she’s cooking up. “I don’t say what I don’t believe in, right?”

“Right,” her stance slackens and her body tilts forward so her torso slots against his, a perfect fit.

“Won’t bring it up again, love.”

“I like it,” it’s a mumble against his neck, his jaw, that turns into kisses that follow the line of his beard. “Just wanted to let you know, in case—“

John simply hums, keeps the groan in his throat, the one she likes best; because however tempting her sweet weight is on him, he’s weighing his options for breaching the other touchy subject this impromptu conversation raised, on a cold morning in the middle of his first week home in a while.

“About the eating—“

“I have it handled,” she says, stretching and twisting until her legs end up on each side of him again, "I'm trying."

"Ok. But you'll let me know if you need something from me, right?"

She nods, pulls back from him just to grin like she's misbehaving, or just about to.

"Could I have another round for now?"

And John laughs against her until she's squirming at the feeling of his whiskers on her skin, 'cause how could he ever deny his favorite girl.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Olympics AU - Beacon

Beacon the therapy dog! USA Gymnastics Goodest Boy! From this ask

Takes place at U.S. Olympic Trials in June.

Find the rest of the Olympics AU here

Author's note: Since the Olympics are like a real thing now, I have a feeling I might start writing some extra little things for this AU outside of the "main timeline" I've developed. Like this. Or that massage gun scene. People wanted Beacon, so Beacon you will get. I’m also giving Beacon a bigger role on the competition floor itself because it’s more fun that way.

I'll have to figure out a better way to put things like this into a masterpost.

Photo from goldendogbeacon on Instagram

---

Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up. 

Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t 

Don’t fuck this up John. 

Breathe. Focus. Focus focus focus 

Hold yourself together. Don’t think so much. Stop thinking so much. 

It’s just a normal meet. Nothing weird. Not at all. You’re fine. Your leg will be fine. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t fine. 

Under-rotate the landings if you have to and you’ll be fine. Wear the brace even though it bruises the shit out of your shin. Small price to pay. 

It doesn’t hurt you’re being stupid you only have three events left you’re halfway done you’re doing fine it’s going to be okay stop thinking so damn much. 

Don’t. 

Fuck.

Up. 

Don’t-

Bucky’s internal monologue is interrupted by something wet pressing against his arm. He glances down to see a moist black nose sniffing at him, nuzzling at his hand. Again. 

Beacon. USA gymnastics certified good boy, their emotional support golden retriever who the entire team has fallen in love with. He’s been making the rounds in between rotations, cheering up athletes and lightening the atmosphere of one of the most stressful days of the season: the fight for a ticket to Paris. The gymnasts play with the golden every chance they can get. It’s only rotation 3 and already Curt has had to be half dragged to the apparatuses because he doesn’t want to stop playing with the dog. 

“This is clearly more important,” he told their coach, who could do nothing but roll his eyes and gently shove Curt on to his next event. 

Everyone can benefit from a therapy dog hanging out at the meet. But the dog in question seems to think Bucky, in particular, needs all the emotional support in the world. 

Bucky huffs out a breath and feels his mouth attempt to lift into a shaky smile that falls immediately. He reaches a hand out to scratch Beacon on the head. He’s sitting on the floor in the center of the stadium at Target Center, his left leg stretched out in front of him, awaiting the start of rotation 4. He can’t decide if he’s actually starting to feel pain in his knee, or if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. He’s been paranoid all day. 

It’s the U.S. gymnastics trials, a meet that Bucky didn’t even think he’d be at six months ago. It’s June, and he didn’t even start tumbling on floor again until April. Didn’t stick his first landing until just two months ago, and even then, most of the time it was onto a mat rather than onto the spring floor itself. The doctors warned him not to come back too soon. They told him he may never compete internationally again. They begged him not to do floor, at the very least, because of the pressure it puts on the lower body.

But he’s never been one to back down from what he believes he needs to do, no matter how sick to his stomach it makes him feel. So he didn’t listen, and now he can’t help but wonder if they were right.

He didn’t decide to compete at Championships, much less Trials, until the eleventh hour when he could no longer stand the idea of missing out on the mere chance of competing in Paris just because he was scared. 

Scared. 

Ridiculous. 

Scared is not something John Egan has ever felt about gymnastics. Fearless, they used to call him. 

He supposes they still do, whoever they are. The commentators. His teammates. The whole country, if he’s feeling egoistic. They don’t see the spiraling abyss that is his mind. All they see is the U.S. gymnastics poster boy who was counted out three months ago due to a catastrophic injury but crawled his way back up from the ashes with a blind determination to get back on top. 

They can call him fearless if they want to. But sitting here, in the middle of the stadium, surrounded by other team USA hopefuls, he doesn’t feel fearless at all. He’s survived floor, pommel horse, and rings. He should be feeling more confident by now. He should be calming down the further into this competition he gets. But he finds the opposite to be true. His heart keeps beating too fast and he can’t make it stop. He’s twitchy. He’s nervous. He’s tense. 

He hates it. 

Maybe that’s why Beacon the therapy dog keeps seeking him out in a gym full of other athletes who must be feeling nervous, too. Something about dogs being able to sense how you’re feeling, right? Maybe John’s anxiety is just that much more obvious. 

Great. He went from being cocky, carefree, confident John Egan, USA gymnastics champion to being… well, an anxious mess of a comeback story who can’t afford to let the world see how badly he wants to disappear at this moment. All they see is the smiles he gives the camera, the high scores he puts up on his events, and the way he walks around this stadium with his head held high like he already knows he’s back on top. 

The dog, on the other hand, sees the way his heart is pounding too loud, the way his fingers twitch in his lap, the way he keeps trying to rub the tension out of his bad leg. 

Bucky finds it funny that a dog can see right through him when no one else can. And yet, it works. As he pets the dog, he feels his heart calm down. The tension eases just the littlest bit out of his shoulders. Beacon nudges his hand again and lays down, crawling half into Bucky’s lap. 

“You’re a good boy,” Bucky says. He takes another deep breath. 

“Is he bothering you?” Beacon’s owner asks, even though they know full well that Bucky must be freaking out a little if Beacon keeps returning to him. The dog always knows who needs him. 

Bucky laughs shakily and shakes his head. “No. No, not at all.” He runs his hand over Beacon’s soft hair, looking into the dog’s innocent brown eyes, which look right back at him. “Actually, would it be okay if he stayed with me for a little bit?”

Beacon’s owner smiles at him and tells him of course that’s okay. And so, leash in hand, Bucky finds himself with his own personal therapy dog for a little while. Every time he starts to feel nervous again, the dog knows. He starts licking Bucky’s hand or cuddling against him or booping him with his nose. And it always makes Bucky smile and take a deep breath. 

“You’re monopolizing the dog,” Curt tells him when he finishes on still rings and returns to Bucky’s side. 

“He’s mine now,” Bucky declares. Beacon nuzzles against his leg as if to prove the point. “He’s my new bestie.”

Curt gasps dramatically as he reaches for his water bottle, pressing a hand over his heart. “I’ve been replaced!”

“He’s a hell of a lot cuter than you,” Bucky teases. The dog smiles when Bucky smiles, like making Bucky smile is a great achievement. Like he’s saying yes! Be happy! Good job!

Curt reaches down to pat the dog on the side. “Well we’re moving to vault, so you’re gonna have to give him up to the rest of us.”

Bucky’s vault goes off without a hitch, other than his brace slamming uncomfortably against his leg with every step as he sprints down the track. It’s not the event that nearly ruined his life, but it puts his bad knee through more grief than any other event except maybe floor exercise. He nearly collapses after he sticks the landing out of pure relief, the adrenaline still coursing through his body and making his heart pound even as his leg feels like jell-o. He shakes himself out, wills the feeling to return to his leg, and slowly, carefully, hops down off the vault podium. 

Before he can even sit down, Beacon is at his side, tail wagging excitedly as he smiles up at Bucky. “Hey best friend,” Bucky chuckles. He eases himself down into a chair as one of his coaches kneels in front of him to help him get the brace off and set to work massaging his knee. The dog stays loyally at his side through the whole ordeal, his head resting on top of Bucky’s thigh. 

“Got yourself a friend,” the coach says. 

Bucky smiles, his breathing starting to return to normal. “Sure do.”

—

After parallel bars, Curt and Croz pat him on the back and remind him that he’s almost done for the day. He’s so close. Just one more rotation. Just high bar to go. 

Just high bar. 

Bucky feels like he’s moving in slow motion, slogging his way through reality with far too much effort as he smiles at his friends and walks back towards the chair he left his bag on. He only has one event left today. Just one. But it’s the one that almost ended his career. 

It’s the event that he’s been afraid of ever since. The one that he spent months retraining himself to do, just trying not to bail out of his release moves because of the fear he couldn’t control. The one that made him scream in frustration and think about throwing in the towel because if he couldn't get past the damn mental block what was the point? As recently as the day before US Championships, he was still freaking out halfway through and letting himself tumble off the bar because his chest would seize up and his leg would throb and the world spinning around him would make him so dizzy he thought he might vomit. 

It was a freak accident. Theoretically, he knows that. It’s not something that’s likely to ever happen to him again. But he is not in the business of luck at this point. Luck is an altar at which he’s never worshiped, and he sure as hell isn’t going to now. He’s forcing himself to accept the fact that shit could go south, and he has no control. All he can do is try his damned best to push himself through and do what he’s trained his entire life to do. 

It’s just another meet. Don’t think about it too much. 

He didn’t start competing again until early May. At that point, he wasn’t even doing every event. Hell, he wasn’t even doing dismounts. On high bar, parallel bars, and still rings, he’d simply do his routine and then ease himself off the apparatus. Everyone in attendance, every athlete and every judge, would cheer so loudly for him anyways just because he was there. Just because he was doing it at all. 

But that won’t fly here. Not if he wants trials to count. Not if he wants that ticket to Paris. 

And he told himself yesterday that the win was being here. It didn’t matter what happened. He got himself here, and that was what mattered. But it’s not enough anymore. Not now that he’s in this stadium, pushing himself through this competition with a dizzying mix of anxiety and pure, ferocious determination coursing through him. He won’t have won until he’s on a podium at the 2024 Olympics with a medal around his neck. 

“You’re so close, Bucky,” Curt is saying as he walks away from parallel bars. “We’re almost done. We can do this.”

But it’s not his friends that break through the muffled underwater way he’s experiencing the world around him. It’s a happy-go-lucky golden retriever. 

Beacon breaks away from a group of other gymnasts when he sees Bucky walking towards him, and the other guys can’t even be disappointed about it when they see the way Bucky collapses onto the ground and wraps his arms around the dog. Beacon licks his cheek and nuzzles at his ear, and Bucky hides his face against the soft fur, willing himself not to lose it. His chest feels tight. His leg is aching. It’s not in his head, it’s real. And he’s trying not to let a dull but taunting pain, which historically he would’ve pushed through no problem, pull him out of Olympic contention. 

But the dog won’t leave his side. He knows what his job is, and he tries his best to take all the fear away in the time they have before Bucky starts the final rotation. 

Stay calm, Bucky tells himself as he pats the dog on the head one more time before heading over to high bar. 

Stop thinking so much, he tells himself as he adjusts his grips over his fingers and around his wrist. 

Don’t fuck it up, he tells himself as he rubs chalk over his hands. 

And then his coach is lifting him to the bar and he doesn’t have time to think anymore. Just do it. You can do it. You have to do it. 

“You got this!” Curt his yelling. “You’re good! You got it!”

So Bucky takes a deep breath and pulls himself up, sends himself into his first giant, then his first release move. His second. His third. 

He doesn’t think. He lets himself fly through the air, lets his body do what it knows it has to do, and when he lands, he can’t keep the grin off of his face as he yells out in triumph. 

It’s only his second time doing a full dismount off high bar in a competition since his accident. His second. And he stuck it. He did it. He fucking did it. 

Now he just has to do it all again tomorrow. 

As he hops off the high bar podium, overwhelmed with relief, Curt and Croz flank him on either side, cheering him on as he closes out day one of trials well in the lead. As he walks away from the last apparatus, though, his eyes find a happy golden retriever, staring right back at him. Beacon pulls against his owner’s leash, and the owner lets go with a laugh, letting the dog charge at Bucky. 

Bucky grins and drops to his good knee just in time for Beacon to barrel into his chest. Bucky scratches the dog all over, laughing as Beacon licks his face and wriggles around in his arms. 

“You gonna be my good luck charm?” Bucky asks. “You gonna help me get to Paris?” The dog licks his nose in reply. “Good. I’m gonna need you to help me through this.”

When asked what it took to get to the 2024 Olympics, Bucky will talk about the excruciating recovery process, the training, the frustrating days spent in the gym, the never ending support of his teammates and coaches. He’ll talk about everything it took to get to Trials alone. But then he will also always give credit to Beacon, USA certified good boy, because he honestly believes he wouldn’t have made it through Trials without him. 

…

…

Beacon will return in a future event finals update

[johnslittlespoon]

https://www.tumblr.com/johnslittlespoon/744717235364446208/thinking-about-how-sometimes-bucky-pushes-buck-too

and the begging alwayssssss ends with him promising to behave and whimpering that he can be good

again, whether or not buck believes him depends on how nice he’s feeling

i feel like these go hand in hand (◠‿◠✿)

somedays it takes longer for john to cave and start begging and apologizing, but he ALWAYS does (–aside from perhaps one time where he manages to get gale so flustered that he can't keep up his anger and frustration and john ends up bottoming from the top and absolutely rocking gale's shit <33)

but how long it takes for gale to give in (because he always would too, even if it means letting john whine and cry against his chest because gale won't let him come that night if he really needs to make a point about john's behaviour) would depend on the extent of john's bratting and how soft he's feeling for him that day

sometimes it doesn't take long; gale's riding him, and john keeps his hands obediently on either side of his head on the pillow, letting out the softest little noises every time gale rocks his hips down, and gale can tell he's really trying hard to make it up to him, that he was just acting up for attention earlier.

leans down to brace himself on one hand while he cups john's cheek with his other, can't help but smile when john leans into the warmth of his palm, melts when he tilts his head to kiss it. "oh, my sweet boy, there you are." takes john's hands in his own and places them on his waist, granting john permission to touch, and john knows he's forgiven.

on the flip side though, when john's really pushed things, especially if it's almost resulted in them getting caught, or getting suspicious glances shot their way, gale can be cold, shutting off that soft side, knowing that a quick little over the knee moment isn't going to remind john of why he's not meant to do things like that (and knowing that john's craving more than that).

he would never raise his voice, never shout, but he wouldn't need to for john to know just how serious he is. and on those days, depending on how he's feeling, he'd either use john for his own amusement as a form of discipline, wringing out orgasms from the man until late into the night, until he's writhing and begging for gale to be done, only receiving an "i thought this was what you wanted?" in reply, because gale would love how pretty john would look when he's teary and frustrated and flushed and trembling under his hands.

other times, it's not even about the sex itself, it is john being bent over gale's knee until he's sobbing, until the little moans at each hit turn into uncomfortable squirming, hands digging into gale's ankle where john hangs over him, and gale has to remind him "hands off."

and then he has john get on his knees, the thrill of satisfaction when he watches john wince as he sits his sore ass down on his heels. gale tilting his head back to have him look up at him with a sharp pull to the back of his hair, smacking him around until his cheeks have delightful red handprints and john's eyes are glazed over.

threading both hands into john's hair, using his mouth like that's all he is, the little gags and whines music to his ears, vindication for the fuckery he's been put through all day. holding john down until he can feel his throat contracting around him, not tears leaking down his cheeks, trying so hard to keep looking up at gale obediently but unable to help the way his eyes flutter closed.

on very rare occasions, he'll leave john high and dry after, making it clear that he's done a good job for him (because john needs the reassurance after anything more intense, and gale would never be upset enough to leave him without that) but that he's not allowed to get off today because he pushed things too far. and john will complain a little, but mostly he knows that gale is right and will fall asleep against his chest sniffling and worked up but not daring to talk back even more, knowing gale has his best interests in mind.

most of the time though, once he's come down john's throat and john is taking in ragged breaths looking up at gale with so much reverence and adoration in his eyes (and really there's a 50/50 chance john's probably ended up coming in his pants untouched at this point), gale will take his face in his hands, brush his thumbs over his cheeks to wipe away his tears, tell him how well he's done, watch john melt into his praises.

he'll crawl into bed with john and kiss him so sweetly while he jerks him off or lets him rut up into his thighs, john tucking his face into the crook of his neck, pressing open mouthed kisses and panting little 'thank you's against his skin, shaking apart in gale's arms. gale would kiss his forehead after, say "you're gonna be good for me from now on, yeah?" (even though he knows it's only a matter of time before john gets restless again). john promising that he will and falling asleep exhausted and drained but content having gotten what he wanted all along lol.

[browzerhistory]

john ward headcanons. i'm done vague posting and also i want to know if anyone agrees with me at all

starting with the normal ones and ending with the ones that make me the most insane

-religious ocd. this one's pretty obvious

-his bad knee gives him chronic pain, and even though he wears a brace, he can't run or carry anything too heavy without it getting worse. he should probably be using a cane or crutches but feels like he doesn't deserve it

-bisexual.

-adding onto the religious ocd thing - he can't go to bed without reciting a prayer first and he sometimes gets paralyzed making the sign of the cross until he feels he's done it 'right'

-he and lisa are like brother and sister, though they drifted apart as john pursued priesthood and lisa just tried to live a normal life. he regrets not staying close

-this one's my most conspiracy-theory type hc, but it's also my favorite for characterization: john thomas ward does not have a soul. well, he technically does, but it's not in his body. the stick effigy thing outside of the church? that's where it is. the closer his body is to it, the more intensely he feels it, and he's constantly drawn back because he needs it like he needs air, but he doesn't know exactly where it is or how to get it back.

this is also why he's so easy to possess, and why he's so capable of the intense violence you get him to do in the 'bad' endings while also being able to do everything right. it's also why gary wants him as a vessel for the unspeakable so bad - it's a lot easier to get a demon into someone's body when there isn't really a someone there to fight back.

(bonus headcanon for reading so far: father garcia is transgender. remember that post that went like "he has the wisdom only a post-menopausal man can have" or something? that's him)

[willow-salix]

Chapter Update!

"Don't drop me!"

"When have I ever dropped you?" 

"You had better catch me!"

"Of course, I'll catch you!"

"Go slow!"

"I am!"

"Just trust us, will you?"

"Don't you dare let me fall!" 

"Then stop making it so tempting!" Gordon yelled back, trying not to laugh at their predicament. He tightened his grip on her waist. “I promise I’ve got you, you can let go now.”

You can read on it Ao3 by clicking here or keep reading under the cut.

Selene’s fingers dug into the skin of Virgil’s arm that he had locked across her chest, refusing to release him. He was the only solid thing she could clutch onto and she wasn't about to give that up for anything.

“Sel, that hurts,” Virgil said placidly, trying to pull his arm out of her vice-like grip. Unfortunately, it only made her cling tighter. “I can’t do anything unless you let go.”

“If you drop me and I break my other ankle John is gonna be pissed,” she warned him, tipping her head back to spear him with a warning glare.

“I know. Now retract your claws.”

Selene narrowed her eyes but slackened her grip on his arm, though she didn’t let go completely. 

“No trust, no trust at all. Where’s the love, Sel?” Gordon teased. Honestly, he couldn’t blame her for being a bit nervous, she’d been through a terrifying ordeal and was still recovering. Besides, she’d never been overly adventurous in regards to being dangled or thrown around at the best of times, and this wasn’t one. Not that they were doing that, but she did have a dramatic flair a mile wide.

“Don’t flail,” Virgil warned, lifting her as gently as possible and lowering her down into the water where Gordon was waiting. Gordon, even though he looked wiry, caught and held her easily, helping to slow her descent into the water.

Selene sucked in a breath as the water closed over her legs, bracing herself for the shock she always felt when entering a pool. But to her, very pleasant, surprise it wasn't anywhere near as cold as she had expected, they had heated the water far above its usual temperature. The water felt, well not quite bath-like, it wasn’t hot enough to scald the flesh off her bones, but it was warm and infinitely more relaxing than she had thought it would be.

“See?” Gordon said, grinning that ridiculous smile of his that was all teeth and puppy eyes. “Now will you trust me?”

Virgil, who was currently trying to ignore the screaming of his knees where he was kneeling on the hard poolside tiles, and the less screaming more pained ache from his back where he hovered bent over the pool holding part of the weight of his sister, carefully slid his arm out from under hers, letting Gordon take the full burden.

Selene clamped her arms down, pinning Virgil's in place, trapping him for a moment or two before she carefully wrapped her arms around Gordon’s neck, allowing Virgil to withdraw completely. He straightened up, stretching his back until it popped, then clambered awkwardly to his feet.

“Don’t go too far,” Gordon called after him as he settled himself on a distant lounger, intent on soaking up a little sun while they did their thing. 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Virgil assured his brother, pulling out his phone to catch up on his latest podcasts.

While Virgil made the most of his precious downtime, Gordon got to work.

“Take it easy to start with," he instructed. "Keep hold of me if you need to, but don’t stress because I’ll be holding tight to you too. I won't let you down."

“Promise?” 

“I promise,” he assured her. “Let’s start out nice and easy, just try to put your feet on the bottom, letting the water support you.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can, Sel, you’ve got this. Just your tippy toes, OK?”

She wanted to, she really did. She was willing to do anything she could to make sure that she was up and out of that damn chair as quickly as possible. She’d done her exercises from the second she’d been allowed. Small leg raises on both sides, ankle circling for her good ankle and just toe pointing for her bad one. She’d managed some knee bends and light hip raises from a flat position. But this was different, this was the first step towards full recovery. Literally. 

Her legs felt so wobbly like all their strength had deserted them. Yoga and hula hooping were her exercises of choice and she’d been used to standing on one leg without any strain, could warrior and tree pose for hours if called to, but now she didn’t even have the strength in her legs to leave the bed on her own. This was the first time she’d been properly upright in more than a month, it was bloody scary and her husband wasn't there. Oh, she didn't blame him, she knew he was working hard, spending every spare moment that he wasn't coordinating a rescue or looking after her, searching for some clue as to the identity of their mysterious enemy. The thought of someone he didn't know being out there, watching them, maybe plotting their next move at that very moment, was something he couldn't stand.

“Trust me,” Gordon said again as if he were reading her mind.

“I do.” And she did, she did trust him, she trusted them all. The fact was she didn’t trust herself. She had never felt this weak, this useless, this vulnerable, not since her relationship with Nathaniel. She’d never wanted them to see her this way, yet here she was, too scared to try putting her feet on the floor.

Well, she would damn well do it. She would not allow herself to become the pathetic, useless lay-about that he-who-doesn't-deserve-to-be-named had accused her of being. Her father’s words floated through her mind, “Sweetheart, the only person that can make you feel useless is yourself by not trying”. He’d been right then when he’d sat with her while she cried late into the night, just the two of them, and he was right now. She’d thought that he and Adam would be the only men she would ever fully trust again.

But then John had come into her life, bringing with him the most amazing family in the world. Her daddy had believed in her then, and now they did too. She wouldn’t let him down, she wouldn’t let them down and, most importantly, she wouldn’t let herself down.

Gritting her teeth, she lowered her legs from the sitting position she held them in. It felt unnatural, to not be lying down with the protective strength of a mattress under her. To be actively trying to put her legs down while upright was something she hadn’t tried to do in more than a month and she was secretly worried that she wouldn’t even remember how to do it.

“That’s it, nice and easy,” Gordon encouraged. “Just the tips of your toes.”

Selene nodded as she slowly, painfully, continued to lower her legs. The very tips of her toes on her good foot brushed the bottom of the pool first and then, with a more solid feeling clunk, the front of her cast.

“That’s great, Selly, you’re doing it! Now slowly lower down flat.”

Selene grit her teeth as she forced her ankle to bend, lowering her foot. It was slow, so incredibly slow, but it felt amazing when the sole of her foot finally touched down. Once she felt solid ground she straightened her knee, allowing the cast’s bottom to connect fully with the floor. The tiles felt strange under her feet after so long of nothing but the footplate of her wheelchair or the lounge floor.

“That’s amazing. You did it!” Gordon cheered, giving her a gentle high five.

“I did it!” she agreed, panting slightly from the exertion. “Now what?”

“Well, your physio at the hospital said that, if you were in water, you could try taking a few steps if your pelvis feels alright. Want to try?” He kept his tone gentle, not a hint of challenge in it, not wanting to push her in any way. 

Selene chewed her lip as she thought about it, looking down at her feet, distorted through the water, but solidly there. Looking real, feeling real. She still hurt, especially in the pelvic area which was pretty much always there, a dull ache that could morph into a sharp stab if she moved too much or too quickly. Her wrist, even though it was out of its cast, still felt tender if she did too much with it and her ankle still throbbed when she put weight on it. But all of that was bearable, everything was, so long as she got herself back to normal at some point.

Finally, she nodded. “Yeah, I’ll give it a go.”

“That’s our girl.” Gordon moved a little way in front of her, transferring his grip from her waist to her arms. “Walk towards me. One step at a time.”

“OK.”

“Easy does it. Take it slow.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, her face creased in concentration as she focused on the herculean task of lifting first her good leg, setting her foot firmly on the tile before she tried her hurt one. She had never felt so weak, she made Bambi look like a pro-runner. She felt her thigh muscles tremble as they fought valiantly to keep her upright. The water helped, it took some of the weight off her limbs and kept her upper body more buoyant, but it was still hard going.

“One step…two steps…” Gordon counted softly.

“I swear to fuck if you say ‘tickle you under there’ I’ll smack you,” Selene warned him in such a serious tone that he burst out laughing.

“Just keep walking,” he said, tugging lightly on her arms to encourage her. “One step…” 

She glared at him, but there was no real heat in it as she shuffled forward another two steps. Everything hurt. Her back felt like someone had parked a truck on her, her pelvis and hips ached like the devil and her ankle felt like it was on fire. But she would keep moving, even if one step more was all she could manage.

“You’re doing great, Selly,” Virgil encouraged her from his poolside viewpoint. She glanced over to see him sitting up on the end of the lounger, watching her progress. She gave him a weak smile which he returned with interest.

“OK, that’s enough for now,” Gordon told her when she had managed a total of twelve steps. 

“I can do more,” she insisted. Twelve steps were nothing, that wasn’t even the width of their bedroom. She wanted to do more, she wanted to keep going, to keep pushing herself.

“No,” Gordon told her firmly. “You don’t want to push yourself too far. Little by little is key.”

“When did you become a mind reader?” 

“No such skill, I just know you.”

“Harsh.”

“Truth,” he argued. “Plus, you forget, I’ve been where you are. I know what you’re thinking because I’ve thought, and done, the same thing.

Selene huffed out a breath but gave in gracefully. “Then now what?”

“I’ll show you.”

He moved behind her, sliding his arms under hers so her back was against his chest. “Lean back, let the water take your weight, then you can give your legs a little exercise without putting too much pressure on them.”

This time she didn’t hesitate to put her full trust in him. This, this was their thing. She cast her mind back to the first time she had seen a rescue go wrong, as well as the impact that it had on her boys, specifically Gordon. The crew of an out-of-date submarine had gotten themselves caught in the middle of a tsunami, resulting in their sub being partially crushed by the shifting ocean floor. Gordon had gone down in Thunderbird Four to get them but had been too late. 

He’d been devastated, seeing it as a failure on his part. He’d wanted to be alone, but she hadn’t allowed it. She’d asked him to trust her, and he had. She’d dragged him out of his room and down to his favourite lagoon where she had done this very thing.

She’d gotten him into the water, made him lie back in her arms and had talked him through the process of water cleansing, letting the emotions out into his element. It had helped, and after that, it had been something they did whenever a rescue was particularly bad. 

When he had been crushed in Thunderbird Four and was recovering in hospital, he’d confided in her that he’d worried he wouldn’t be able to cope without their little ritual, not being able to release his feelings in a safe way. She’d promised him then that she would help, and she had. She’d taught him how to use other elements, how to work through things in a different way and, when he’d finally been allowed back in the water again, she had been right there beside him.

Now it was his turn.

Resting her head back onto his shoulder, she let him and the water take her weight, trusting him to keep her safe as she slowly, gently, kicked her legs up and down.

This was nice and relaxing. She hadn’t been in the water for so long, sitting in the shower under the spray didn’t count. She craved a hot bath with every fibre of her being. She wanted to be able to get in and out of chairs, beds, and bathtubs, by herself. She wanted to feel like herself again. 

She closed her eyes, the sun above them too bright to be comfortable, and let her mind wander as Gordon slowly counted for her. In her mind's eye, she conjured up a picture, a simple thing to visualise and hold on to, feeding it power in order to make it a reality. She saw herself walking around the kitchen, making them food as she so often did. She pictured herself on her hands and knees indulging in a long cat/cow stretching session on a yoga mat beside Virgil’s piano. She saw herself sitting in the gravity ring with john, looking down on the earth, and herself standing on her rooftop amongst her plants, the moon above her as she lifted her arms to the heavens, greeting her goddess…

The sound of the emergency alarm blasted out from the open lounge windows, shattering the relaxing atmosphere.

Virgil was on his feet in an instant, already leaning over the pool. Gordon wasted no time, moving towards the side, dragging her with him. He held her legs and supported her as Virgil slide his hands under her arms and hauled her unceremoniously out of the pool and into his arms like he’d just landed a fish, uncaring as to how wet she was.

“My chair,” she protested, shocked at her sudden departure from the pool and the relief it had given her.

“No time,” Virgil apologised, already heading to the kitchen entrance, carrying her as if she were nothing. 

“Then at least get my robe!” She gestured to the towelling robe that she used for swimming, still draped over the back of her chair where she had left it.

Gordon grabbed it for her as he passed, struggling to drag on his own one-handed as he raced to catch up with his rapidly retreating brother.

[talentforlying]

@spookyagentfmulder / continued.

yeah. that's about the reaction he was expecting.

the barked repetition, though, has whatever sheepish, half-arsed apology he'd been ready to offer sliding right off the tip of his tongue with all the graceless finality of a bouquet dumped in the bin. he pauses with one hand perched on the back of the chair, shooting a flat look of warning across the desk — you don't give me orders writ in bold blue typeface — before doing what he politely chooses to think was requested, ankle crossed over knee with pointed nonchalance.

hypnotizing the victim was stupid. it was ill-advised, reckless, and downright cold, and the least mulder deserves from him is some sort of acknowledgment for it. but fucked if constantine's going to take an unconditional bollocking just because mulder needs to fill out the federal fucking chip on his shoulder.

he waits out the build-up of steam in perfect silence, eyes narrowed and watchful within a mask of polite indifference. sure, it stings: trust and faith in the past tense, it always stings, and if they were having this lovely little chat at a reasonable volume, not as some ultimatum-riddled power play, he might even show it. they're not. he won't. and mulder wants to get pissy with constantine, not john, so that's exactly who he's going to get.

' . . . got that all out've yer system? ' his voice stays quiet and even, a scathing sliver of ice that refuses to melt under the heat of mulder's tirade. ' feelin' good and proper righteous yet? fuck me, with a monologue like that you could've gone onstage, 'stead of paper-pushin' in the FBI's basement. '

it's low, and he knows it. no taking it back, though. legs uncross as he leans forward in his seat, forearms braced against his knees and an edge creeping along the margins of his tone, whittling the ends of his words down crisp and curt. ' so let's straighten out the score here, agent mulder, ey? i never asked you t'cover my arse. you could sell me up the river to that twat boss of yours any bloody time you'd like, and i could figure me own way out just as easily; the reason you don't is 'cos you know i get results. the results that you want, free of bureaucratic red tape bollocks. '

he pauses for breath, and in the beat of silence, regret seeps into the frown lines of his face, bruising it as dark and deep as frostbite. then the mask slips back in place, over a shrug that's too abrupt to be the careless dismissal it's trying for.

' by my accounting, that cost you're so keen on billing me for? it'll be a whole bloody lot less than otherwise, since i went ahead an' bought you a little genuine deniability 'stead of just making you lie. reads like a mistake rather than a choice, dunnit? you don't have to like that i did it. you can g'wed and keep bangin' around over it like king fucking kong all you fancy. but you know we weren't gonna find the truth any other way. that's how we work together, and don't pretend it en't what you signed up for: you do what you can, and i do what you can't. f'you only like to save people when it's risk-fucking-free, then that's your problem, not mine. '

[tommyspeakycap]

I love your work! I was wondering if you’d be willing to write something about (toddler) baby Shelby having Alfie help her bake a cake for Tommy

omggggg that’s so so cute!!

A Bakers Help

The burly Camden Town ‘baker’ was nothing short of completely shocked when he heard a soft banging on his office door in the mid afternoon. His eyebrows had furrowed and he had kept his hand readily on his weapon so he was prepared in the event of an enemy being on the other side of the door. He was surprised to say the least when he tugged open the door and had to look down multiple inches to spot she who knocked on the door.

There stood a little girl. One he knew fairly well but who’s appearance outside his office was still a shock. That little girl was notorious around most of England, especially in heavily gang populated territories where the “Shelby” was a household name and everybody who knew that name knew the littlest member of the family was something akin to a jewel in Tommy Shelby’s crown. Alfie had been curious as to whether or not she was actually attached to Thomas Shelby’s hip in consideration to how much time she spent right by his side, teetering along on little legs so he knew she was safe right by his side. It wasn’t often that Tommy entrusted others to watch over his youngest sister, so it would be safe to say that Alfie was incredibly confused.

“Good morning.” The little girl greets, her lips plastered with a bright smile as she lifts a hand to wave at him. Alfie braces himself on either side of his doorway with strong hands so as to lean out of his office to look out into the ‘bakery’ to both the left and right before stepping back in. “Mhm yes it was actually. Where’s your brothers?” He asks, turning his eyes back to the girl in the doorway who fights to pull her wool coat back up from falling off her arms due to the fact it hadn’t been buttoned up. The girl shrugs, “Dunno...Can I come in?” She asks politely, “It’s very cold.”

Alfie Solomons squints his eyes and forms a crease between his brows, but even he can’t deny the chill in the winter breeze through the unheated factory and the shivering of the child, and so he steps to the side and gestures her in the door. Alfie hums, or maybe something more akin to a grumble, in thought as the five year old wanders around his office to take in the whole surroundings. “And where are your pikey brothers then yeah?” His voice rumbles deep and gravelly the same way it always does, not missing the chance or thinking twice about dropping an insult to the Shelby men as he speaks. The youngest of the clan shrugs her little shoulders. “Dunno,” she says again, “I’m with Ada. Told her i was going out to play.”

The words most definitely do worry Alfie Solomons after the girl with Tommy Shelby’s striking blue eyes and his heart in the palm of her tiny hand finishes speaking flippantly. It occurs to him that she’s simply too young to understand both risk and consequence. She knows that Tommy Shelby dotes on her like the little princess he believes her to be. She knows he loves her, he tells her every day. However, Alfie knows the far darker side to that love. He’s heard of people brutally murdered with remains unidentifiable after coming close to her, and although Alfie has no desire to harm a child who probably doesn’t even understand what it is the rest of her family do when she’s not around, that doesn’t reassure him even in the slightest that Tommy, Arthur, Ada and John Shelby along with Polly Gray wouldn’t rip him to shreds if they knew their little princess was stood in his office for whatever reason.

“Right,” Alfie states, “Better get you home then,” He strides easily towards the door to hold it open, but the little girl simply quirks one eyebrow and remains where she stands. “It’s Tommy’s birthday soon.” She declares, looking up at the hardened London gangster as if he poses no threat nor fear to her in the slightest bit. She smiles at him, big and bright. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know if he was violent, didn’t know if he was supposed to be scary. She just knew she had met him before, he was relatively funny as the 5 year old obviously did not pick up on the thinly veiled threats hiding beneath the verbal back and forth between her favourite brother and the man she stood with now, and more importantly than anything; she knew he was a ‘baker’. “You need a cake on your birthday, you know.” She adds very matter of factly, and Alfie Solomons doesn’t fight the little grin he gives. “And you’re a baker, so you can make good cakes. I need you to help me make Tommy’s cake for birthday cake time on Saturday.”

There’s virtually no way this little girl had just come up with this by herself. The way she acts, her generosity, her sweetness and her absolute insistence of cake for her brothers birthday was not something she had adapted by herself. Children don’t just come up with these things. That thought, for Alfie, means that those who have raised her have drilled a certain kindness into her. Thomas Shelby has raised his little sister to be the kind of kid who will find a man she thinks is a baker just because her brother told her he was, so that he can help her make a cake. That makes Alfie want to laugh. Tommy Shelby acts the part, but Solomons now knows he’s the type who taught a little girl about the importance of cake and birthday fun.

“Fine.” Alfie responds, out stretching his arm to gesture the little girl out into the factory. He did actually have a designated area for the ‘bakery’ just in the event that someone came looking or investigating and he needed to show there was actually a bakery there. He was thankful for that now, because he got the feeling that there was little to no chance he would have gotten away from the very very persistent little Shelby trailing behind him. It becomes apparent very quickly that little (y/n) will have no luck when it comes to seeing what was going on up on the counter, considering she wasn’t even nearly the same height as it, never mind tall enough see over it. Alfie has to get creative in that respect, eyes flicking around until they lands on a a stack of crates that he grabs a couple of to pile them next to the counter so that the youngest Shelby can contribute as she pleased to the cake making.

All things considered, Alfie was actually a fairly good baker. He didn’t come up with the idea of a bakery to cover his illegal business work for no reason. He knew he could bake if it was necessary (which it sometimes was to smuggle alcohol), so this ask from the little girl who had a list of ingredients and an exact image of how she wanted this cake to look, wasn’t a huge task for him.

In the process of the bake, Alfie learned a lot. He learned that little Shelby couldn’t quite pronounce her L’s (which Tommy was apparently working on with her), so she called him Afie. He learned that Tommy’s favourite cake was vanilla sponge, which was why it was a four tier vanilla sponge with extra strawberry jam that his sweet little sister had chosen. He learned that the little girl got here by very discretely tripping up her cousin, Karl, so that Ada was preoccupied giving him a plaster for his knee and stopping his tears and (y/n) snuck off from Ada’s London home in the direction she felt like she remembered Tommy going when he had taken her to Alfie’s bakery once, albeit leaving her in the car with Arthur and John. She had to ask for directions from confused strangers a few times, but ultimately she found the place on her own. Alfie learned that little Shelby talks a lot. She’s very clever, can follow instructions a lot better than most children of a similar age. It had become increasingly clear she didn’t see any problem with talking about the fun things she did with her brothers. The way Arthur and John like to throw her about to hear her giggles, how Tommy tucks her in every single night that he can. How he tickles her, how he still carries her around even though her aunt Polly protests it. How good her aunt Polly’s cooking is. How much she loves her family. She sees no problem with divulging these soft family moments, although Tommy would probably be absolutely appalled that people knew these things about him and his brothers. It made the head of the Peaky Blinders seem so incredibly mundane.

Alfie could see now why that sweet girl was so loved and held so dear by the family. He also had to wonder if she truly was one of them. She was funny and bright, she giggled with him and babbled on about sorts of rubbish. Alas, she was bossy as Thomas himself. She was loud like Arthur, sarcastic as John, self assured as Polly, as independent as Finn and opinionated as Ada. She made sure to tell Alfie exactly how to stack the first layer while she mixed ingredients for the next layer and he was kept on a very short leash, reminded every so often that he was not to dip his fingers in any of the mixtures and leaning over as he worked to tell him Tommy liked more jam than what Alfie had put on.

“Wait!” She yelps out, leaping off the makeshift kitchen stool made from those bottle crates to chase after Alfie until she reaches the man who was carrying the cake towards a box. “Finishing touches,” she insists, ever so slightly dusting the cake with powdered icing sugar to give a final decorational appearance. Alfie smiles subconsciously as the small girl stands back with a proud grin, turning her eyes to man holding the cake, “Thank you Afie,” she beams, her cute little way of saying his name never lost on him as his heart flutters. “Welcome, baby Shelby.” He responds as he slips it into the cake box he’d ordered one of his men to go and get without question.

Alfie was certain he would step outside his bakery and London would be burning. He expected to have Shelby’s killing people on the streets searching for their baby, their sweet little princess. He assumed (and rightly so) that Ada hadn’t told Tommy that she had absolutely no idea where his most precious little love was for genuine fear of his reaction and so she had mobilised some friends and acquaintances she had made while in London to try finding her little sister. Albeit they were evidently unsuccessful and absolutely no one expected little (y/n) to be baking with Alfie Solomons for her gangster brothers birthday because she just loves him so.

Ada literally burst out the front door frantically when she saw the car headlights pull up outside her house, wrapping herself tightly in her coat as Alfie Solomons lifts her little sister down out of the car. The 5 year old stands innocent as ever next to the man who Tommy never truly knows if he can trust or not as he reaches back into the car to lift out a white cake box with two strong hands. “Better keep a closer eye on this one yeah?” He gestured his head to (y/n) who runs towards Ada and jumps into her open arms to be squeezed incredibly, almost painfully tightly. “Never run off like that again!” She hisses, her concern and anxiety clear behind her words as she speaks into her sisters soft hair, stroking it with her hand for some form of reassurance.

“Sorry Ada,” she hums cutely in response, “We made Tommy a cake though, for his birthday!” Ada let’s go of (y/n) and turns to the little girl. “Go inside and find Aunt Pol, i’ll be in shortly.” She says as she eyes Alfie Solomons with the stoney faced glare he assumes she learned from Polly Gray and her often stoney resolve. “Bye bye Afie!” The 5 year old chimes, scuttling up to him to wrap her arms around his legs for a moment before turning and running off with a wave at the doorstep with Alfie a little bit to stunned by how kind she was to him despite the bad man he was to do much else than wave after her. “You,” Ada snipped, cutting him out of his thoughts and crossing her arms firmly over her chest, “Baked a cake with my little sister?” Her words leak with confusion, eyebrows furrowed with her head tilted in question as she continues to be unable to think of any reason why Alfie Solomons hadn’t turned the little girl away or even used her as a bargaining chip with threats of harm to the child if Tommy didn’t do as Alfie wanted. Instead he baked with her a cake for Thomas and she was returned without a bump, not even a hair on her head harmed. He had returned the little Shelby who was uncharacteristically clumsy for a Shelby without her falling off of anything, burning herself on any ovens or accidentally eating something she was supposed to.

“Yeah.” Alfie responds, shrugging his shoulders at the same time. Ada steps closer to him to try in some way to read what he’s not saying, her heels clicking with each step. “And you want nothing for it?” She presses, her eyes narrowed as he shrugs. “Birthday gift innit yeah?” He grumbles, handing the cake to Ada. “She’s the best of you lot,” he states firmly as he turns his back to climb back into his car, “Keep her that way yeah?”

Ada’s frown turns to a soft smile as she nods, watching as Alfie Solomons pulls his door shut firmly and turns on his ignition.

“Mr Solomons, Oi!” She calls after him, forcing him to roll down his window to hear what she has to say. “Thank you.” She breathes, “For looking after her and bringing her home. And for the cake.” Alfie nods his head in acknowledgment. Ada isn’t sure what else to say. She still feels fairly nauseous at the fact her little sister was missing for virtually the whole day and littered with further nerves at the fact Tommy would be around to pick her up in a half hour and it wasn’t like little Shelby to keep quiet about anything, especially not when it came to Tommy and especially when it came to her adventures that her favourite brother hadn’t been part of, so assuredly she would let him know all about her baking day with Alfie after the cake was revealed tomorrow afternoon for his birthday. Alfie knew this too and he imagined he’d get a visit from the head of the Peaky Blinders relatively soon after he found out.

Tommy would probably be as confused as Ada as to why Alfie looked after little (y/n) the way he did. Alfie couldn’t even really explain it himself, she just warmed up his heart and the sweet little girl showed Alfie truly why Tommy loves that little girl so much. She brings laughter and happiness and fun. She brings light into a very, very dark life and Alfie appreciates that dedication Tommy had to keeping her safe a lot more now. He himself now had a soft spot for the kid and there was a part of him that knew for a fact he too would be making sure no one in his circle was breathing words of harming that little girl who had promised she would bake with him again, and had his birthday written on her hand so she could bake for his birthday.

Maybe the Shelby’s weren’t so bad after all.

[poguestvff]

BUBBLEWRAP — P. HEYWARD

in which pope heyward loves every inch of his partner but he could deal without having to clean new wounds every day.

taglist | masterlist | 1.3k words

warning(s): descriptions of wounds, they/them pronouns, no season 2 spoilers !!

You would think after months of dating Pope would be used to it but clearly not. Y/n was a clutz, that could be said around anyone on the island. Whether it be tripping in stores, or wiping out on a surf board, there was hardly ever a time where they didn’t find a way to have to brace for impact. Not only were they a clutz but along with an adrenaline junkie and neither went well together.

Pope joked about the need to constantly hold y/n close due to the fact that they were a walking accident magnet. It was hardly ever a time where you wouldn’t find Pope Heyward with an arm around his lover or his hand tucked in their back pocket just to pull them back so they didn’t trip on their own sandals. Pope was awfully protective of his partner and seeing them come in the chateau often with a new marking and an excuse on how theyd received it, it always made him give them a bored face.

Just last week they’d walked in with a gash through their eyebrow, a reopened scar across the top and into the eyelid. JJ stood behind them, hand patted on them shoulder and a toothy grin. A sheepish smile resided on their face despite dribbling blood down the side of their face as Pope sighed, hand dragging down his face. “What happened this time?” Pope asked, watching Kie pull Y/n to the couch to sit.

“When we went to get the beer, JJ jumped over a trash can so I tried but I fell.” They excused, looking towards Pope as John B and JJ began to laugh. “Sorry, honey.” and all Pope could do was shake his head and kiss the top of their head.

But sometimes the least of his worries were tiny gashes within their forehead or bruised knees. Sometimes they pushed the limits way further than needed. For now, they stood at the kegger, a group of teenagers for the most part gathered around the boneyard. Pope stood, laughing at something JJ said. One hand held a red solo cup, the same arm wrapped around y/n’s waist as they leaned in to Pope’s touch. Often times, mid conversation, Pope would lean in and press his lips to Y/n’s temple without even thinking about it. Y/n would smile at the affection, holding Pope’s other hand close to their chest.

Pope had to excuse himself from his partner, deciding to go get another drink, leaving Y/n with Kie and JJ, which probably was the worst people to leave them with. At first, Y/n had zero interest in the conversation, rather keeping to their thoughts instead, but JJ had brought up an old memory. “Remember when we used to jump over the fires when we were kids?”

“You mean the tiny baby fires we made with three pieces of paper? That was nothing, JJ.” kie replied, voice muffling just slightly as she brought up the cup to her mouth.

Y/n remembered that, they’d make small fires on the beach and jump over them for fun. They were 12, of course, so they didn’t have access to what they did now as the fire went up to y/n’s calf. They looked over to the one that remained in the middle of the group, an open space around it as a grin came upon their face. “How much money for me to jump over that one?”

“Uh, none?” Kie questioned with a shake of her head. “Pope will kill us if you get hurt again. You literally have a split lip from last week still.”

Y/n looked around dramatically, a smirk on their face. “Mmm, i don’t see pope around.” They replied in a sing songy tone, slowly walking backwards.

“Y/n, Y/n, no, stop it.” JJ said, pointing his finger at them as they shimmied their shoulders in a taunt. “Y/n, I swear to god.”

“Love you, guys.” They shouted quickly before weaving their way through the poeple around to get to the fire in the middle. Kie and JJ both cursed, placing down their drinks to rush after their friend but they were faster on their feet, already stood before the fire. “If you come closer, I could react and like.. fall or something. Reflex, bitch.” They told them, standing before the fire with a smile.

All the pogues heavily hated and loved the jokes that followed with being friends with Y/n but they also knew that sometimes they could take it a bit too far. They’d never want one another to come in harm, even if it was the one who was constantly finding a way to. “Y/n, I’m not kidding, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Y/n groaned before nodding. “Fine, fine.” They gave in, going to walk towards her friends when the sticks at the bottom of the fire had collapsed, one branch scraping down the back of y/n’s calf, the pain searing up their leg in an instant. JJ and Kie both widened their eyes, seeing Y/n trip over themselves to not put their injured leg onto the ground. Several gasps were heard around but none more than pope when he’d come back to find his partner.

“we told you not to go near it.” JJ muttered, seeing Pope pull Y/n to their feet though the scraped calf was bent upwards as to not put weight on it. Pope helped them over to a log, sitting them down as they watched them shut their eyes in pain, tears falling down their cheeks.

“I’ve got bandaids in my bookbag, i’ll be back.”Kkie added in, quickly running off to grab them.

JJ placed a hand on y/n’s shoulder, noticing their discomfort and knowing how they felt about the attention of everyone. “shows over, stop acting surprised!” JJ shouted over everything, seeing people who kept their eyes on the ground turning away in an instant.

Pope wanted to be made, glaring slightly towards his two friends but his features softening when he noticed the way Y/n’s face flared up in pain, red flooding their cheeks along with the tears that fell in a stream. “Hey, baby. Just breath slowly. That’s all you have to do.” He said, placing his hands on her hips as he rubbed his thumbs back and forth against their skin in a comforting way.

“Easier said than done.” They muttered, eyes looking up at the sky to try and stop the tears for pope to chuckle, placing a kiss to their knee. Kie quickly came back, two items in hand as she handed them over towards pope. Leave it to Kie to be prepared for everything. “Just get it over with.”

Pope cringed, pulling the small alcoholic wipe from the packaging to press it over the cut, recoiling at the wincing from Y/n. He let out a string of apologies, quick with his movements and pressing two large bandaids over the wound. He made an excuse on how he’d take y/n back in the van and come back for them whenever they messaged.

Once back at the chateau, Pope was quick to help his partner to the couch, careful with the way they whined in pain. He lied beside them, feeling Y/n turn and lean their head on pope’s chest. “Sorry.” Y/n apologized, feeling Pope weave his hands through their hair. Pope hummed in confusion, head leaned against the back of the couch and looking up at the ceiling. “For getting hurt… again.”

Pope laughed, shaking his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for, alright?” he asked, y/n shifting to look up at him. “It happened and I’m hoping you’re okay. that’s all that matters.” She lifted herself slightly, just high enough to kiss him. They had no words to explain their gratitude for the boy in front of them other than the affection they offered. Their hand rested on his cheek, rubbing her thumb against it as he did the same against her hip. The two were quickly interrupted by the sharp air pulled through y/n’s teeth, their injury pushed against the couch just barely as they lowered themselves back into pope’s side. “I’m going to put you in bubble wrap.

“Oh shut up, that’s the oldest joke in the books.”

• • •

ah! i hope that was good for my first one! i love pope with a passion, it’s unhealthy </3

[caffeineforbucky]

As Time Goes By...(Chapter three)

A/N: This one took a while to write. I've just been so busy doing absolutely nothing all while procrastinating, so special thanks to that. No, but I really hope you like this, fellow reader. If you like the series, let me know if you want to be tagged!

(Side note: I've been playing RE8, thirsting over lady D, and dying over and over...it's going great! It's part of the procrastination...)

Also, has anyone seen the Bridgerton musical tiktoks? I swear I've had the 'burn for you' song in my head all last month and if you've been living under a rock...here's the link:

https://youtu.be/EwY9_m5qeow

Word Count: 2,299

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader

Warnings: I don't know....angst? As always, John Walker!?! AKA; Fake Cap. Umm...If I missed any let me know.

(A little PSA: I don't hate John Walker: or the actor. John is a well-written character. This is just strictly for the purpose of where my story is going. I'm more reiterating how Bucky treats him in the show. Thank you!!)

You groan, rolling from your left side to lay flatly on your back, arms spread out beside you. You inhale deeply, becoming aware of the moistened dirt and crushed wildflowers beneath you as they release their aromatics. Birds chirped around you, the busy sounds of traffic fading away while you lie still in the field, oxygen feeling heavy in your lungs.

"Y/N?!"

You barely heard the worrisome calls of Sam over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. You lift your head, the view of icy mountains in the distance, blurry figures making their way towards you while you somehow managed to sit up. Your head was spinning, a sharp ache on the side of your thigh.

Your eyes flickered down, taking note of the small paring knife lodged in your thigh. You exhaled softly, nodding your head at the sight of it. "Okay," You grumble in agreement. With shaking hands, you wrap your fingers around the handle, bracing yourself by taking intervolved breaths before carefully pulling it from your thigh.

You worked fast, ignoring the crunch of rocks and dirt under the acknowledgeable footsteps of Sam and Bucky. Taking babochka, you cut off the end of your pant leg, wrapping the spandex around your wounded thigh before securing it with one of the holsters, tying the ends into a knot. You remain quiet, carefully pushing yourself up to your feet, transferring all of the weight to the opposite leg, eyes drifting up to meet the guys. "Are you guys okay?" You murmur, dusting off the clumps of dirt and dead leaves from your jacket.

"Are you?!" Sam exclaimed incredulously. "You're bleeding!" He points out, gesturing to the bright red staining the skin of your calf as it dripped down to your boot. The wrap might've held the wound shut, but that didn't mean blood wouldn't have soaked through.

"Oh, this?" You ask, glancing down at your leg, the wound throbbing in agony, but you did your best to avoid it. "I've had worse." That was true, from all those years fighting as an avenger. Getting shot, kicked, stabbed, beaten until you were purple, and undergoing mind control. This tiny stab was the least of your worries. It still hurt like hell, and you couldn't hide the discomfort in your features.

"Do you want a piggyback?" Bucky asks suddenly, slightly annoyed at your nonchalance and still concerned nonetheless. You weren't expecting it, the odd but kind offer, especially from the menace himself. Though you weren't one to pass up being carried. With a hesitant nod, you agree, watching Bucky crouch just a bit, allowing you to climb on his back.

The position was awkward for both of you. With his hands tightening on the back of your knees and your arms wrapped around his neck, neither of you could think straight. Yet, you were still thankful. The road to the airport was a long one, and you weren't sure if you could make it in your state. Bucky held you as if you weighed nothing, his super-soldier strength showing off while he carried you on his back, footsteps matching up with Sam. He didn't mind doing it, especially since he was the one who offered, and the proximity was just a bonus.

"Sorry about Redwing," Bucky muses, breaking the silence while the three of you sauntered down the empty road. There was nothing for miles, only empty plains of grass and dirt. Young trees scattered, lacking the greenery around them, evident of the cold weather in Munich.

"No, you're not," Sam remarks, narrowing his eyes to a pinprick at the winter soldier. "You've always hated Redwing."

"That doesn't mean I'm not sorry about it," Bucky grumbles, tightening his hold on you as he felt you slipping. You gasp at the sudden strength, clinging better to his shoulders as well. "How're you doin' up there?" He asks, jaw clenching from your touch.

"All things considering," You sigh, pushing aside the butterflies in your tummy at how close you were to Bucky. "I've been better. We've gotta find out where that super serum is coming from."

"Yeah," Sam chimed in, glancing at you. "-And how the hell after 80 years are there eight super-soldiers runnin' loose?"

Loud honks of a horn ring in your ears, tires treading on the gravel as an army jeep slows down beside the three of you. "So, that didn't go as planned, huh?" John chuckles, pushing the door open only for you to keep walking, paying no mind to the man in stars and stripes.

"Okay, keep going," John utters, signaling the driver to keep up as he pulls the door shut. "Look, at least we know what we're up against, huh? And I'm pretty sure it's one of the big three...so,"

"Aliens, androids, or wizards," Lemar comments as John nods his head in agreement.

"There's no such thing as wizards!" Bucky grunts, keeping his eyes forward, hands on the back of your knees.

"Fine, aliens or androids," John settles, sharing a look with his best friend beside him. "Look, it's 20 miles to the airport, and you guys need a ride. Gary, stop," He instructs, the wheels slowing down. John opens the door once again. "Get in," He sighs, motioning all of you inside the jeep as Bucky and Sam's footsteps came to a halt.

Bucky gently sets you down, taking note of the small whimpers falling from your lips. No matter how tough you appeared to be, you still carried so much vulnerability. "You okay?" He asks, eyes filled with so much concern it almost scared you. He hadn't looked at you like that in a while. "Do you want any help?"

With a soft nod, you oblige to Bucky's ask, needing more help than you anticipated. You didn't want to add any strain or force to your injury. You didn't even realize it happened, and that part of it was Sam's fault for swooping to grab you while you had a knife in hand, but you weren't going to start pointing fingers. You wrap your arm around Bucky's shoulder, using him as support while he boosts you up on the jeep after Sam climbs up first, helping you settle beside him.

"Woah!" John exclaims, almost rising to his feet at the sight of your thigh, your hands stained with blood. "Are you okay?"

With a curt nod, you adjust yourself to relieve some of the pressure while Bucky takes a seat on your left, leaving you to be right smack dab in the middle as he pulls the door shut. You blow out a breath, knowing damn well if it hadn't been for the mishap, you would've walked the damn 20 miles.

"Lemar, hand me the first aid kit," John instructs, pointing to the steel case beside his friend. You wanted to protest, but even you knew that the strap wasn't going to work. Mouthing a thank you, you take the case from Lemar's hand and clip it open.

"Okay, so we got eight super-soldiers on a bulk supply run," John continues, the jeep beginning to roll down the road. You hand the case to Sam, asking him to hold it while you searched for gauze, medical tape, and butterfly bandages, you were probably going to need stitches, but you'd worry about that later. "Why?" John asks, watching closely as you patched up your wound.

"They say their mission is to get things back to the way it was during the blip," Sam answers, handing you another strip of tape. "Maybe they're just tryna help."

"They had a funny way of showing it," Bucky adds, his eyes trained on you, a hiss slipping through your lips as you roll down the remaining spandex. You sigh in relief, the ache becoming dull as you shut the case, giving it back to Lemar.

"Better?" John asks, earning a single nod as a response. "I don't think we've properly met. John Walker," he smiles, offering a shake of his hand, but you didn't move, only staring at the outstretched palm in front of you. "Does she talk?" John mumbles suddenly, looking to Sam or Bucky for a reply.

Your eyes cast down, gaze hardening at the sight of the shield in his grasp. Flashes of Steve running through your mind, the many times he'd catch you trying to throw it like he would. Steve Rogers meant a lot to you, having joined him in not signing the Sokovian accords, being an outlaw, and helping to clear Bucky's name with Sam. So, seeing a man who wasn't Steve hold the shield awoke something in you. Something unkind and hateful.

"When she wants to," You claim, John squirms in his seat, sensing the tension as your eyes flicker to his. "And frankly has no desire to speak to you."

"You don't even know me," John defends, glancing at Bucky, a sly smirk on his lips, and Sam, who rendered quiet, his eyes looking elsewhere. John sets his attention back on you, lips razor thin.

You scoff, shaking your head softly as you fold your arms over your chest. "Jonathon F. Walker," You begin, leaning back in your seat, your eyes never leaving his. "Former Captain of the U.S Army's 75th Rangers Regiment. Graduated at the top of your class from the United States Military and the first person in American history to receive three medals of honor, ran RS-one missions in counterterrorism and hostage rescue."

John's tongue darts between his lips, a frown spreading throughout his forehead at the information you were giving him. Either you did research on him or, you just read his file, which you had done both. You were not one to go into a mission without potentially knowing who you were up against. It was better to be safe than sorry.

"So you saw the news?" John chuckles, the frown falling from his features while he shrugs. "Big deal, so did the entire world."

"Custer's Grove High school alumni."

John's smile falters.

"There you met, Lemar Hoskins and your current wife," You tilt your head in curiosity. "Olivia, right? Or am I getting it wrong?"

Clearing his throat softly, John broke eye contact with you. So you did know him, and you probably knew more than you led on. "Do they always just stare like that?" He gestures between you and Bucky, who had displayed the same distaste for him.

Sam glances beside him, observing the matched body language you shared with Bucky, its no wonder Bucky had taken a liking to you, even if he'd never admit it. "You get used to it," Sam smirks, turning his head back to Walker.

"Okay..." John drags, eyes flickering to the more sensible one of the trio, and that was Sam. "Look, that serum doesn't have the greatest track record, no offense," He waves his hand, dismissing the insult directed towards the only super-soldier in the car.

"We need to figure out where they're going. How'd you track 'em here?" Sam asks, "The flag smashers."

"Uh," Lemar murmurs, scratching the back of his head. "We didn't track them. We tracked you through Redwing."

"You hacked my tech!?" Sam gripes, straightening out his back as he sat up.

"Sorry," John laughs, "It's not exactly hacking. It's government property...kind of the government. Alright, you know things have gotten kind of..."

"Chaotic," Lemar adds.

"Yeah," John nods in agreement. "The GRC, they're doing their best to get things up and running smoothly post blip. If you guys teamed up with us-"

"No." Bucky interrupts. He couldn't let Walker finish that sentence.

"I've got mad respect for all of you," Lemar praises, looking between the trio before him. "But you were getting your asses kicked 'til we showed up."

"And who are you?" Bucky bemuses, cocking a brow at the man next to John.

"Lemar Hoskins," You mention, "I could've sworn we've been through this." You shake your head at the old man, for being 106, he couldn't hear a thing.

"I see a guy hanging out of a helicopter in tactical gear," Sam shrugs, "I'm gonna need a lot more than Lemar Hoskins."

"I'm Battlestar, John's partner."

"Battlestar?" Bucky repeats, narrowing his eyes at Lemar as he nods, confirming his alias. "Stop the car!" Bucky shouts suddenly, brakes screeching as the wheels come to a stop in the middle of the road. Bucky pulls open the handle, ducking, as to not rail his head on the bar-frame above him before hopping off the jeep.

"Look, I get it, okay?" John sighs, calling after Bucky. "I get the attitude, I do. You didn't think the shield was gonna end up here. I get it, Bucky. And I'm not trying to be Steve!"

"Good," You interject, rendering John to settle his eyes on you. "Because you will never be. And just because you're the one wielding it..." You grab the bar above your head, using it to pull yourself up. "It doesn't make you Captain America." And with that, you carefully jump off the jeep, following after the heated super-soldier.

Sighing in frustration, he rips his eyes away from your retreating figures. "I'm not trying to replace him either. I'm just trying to be the best Captain America I can be." He explains to Sam, hoping the falcon would cut him some slack. "-And it'd be a whole lot easier if I had Cap's wingman on my side."

Sam's eyes widen in surprise, his tongue darting between his lips. "It's always that last line," He scoffs, shaking his head as he jumped off the car, following you and Bucky.

John's lips thin out, face scrunching in a scowl. "Let's go," He instructs. The sound of the jeep leaving making its way to your ears.

[toosicktoocare]

emergency contact

pt 1 of 2 and also found on ao3!

(i promise i’m not ignoring my prompts- this idea just kinda popped into my head)

“Hi, may I speak with Mr. Evan Buckley?”

Frowning, Buck pulls the phone away from his ear. He doesn’t know the number; however, the area code is local, so he can probably rule out a scam call. At least, he thinks, the woman on the other line sounds very much real and not a robotic recording about to lead in with a cruise ship he didn’t sign up for.

“Uh, yeah. This is Buck—I mean Evan. This is Evan Buckley.” He clears his throat. He can hear a lot of background noise—a lot of muffled speaking, intercoms crackling. He’s heard it before, but he’s struggling to equate the noise to a particular memory, only having a small rock of dread burrowing low in his stomach to go by.

“Hi, Mr. Buckley. I’m Nurse Johns at LA General. I have you listed as the second emergency contact for Christopher Diaz.”

Buck’s stomach bottoms out, leaving him nauseous, weightless, and far too cold despite the LA sun beating in through his window and warming his bed. He shivers and forces himself upright in bed, muscles rigid, jaw a tense, jutted line.

“His father,” Buck starts into the phone, shaky, “Eddie—Edmundo Diaz—”

“—didn’t answer. You’re next on the list. Sir, if this is incorrect, I’ll need to move on to the next person—”

“—no!” Buck jerks to his feet, nudging abandoned clothes around with his foot until he finds a pair of gym shorts. “I’m… His father’s on a shift with the LAFD. Is Chris okay? What’s going on?” Composure, he thinks, is out the window. Then again, he’s never been capable of the whole ‘cool, calm, and collected’ thing when it comes to Chris. He snags the same shirt he tossed to the floor when he climbed into bed this morning after his 24-hour, a short-sleeved, blue shirt, and slips it over of his head, careful of his phone.

“Sir, I can’t disclose that over the phone.”

“Right,” Buck mutters, nodding more to himself. “I’m on my way now. Tell Chris—tell him Bucky’s on the way, okay?” He ends the call, taking the steps down from his loft two at a time. He’s only faintly aware that he’s shaking, and the rock of dread’s grown triple in size and sits heavily against his gut. He fumbles with his keys, pockets his wallet, and just remembers to slip on a pair of sandals. If he weren’t moving against a rush of fear, he’d take the time to give a mental ‘look who’s laughing now’ to everyone who’s made fun of the sandals in the last two months since he purchased them, but, the fear is a cold hand that’s pulling on him, disrupting his thoughts, chiseling against his composure.

He doesn’t dwell. He races out of his apartment, and in seconds, he’s in his jeep and whipping out of his parking spot. He knows LA well, knows the traffic patterns, and he’s unfortunately hitting lunch rush, which, he thinks, is probably similar to some twisted second layer of hell. He wishes, more than anything in this second, that he had an engine, that he could dominate the road with the power of a siren, but his jeep will have to suffice. Still, his grip on his steering wheel is tight, his knuckles fading white, when he hits the first of many red lights.

He uses hands-free to call Eddie, not surprised to get his voicemail after only two rings.

“Eddie! Chris is in the hospital—They didn’t give me any details, and I’m on my way now. They called you first. I’m next on the list?” Buck pauses briefly on that, gets lost in that fact, but then he shakes his head. “Look, he’s at LA General—just get there when you can, okay?”

He ends the calls, somehow feeling even worse, and then he tries Bobby. Logically, he knows that if Eddie’s not answering, Bobby probably won’t either. Still, when he’s teetering on the edge of panic, Bobby can talk him down, can ease him safely back to the present.  

“Buck?”

Buck’s foot slips a little too hard on the gas, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Bobby? Bobby! Where’s Eddie?”

“Currently? He’s probably making his way back to a second story window, hopefully with one of the victims of an expansive house fire.” A pause. “What’s going on, Buck?”

Buck peers around, swallows back a groan at the cars on every side of him. “Look, can you get Eddie to LA General ASAP?”

“You’re at LA General? Are you hurt?”

“No! I mean, I will be, but it’s not me—it’s Christopher. Bobby, I don’t…” Buck sighs, drags a free hand down his face. He can feel his lungs constricting. The pressure of panic’s a bitch.

“They didn’t say anything over the phone. They tried Eddie first, and then they called me. I’m—”

“—Buck, take a breath. I’ll get Eddie there as soon as possible. You be careful driving there, okay? Keep us updated.”

Buck comes back down to earth with a low breath that’s been trapped in his lungs. “Thanks, Bobby,” he says, and he means it, pushing his gratitude hard into the two words. The call ends, and Buck forces his focus onto the road, onto making it to the hospital in one piece because Christopher needs him.

***

Concussion.

It’s the only word Buck keeps coming back to. He’s being led down hallways that are too bright, too loud, and annoyingly familiar, and the nurse is explaining that Christopher took a tumble at school and is currently being monitored for a possible concussion. Buck nods when appropriate, offers a few non-verbal affirmatives, and then he’s stopping before two large, glass windows, and behind them, Chris is sitting in bed chatting with another nurse. His hand finds the glass, fingers spread out, anxiety spread even to his palms.

“You’re welcome to go in. We’ve told him you’re coming.”

Buck nods absently. He’s going to go in—of course, he’s going to go in. He just needs to take a single second to fully capture the image of Christopher alive and breathing in his mind, an image that can break through the muddle, clear his head, bring breath back to his lungs.

“Mr. Buckley?”

“Sorry,” Buck mutters, nodding. He turns when the nurse opens the door for him, and he wills away any and all fear etched deep in his face the second he crosses over into the room.

“Bucky!”

“Chris!” Buck’s no stranger to concussions, so though animated, he keeps his voice soft, and he walks toward the end of the bed, glancing at the clipboard. “How’re you feeling, bud?” He asks, satisfied to see that the doctor’s notes are promising.

“My head hurts.”

“I bet it does,” Buck mutters, sympathetic, and he drops onto the edge of the bed, one hand resting atop Christopher’s covered knee. “What happened?”

“Me and Caleb were playing firefighter, and I fell down a step.”

Buck sucks in a sharp breath, holds it in his lungs to brace for the familiar wave of guilt that’s soon to tangle in his breath, jab past his rib cage to his lungs. “Is that so?” He settles for, breathless, and Christopher’s face falls, his eyes dropping to his lap.

“Don’t tell dad. He’ll get mad.”

“Chris—”

“—Mr. Buckley, I presume?”

Buck’s never been more thankful for a doctor to walk in for he wasn’t sure how to unpackage Christopher’s quiet plea in a way that wouldn’t be considered as overstepping Eddie’s parental authority but also in a way that wouldn’t have Christopher demanding he leave.

“Uh, yeah—It’s Buck.”

“Okay, Buck. Want the good news?”

“Will it be followed by bad news?” Buck asks, one brow arched, stomach twisting. “Because his father—”

“—no bad news today,” the doctor interrupts, and Buck huffs out a quiet sigh of relief and gives Christopher’s knee a squeeze. He gives a nod, and the doctor plucks the clipboard up.

“Christopher’s been cleared of a concussion. He’s got a few scrapes and bruises, and his head will probably hurt for a few more hours, but otherwise, he’s fine. I’ll leave a note at the front desk to begin the discharge papers. He should be out within the hour.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Buck mutters, and he nods when the doctor and nurses exit, giving him space to breathe; though, he’s not sure how much he can actually breath encompassed in four, blinding walls that bring back a pressing dark cloud of memories.

“Buck?”

Buck blinks slowly, peels his gaze from the door to see Christopher smiling softly at him, poking at his side.

“Can you lay with me?”

Buck eyes the small bed, mentally works round the best way to squeeze in, to maximize Christopher’s comfort, and he slips his sandals off and climbs onto the bed, impossibly gentle when he adjusts Chris. When he’s got Christopher against his chest, he sighs, and Christopher sighs with him, content, safe.

***

“That’s the last of them, Cap,” Eddie coughs lightly, tugs his helmet off. His lungs burn faintly from smoke inhalation. It’s not bad by any means, but he’s dabbling with the idea of having Hen look him over anyway.  

“Should I help with fire…” Eddie’s words trail off when the 122 pulls up onto the scene, their members already hopping out of the engine and working the hose. “Was backup necessary?” He glances back over his shoulder. Sure, the fire’s large, but he doesn’t think it’s classified as a level high enough to warrant local support.

“Are you okay?”

Eddie whips back around, squints at Bobby. “Yeah, why?”

“Let me clarify: are you okay to leave the scene right this second, or do you need to a look-over now?”

Eddie’s still struggling to read Bobby’s tone for it’s always frighteningly composed, even in the face of emergency. “I’m okay now.” He nods slowly, and then Bobby’s turning on his heel and wordlessly gesturing him toward the engine.

He slips into the back, pausing to see Bobby sitting in the back with him, stationed across from him.

“Cap, what—”

“—have a seat.”

Eddie sits slowly, slips his headphones on, and then the engine’s roaring to life beneath him and pulling away from the scene. He’s alone with Bobby because Hen and Chimney left earlier with a patient, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s in trouble for something. He replays his actions at the house fire, yet he can’t find an error that would warrant a private conversation with Bobby.

“Buck called,” Bobby finally says, and Eddie drags his gaze from the cars moving onto the road shoulders, now finally tuning in to the fact that the sirens are wailing overhead still, the engine demanding the street with the shrill sounds and flashing lights. The sirens shouldn’t be on unless…

“Is he okay?”

“Buck’s fine. The hospital called him because Christopher was brought in. They tried you, and he was next on the emergency contact list.”

There’s dread, Eddie thinks. Dread when he rides up to a call and gathers the first, initial assessment of the situation. And then there’s bone-deep, crippling fear—fear that twists in his gut, pools into his lungs, walls around his heart. It drains the blood from his face, freezes his muscles, steals his breath, and buries his mind in a series of what if scenarios that range from grim to downright terrifying.

“Eddie, breathe.”

He does, but only because his mind is trained to respond on command to Bobby’s voice. The breath he sucks in his short and cold, and he finally reaches in his pocket for his phone. He’s got four missed calls, three voicemails, and a series of texts from Buck, all fairly close in time to the other.

He goes through the texts—he won’t be able to hear the voicemails right now, and he really doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach Buck’s panicked, broken voice.

[From: Buck] Chris is okay. He fell at school and hit his head

[From: Buck] no concussion. Doc said he can be discharged within the hour

[From: Buck] I’ve checked him over. There’s a bruise on his side I want to keep an eye on but otherwise he’s okay

[From: Buck] we should talk about why he fell

[From: Buck] but not until later! Sorry that last text sounded weird…

[From: Buck] discharge in 20 minutes. I’ll bring him back to yours if you aren’t able to come yet. I still have the spare key you gave me

He’s blinks around the tears pooling in his eyes, swallows thickly. “Buck said he’s okay. He fell at school.” He’s aware his voice is shaking, and then Bobby claps him on the knee.

“That’s a good thing.”

It is, Eddie thinks, swiping the back of his hand over his eyes. He works on his breathing, controlling it, counting breaths, but when they pull up to the hospital, the fear comes back, muted now, but still there, always there.

He hops out of the engine, Bobby not far behind, and in just seconds, a nurse is guiding them back. When he reaches the door and looks beyond the glass to see Christopher curled up against Buck’s chest, he breathes, deeply and fully, for the first time since he pulled himself up into the engine. Relief, he thinks, is the singular image of the two most important people in his life safe and together.

***

“Christopher!”

Buck whips his gaze from his phone where he’s got a story pulled up to read to Christopher, and he slowly turns Chris over just as Eddie rounds the bed and pulls Chris to his chest tightly. He notes, to himself, that Eddie’s in full turnout gear, that he’s got soot smudges on his face, that his jaw is a set, unwavering line jutting against his skin.

“Daddy!”

“¿Estás bien, hijo?”

“Sí.”

Buck wordlessly slips from the bed, toes his feet into his sandals. He crosses his arms and backs away from the scene, feeling all too overwhelmed, suddenly suffocated despite the brush of relief before him, and then Eddie’s looking toward him, frowning, eyes unreadable, and Buck offers a small smile.

“The discharge papers,” he motions toward a stack of papers on the end of the hospital bed. “I’ll bring my jeep around.”

“Wait, Buck—”

Buck slips out of the room, eyes cast to the ground, and he bumps right into someone, his hand coming up to fist around the turnout jacket and his head dropping against a shoulder.

“You okay, Buck?”

There are so many ways Buck wants to say no, but the one that’s most alarming, one that’s been a nagging twinge in his lungs, is the one he opts for. “I don’t think I can breathe.” His voice is breathless, and then Bobby’s guiding him with a hand to his back toward the nearest exit. The second he bursts through the double doors, he sucks in a sharp gasp that breaks way to a few coughs, and he’s being gently eased onto the edge of the sidewalk.

“Easy, Buck. Breathe with me, okay?”

Buck meets Bobby’s eyes, nods, and drags his gaze down to Bobby’s chest, watching the steady rise and fall, mimicking it, until the fog clouding his brain breaks, leaving him far too tired. His shoulders slump, and Bobby claps a hand to his shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

“I didn’t know…” Buck sighs, dropping his face into his palms. He can hear his therapist’s voice reminding him that he’ll feel better if he’s more open with others. “I’m really overwhelmed right now.” He can feel Bobby’s hand tighten around his shoulder, a wordless sign to continue. “Just… Getting that call that Chris is in the hospital really freaked me out. I know he’s fine, but just… He’s the last person I ever want to see in a hospital bed.”

“Now you know how I feel every time I get a call that you’re in the hospital.”

“Bobby,” Buck groans, lifting his head to match Bobby’s smile.

“You look tired—I don’t imagine you got much sleep before the call?”

“A few hours,” Buck admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Not sure I’ll get back to sleep anytime soon. I’m exhausted, but it’s definitely going to take some time for the adrenaline to die down.”

“Do you need me to take Eddie and Chris back?”

“Nah,” Buck drags himself up to his feet, yawning. “I’m going to need to physically see Christopher safe in bed before I can even think about unwinding.” He can see one of the engines not far off in the parking lot, and he laughs quietly. “Though, I bet Chris would love to be back in the truck.” He frowns at Bobby’s turnover gear. “Did you leave right after a call?”

“I requested the 122 to come in for backup.”

Nodding absently, Buck looks back toward the doors they came from, and he crosses his arms, fingers digging into the skin. He knows that he’s taken all necessary steps when faced with an abrupt situation, yet he can’t shake the underlining burn in his stomach that he overstepped, that he didn’t get here fast enough, that he should have added a step, or even removed one, when getting here.

“You did good today, Buck.”

His shoulders slump, tension falling with them, and he huffs out a low sigh.

“Thanks, Bobby.”

***

“You keep looking at him like he’s going to disappear.”

Buck jumps; he didn’t hear the shower cut off, nor did he hear Eddie slip into Christopher’s room behind him.

“I keep thinking he might,” Buck whispers, and Eddie tugs at his arm, urging him up from the chair he’s got pulled up to Christopher’s bed. He lets Eddie guide him from the room, but when Eddie tries to ease him onto the couch, he digs his heels into the floor, and Eddie turns to him, brows furrowed.

“Buck—”

“—when were you planning on telling me I’m second on Christopher’s list of emergency contacts?”

Buck doesn’t miss the deep, calculated sigh Eddie breathes, and he opts to remain standing when Eddie sinks down onto the couch, only watching wordlessly as Eddie runs fingers through his damp hair.

“It was Chris’s idea.”

Buck blinks slowly. “What?”

“After the tsunami. When we were leaving the hospital, he mentioned how you saved him. He said he wanted you to be the person who comes to save him again.” Eddie pauses, rubs smally at the shirt fabric just above his chest. “I resisted at first—I told Christopher we couldn’t ask something that big of you, but I’ve seen countless times since then how far you’ll go for him, so I called and had you added second on the list.”

Eddie takes in a low breath, and Buck’s mutely envious because he can’t do the same.

“If I can’t get to him, it needs to be you.”

Buck’s struggling to pick something to focus on. His heart wants to chase the heat of Eddie’s words, yet the guilt, as it always is, is an overpowering force that leaves him shaking his head, backing up until the back of his leg hits the coffee table.

“It can’t be me.” He watches Eddie’s face fall, but Eddie still nods, understanding even now.

“I get it. I should have asked first. I know it’s a big responsibility—”

“—what?” Buck shakes his head again, crosses his arms. “It’s not the responsibility. You know I would do absolutely anything for that kid. It’s the fact that it’s my fault he ended up in the hospital today.”

Eddie cocks his head to the side, lips in a firm line, and Buck knows this look well—it’s Eddie’s way of signaling for Buck to continue, knowing well that Buck will finish on his own, that he doesn’t need verbal prompts to guide him toward his point.

“He was playing firefighter with one of his friends at school, and he fell down a step.”

The silence that follows feels thick enough to clog Buck’s lungs. He wants to sit—his legs are shaking, but if he sits, he can’t flee as fast, and he just knows Eddie’s going to ask him to leave, to not come back. And, Buck thinks, Eddie should. Eddie should yell at him for filling Christopher’s mind with stories from work, for encouraging this imaginative behavior that dropped him onto a hospital bed.

“Is that it?” Eddie says instead, calm, and Buck frowns, jaw opening and closing, struggling for words.

“I mean, I’m waiting for the part where you tell me how this is your fault,” Eddie clarifies, and Buck sinks onto the coffee table at this, not trusting his legs to hold him upright.

“Eddie, I’m constantly telling him stories from work, glorifying the job, painting all of these verbal, detailed images that fill his mind and plant ideas.”

“And you think I don’t?”

“Eddie—”

“—Buck, we have the same job. If Chris asks me what I did at work, I tell him. I spare him the calls that don’t go in our favor, but otherwise, I tell him.”

Buck blinks slowly, mind operating around 30% capacity, and Eddie leans forward, cupping a hand to Buck’s knee.

“No one’s at fault. Kid’s got one hell of an imagination.”

“Wait, hold on. You’re not mad?” Buck expected yelling. He expected to get kicked out of Eddie’s house, and yet, Eddie’s calm before him, relaxed, a little tired around the edges, but he’s showing no signs that he’s seconds from blowing up.

“There’s nothing to be mad about.”

Buck can only blink at Eddie. He’s faintly aware that his eyes are watering, and then Eddie’s pulling him back up by the arm.

“Okay, we all know by now that you get sappy when you’re tired.”

Buck stops in the doorway when Eddie steps into the bedroom, watching as Eddie pulls back the covers and motions toward the bed. He shakes his head, one hand gripping tightly at the doorframe.

“Eddie, I’m not taking your bed. You should be with Chris. I’ll go—”

“—Chris will want you here when he wakes up. Plus, it doesn’t take but basic math to realize you’re working on only four hours of sleep after a 24, so you’d be doing everyone a favor by shutting up and getting in the damn bed.”

“Eddie.”

“Buck.”

Buck holds Eddie’s gaze, breaking it after a few, heavy moments with a weighted sigh. He shuffles toward the bed, kicking off his sandals and climbing in on the side farthest from the door, knowing that the side closest to the door is reserved for Eddie, to accommodate Eddie’s needs to be the first to act if something happens.

The bed is heaven against his sore body, and the second his head hits the pillow, he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. The adrenaline is fully fleeing now, leaving him exhausted to the core in more ways than one. He blinks slowly, watching as Eddie climbs into the other side of the bed, sighing loudly, and he rolls toward Eddie, studying the way Eddie gingerly rubs at his chest for the second time.

“You give your oxygen mask to someone during the house fire?” Buck asks around a yawn, and Eddie nods.

“It wasn’t for long.”

“You didn’t get checked over.” It’s not a question; Buck knows, based on the sight of Eddie arriving at the hospital looking rough for wear and donned in full gear, but Eddie still responds.

“No, but I’m fine.”

Buck forces himself up on one elbow, frown deep, brows furrowed. “You should get checked out now. I can call Hen—”

“—did you forget I was a field medic?” Eddie arches a brow, and Buck sinks back against the pillow.

“No, you always find a time to remind me. You can’t check yourself over, though.”

“And how many times have you ignored a fractured rib because you ‘checked yourself over?’” Eddie fires back, and Buck groans, draping an arm over his eyes.

They fall silent, and Buck’s body is urging him to give in to the fatigue draping over him. Still, he can’t fully settle. The adrenaline of the last hour and a half is a flame that’s almost completely burned out. Still, it flickers smally, and he rolls onto his side, watching Eddie.

“The bruise on Christopher’s side. We should—”

“—I looked, and we iced it until he fell asleep. Now, please shut up and sleep.”

[mycrofts-gunbrella]

Caring is the Greatest Advantage- Part 3 (Mycroft Holmes x Reader)

AN- Thank you for the patience for this one! My little boy has been unwell so it has taken a little longer than I had hoped but here is the third instalment! It’s a little shorter than the others but that’s because I wanted to contain the angsty part in one chapter, the next ones will hopefully be longer..

This one is a little more angsty, a lot more emotional, but I’m quite happy with the outcome and I hope you are too! As usual, please let me know any thoughts/feedback! And enjoy!

Word Count: 2510

"Is it just me that finds Stephen Fry a bit.. sexy?" You spoke, watching the television as Young Ones' Scumbag College competed on University Challenge. "I don't know what it is about him. He's just.. got such a lovely voice, and he's so sodding clever and his CLOTHES- got much better looking with age, mind." Mycroft only hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Hmm.. He's not really my type." You laughed and petted his head fondly.

"You don't have to be gay to find another man attractive Myc." You mused. "Me and Greg talk about it all the time, though he fancies Hugh Laurie more, especially in Blackadder." You laughed, thinking back on the memory of Greg's fondness of George in the Blackadder Goes Forth series.

"I'm aware that sexuality and attraction are not the same, Y/N. I am comfortable enough in my own heterosexuality to appreciate another man's features. In fact, I very much agree with Gregory's view on Mr Laurie. Stephen, however, is not my type. The few people that did speak to me in University used to tell me I reminded them of him in the way I behaved but, and I quote, 'without even a lick of his humour, you miserable bastard.' Thus, I cannot look at him in that way." He laughed a little and you cleared your throat.

"Oh.. uh, yeah I guess that makes sense. Not the humour part though, you're actually hilarious and they missed out big time." You tried to avoid the point where you'd deemed Stephen Fry sexy in every way he was similar to the man who was laying in your lap, and just hoped he wouldn't bring that up.

"He definitely got the looks side of things though, particularly as General Melchett in Goes Forth, though I am not particularly fond of the facial hair." He screwed up his nose in distaste, you fighting every ounce of your control to not say he looked a bit cute. "And certainly didn't have the waistline that 21 year old Mycroft had."

"Speaking in the third person now, are we? Well, Mycroft, Y/N is comfortable enough in her friendship that Y/N thinks Mycroft can be sexy in his own ways too." You teased, partly embarrassed, but equally just trying any way to improve the man's confidence, even by a little. Mycroft choked a little on his own saliva and had to sit up to regain his own breath. Too far? "Sorry." He shook his head 'no' but didn't speak. In his moments of regaining his composure, Mycroft watched you. Processed in his head what you had said- 'was it a joke?', he couldn't read anything on you that would suggest that, though his eyes were glassy from the choking- watched as you panicked, then subsiding the panic to concern as you made sure he was okay. All these things, he thought, he didn't deserve. He took a deep breath and reached for the television remote, pausing the show and settling back on the other side of the sofa. It had to be done now. Done while his brain was allowing it, before he got attached... before he got attached even more. He couldn't keep pretending it was okay, keep accepting your compliments and your kindness, couldn't allow himself to go any further in his.. attraction?

It was always unspoken between the two of you- your not so subtle hints to Mycroft over the last few years hadn't got unnoticed, Mycroft would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he felt the same way, though this was perhaps the most open you had been; he would always put it off, try to think of reasons why you shouldn't be more than whatever you are now- most of the time it circles back to work, your busy schedule at the Yard and his unpredictable working hours mostly, saying to himself that it would simply be pointless, that you wouldn't see each other. But he knew that was a lie- you see him as often as you can, even if it's just for an hour on lunch, and everyone knows he would do his best to move empires to have you over for dinner had it been a while, quite literally actually.

Then there was age, you were in your mid-to-late twenties, he in his forties, though that argument also fell flat after you had mentioned your last long term relationship had been with a man your elder, amongst many of your interests in celebrity males that you had mentioned being closer to his age than yours- and, on his behalf, it was usual for a Politician to walk into formal dinners with a younger woman on arm. In the end, it all went back to the real reason Mycroft put everything off, a reason he hated admitting to even himself. Mycroft was scared.

Having been the age he is with no sexual experience, no previous relationships, and not even many friendships, he was terrified he would humiliate himself and you would leave him completely. You were both adults, both clever, you both knew there was always 'something' there, but without you ever acting upon it, Mycroft decided to live his life keeping you as a friend rather than risk not having you at all. He felt guilty enough having you here anyway. He couldn't allow you to keep stroking his hair like that, or letting you sleep in his bed with him, hold him as he snored, when it was for completely other desires in his own mind, not without speaking to you. No, that wouldn't be fair- even if he didn't fully understand everything himself and was still incredibly scared. You needed to know the truth, about everything, and, if there were the slightest chance you'd forgive him, he had decided he couldn't wait any longer, couldn't put it off anymore, he wanted you to carry on doing those things, wanted to continue the nights you would stay in his bed. But Mycroft wanted it to change, he wanted to be able to start the night with a ghost of his hand on your hip, without waiting until you were asleep to bring himself to have that courage, to wake up next to you and not feel the awkward need to move so soon, just to stay a little longer. Christ, Mycroft wanted every cliché in the book with you, and it took him until yesterday to realise how much he wanted that, after nearly losing you. And he needed you to know, even if it risked it all.

"Y/N I-"

"I know, I'm sorry, I took it too far I was just messing about.. Not that I didn't mean it, I wasn't joking about you.. You are very attractive, but it was inappropriate.. I shouldn't have said it.. I just wanted to help.. though I don't think it did, might have made it worse, actually.. Didn't want to say anything and let you find out.. like that.. not that it matters.. because I AM happy JUST being your friend, over the moon, actually.. so I don't want you to think I ruined that... Because I know you don't feel.. like that.. and you're not saying anything which is scaring me a little because you're always talking.. Not that I don't like that.. I love you talking to me, you've got a lovely voice.. and.. and I'm going to shut up again.. sorry.. again.." You rambled, a lot, too much.. far too much. Mycroft tried to process everything, his eyes closing at every word. You were making this so much harder for him, admitting everything like that. Mycroft hunched forward in his position and braced his elbows on his knees, index and middle finger of each hand holding the weight of his head by his temples.

"No just.. Just stop talking for a moment." Mycroft snapped, cutting you off as your mouth opened to speak a little, the small jump back made his gaze soften. "Please." He spoke softer, apologetic. "I can't.. talk about that.. not yet. Not until you know.." You went to speak again but his head tilted, eyes containing a rare glaze of vulnerability, trying to stay in contact with your own but constantly dropping back to his lap- a silent plea to stay quiet, be patient and just give him a moment. And you did. Turning your body completely sideways, you crossed your legs on the sofa, hands resting folded in your lap as you encouraged him to continue with a brief nod of your head. "I fear if I don't tell you of yesterday's happenings in this very moment that I never shall, and that is far too selfish, even of me." He took a deep breath in. "But I just.. need a moment. A few, likely, throughout." You nodded your head again.

From there, Mycroft began to explain everything that had happened, told you of his sister, where she had taken him, Sherlock and John, what she spoke about, what she tried to get them to do. His voice cracked every so often, knuckles whitened as his fists clenches, creases formed in his trousers where he squeezed his hand on them, but you listened to every word and stayed silent- eyes welling with small tears. Mycroft spoke of the screen, told you of the snipers that were out there, targeting Ms Hudson and Molly. Your body stiffened as he added Lestrade to the list, feeling your throat tighten a little at the mere thought of losing Greg. Mycroft pressed on, told you about how Eurus tried to make Sherlock choose between him and John, told you how he'd tried to convince Sherlock to just shoot him, how Sherlock refused and threatened to shoot himself. His voice went breathless at the end of that, the idea of losing his brother so easily still fresh in his mind. You loosened your sitting position and leaned over, taking Mycroft's hand in your own and squeezing. He sighed again and closed his eyes.

"Please, don't." He whispered, trying to fold his hand into a fist to escape your embrace. You didn't let go and offered your other hand on his back in support as you watched a stray tear fall down his cheek. "I said don't!" He shouted, moving from your touch and standing up from the sofa, beginning to pace as his face contorted into more pain, another tear following the path of the last. You sat back, watched him, didn't take the anger to heart. "It was my fault! All of it!" He ran his hands through his hair and tugged, moving them after to wipe the droplets from his cheek.

"Myc it's ok-"

"It isn't okay Y/N! No part of any of this is even remotely close to okay!" He stilled now, posture going back rigid as he looked at you, eyes bloodshot and glassy. He told you of his Birthday present to Eurus- five unsupervised minutes with Moriarty- and started his pacing again. "A man died yesterday because of me. Sherlock, John, Greg, Ms Hudson, Molly. They all almost died yesterday. You almost... you almost died yesterday." His breath hitched again, lip softly quivering at the end of his words. You tensed a little and frowned, confused and urging him to elaborate. "They weren't the only people on the screens, not the only ones with a red dot on their heads, Y/N." Gaze avoiding you now, turned completely to face the wall rather than look at you at all- giving him a chance to compose himself, steadying his voice. "I saw you, you were happy, just dancing and making tea, but at any moment you could have... and it would have been my fault. And I know I should have told you yesterday, it was selfish of me using you the way that I have without letting you know everything. You could have been gone before I could tell you everything, before I could explain how I feel about you, and it all came rushing to me the moment I saw your face on that screen. I’m so sorry, for everything, for ignoring everything, for being the reason you almost-" The last thing Mycroft had expected was the feeling of arms around his waist, the feeling of a head resting between his shoulder blades, soaking the shirt with tears. You sniffed, holding onto him tighter as you cried into his back.

"It's okay Mycroft." You spoke, voice croaking from tears. "They're okay.. I'm okay. And you're going to be okay. I'm not going anywhere." The relief Mycroft felt from your words ran through his body as he slumped a little, left hand holding on to where yours joined on his stomach, his right lifting to his eyes where, in a very rare moment, he allowed himself to weep.

***

Neither of you were too sure on how long you stayed like that, Mycroft being held in your arms as he quietly cried into his hand, you into his back, but it was long enough that your feet were beginning to ache and Mycroft had become silent a short while ago. You attempted to loosen your grip but Mycroft quickly grabbed back at your hands, holding them to him again. You changed your tactic and instead circled round until your hands remained together on his back, you now at his front and you gave him one last squeeze before guiding him backwards to the sofa, taking your place next to him but keeping your arms around him.

"I'm sorry." His voice was broken, quieter than usual. You shook your head and fought the urge to cry again.

"Don't." You spoke, sliding a hand down to hold his own that rested on his thigh. "Don't apologise Myc. You didn't do anything on purpose, you were just trying to be a good person.. a good brother. We're both still alive. Sherlock, John, Greg, Ms Hudson, Molly, they're all fine, and I have no doubt that it was partly due to you that they are still okay- whatever the three of you did in there, it worked, and that's all that matters to me." Mycroft shifted, his eyes finding yours once more, scanning, searching, trying to find anything that showed you were lying, that you didn't trust him anymore, but he couldn't find anything.

"But I-" You placed a hand at the back of his neck and leaned forward slightly, your lips meeting his briefly for a few seconds before pulling back. It wasn't desperate, or longing, or out of lust- it was everything Mycroft needed. Everything that let him know that you weren't going anywhere, that you still wanted to be around him, to be with him. He relaxed but didn't speak, his hand beneath yours just turning to allow your fingers to lace together as he let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. You rested your head against his shoulder, smiling softly as you felt his own rest atop yours before falling into a comfortable silence.

[bxcketbarnes]

The Continental

Pairing: John Wick x Reader

Words: 3100+

Author's Note: this is way longer than I think I intended it to be, lmao. But, it's necessary! The detail is necessary! I hope you guys like it. It's pretty cute. 🥰

You've been staying at the Continental for a couple of weeks now, trying to get as much dirt on the target you were assigned before going after them. You sift through the files you managed to get your hands on, now knowing where Mr. Perez's safehouse is in case he gets tipped off by your arrival.

A hard body runs into you as you turn the page in the document you're reading, making about thirty pages of information spewing across the floor. A gasp leaves your lips as you immediately get on your knees to gather everything.

"I'm so sorry," a familiar voice says and your head snaps up, seeing Mr. Wick standing in front of you, his chestnut eyes wide. "I wasn't paying attention."

You shake your head, telling him it was alright and John bends down to help you. Both of you end up reaching for the same piece of paper and your fingers happen to brush against one another, causing you to blush.

John hands you the piece of paper and you refuse to meet his eyes. You clear your throat and collect everything that fell, standing back up. "It's fine. Don't worry about it. Good to see you, Mr. Wick," you give him a small smile and he returns it while nodding.

"Please. Call me John," he insists and you let out a soft chuckle as it's your turn to nod your head.

"John," you state before walking past him towards the elevator. Once you're inside you turn to face the lobby, seeing John's eyes on you still.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, looking away from the mysterious man as the elevator doors shut. You let out a breath, relaxing a bit as you think about the interaction. "Could you be more embarrassing?" You ask yourself while shaking your head before resting it against the metal wall.

John adjusts the strap on his shoulder, smiling to himself before continuing to the check-in desk. "Mr. Wick, so good to see you," Charon greets with a smile and John nods his head.

"Good to see you too," he mumbles and places a gold coin onto the counter, sliding it towards the man. "Has she been here for a while?"

Charon smiles, noticing the admiration the two of you have for one another, and nods his head. "Yes, she has. A couple of weeks by now," he tells the man, and John hums in response. "Your usual room, sir?"

"Yes, please. Thank you," John mentions, grabbing the key from Charon and heads up towards his room on the eighth floor.

-

You sit in your room and fiddle with the pen that's in your hands. You haven't been able to focus on the case since your run-in with John. You set your pen onto the table and lean back against the chair, sighing deeply. 

You couldn't believe that you worked in the same profession as that man. You always thought he was handsome… well, him being your type didn't help the case. Mysterious, tall, dark hair, facial hair. Who can beat that?

You remember when you first met John Wick and it was just as embarrassing as today's interaction went-

Your first job as a hitwoman and you weren't gonna lie… you were a bit nervous. You had just moved to the Big Apple and need an ample job to keep you off of the streets. So, when you heard about working under the table and the pay it gives you, you'd be stupid to turn it down.

You walk into the Continental for the first time, feeling your heartbeat quicker as the eyes of the people inside look towards you. You swallow thickly and ignore them, continuing forward towards the guy standing behind the desk.

"Good Morning, miss. How can I be of service?" Charon asks you and your lips part, trying to find the right words.

"Uhm? Do I just give you this?" You question while pulling out a gold coin.

Charon raises an eyebrow and looks you over, not believing that someone as shy and innocent looking like you is working under the table. "Why, yes, you do. First assignment?" He asks and you let out a nervous breath.

"That obvious?" 

"Not at all, miss," he jokes with an amusing grin on his face, earning a chuckle from you. "Your room will be 812. The elevator is right over there."

You follow the direction Charon pointed in while nodding your head. "O-Okay," you stutter and take the keycard from him, "thank you…?"

"Charon, miss."

"Charon," you repeat and nod your head, making a mental note to remember. "Thank you again."

You hike your bag over your shoulder and head towards the elevator, seeing a few people already waiting for it. You swallow the lump in your throat before taking a deep breath, heading in that direction.

Just as you reach the elevator, the doors open up, and everyone piles in. You panic slightly as you step in, immediately getting shoved into someone behind you.

"I-I'm sorry," you stutter and turn to face the person you ran into. Your breath hitches in your throat as the six-foot-tall man looks down at you, a small smile coming to his pinkish lips.

"You're fine," he chuckles and you let out a giggle yourself. It was quiet between the two of you for a few seconds before someone else pushes you into the stranger, bracing your hands on his torso to save you from falling.

Your cheeks heat up as you steady yourself, mumbling another apology to the man. You end up clearing your throat before turning around, wishing the elevator would get to the eighth floor a bit faster.

Once the doors open to the eighth floor you book it out of the elevator, not looking back as you quickly walk straight towards your room. "Hold on!" The same voice calls out and you halt in your tracks. "Are you new here?"

"I-uh, yeah, I am," you answer as the handsome man walks up to you before holding his hand out.

"John Wick."

You shake his hand for a few seconds, giving him a polite grin. "Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wick," you tell him, and John chuckles.

"Please, call me John," he informs you and you nod your head, fiddling with the bag on your shoulder. "If you need any help let me know. I'm in 813."

"Well, I'm in 812. Looks like we're neighbors," you joke, trying to ease your nerves as the two of you begin to head towards your rooms. "Thanks, John. I'm sure I'll have questions."

He unlocks his door and nods his head, bidding goodbye before stepping into the room. You let out a deep breath as soon as his door shuts, running your hand over your face while heading into your room.

"What have I gotten myself into…"

You get snapped out of your thoughts as a knocking echoes off your door. You glance at your clock, seeing it was almost nine at night and you're wondering who's knocking on your door at this hour. You stand up from your chair before walking over to the door and look through the peephole.

John stands on the other side of it and you playfully roll your eyes. "What are you doing here, John?" You ask through the door, seeing him whip around. His eyes move to the peephole and he gives a little wave.

"Uh, I just wanted to talk. It's been a while," he mumbles and you bite your lip before opening the door. "Hi."

"Hey," you greet with a smile and step to the side so he can come in.

John walks into the room and you shut the door behind him. The two of you sit down at the table and his chestnut-colored eyes roam the various documents that lie in front of him.

"How long have you been scouting?" He asks while you sit in front of him, picking the pen you've been using back up.

"About two weeks. You know me," you explain with a chuckle, pressing the end of your pen against your lips. "I like to do things cleanly. Super clean."

John laughs and nods his head, recalling your killing methods. "It's funny how you work especially since you were so shy when you first started," he reminds you and you shake your head, giggling.

"Yeah, I was super naïve when I started. I'm sure everyone is kind of like that though."

John hums and shrugs his shoulders, tapping his fingers against the table. "It's nice to see you, Y/N," he mumbles and your heartbeat quickens.

"Same, John," you blush and tuck a few strands of hair behind your ear. "I would even go as far as saying that I've missed your presence."

It was John's turn to blush and he clears his throat before standing up. "Well, I should let you get back to your studying," you laugh at the term he uses, your eyes glancing towards the documents, "You should join me at the bar downstairs if you decide to take a break."

You nod your head and stand up, following him to your door. "I'll think about it," you smile shyly and open the door for him.

"Miss L/N," he whispers and nods his head, walking out of your room.

"Mr. Wick," you return, giving him one last smile before shutting the door.

-

John sits at the bar, swirling his cup around while staring at the amber liquid. It's been almost forty-five minutes and you haven't shown up yet. The bartender stands in front of him, resting her chin on the palm of her hand as she analyzes him.

"You alright, John? I don't think I've ever seen you look this glum," she states and he hums in response, shaking his head at her.

"It's nothing. Just… expected someone to show up," he informs her before taking a large gulp of his drink.

"It's about Y/N, yeah?" She asks and John furrows his brows. 

He clears his throat and sets the glass down, running a hand over his slicked-back hair. "Why would it be about her?" He questions and the woman gives him a look.

"The two of you have a connection. Charon and I have talked about it," she explains and John unexpectedly blushes. "You need to go for it. You know her. She's too shy to make the first move."

The bartender taps his hand before her eyes move to someone behind him. She begins to make your drink as you walk up to John, not gathering his attention just yet. You're slightly pissed at yourself for taking so long, but you wanted to look nice and then you couldn't figure out what to wear.

"Is this seat taken?" You ask John and his head snaps up, the smile growing on your lips.

"Uh, no, no. Not at all," John stumbles over his words and you sit down beside him.

The bartender sets your drink down in front of you and you thank her quietly. She nods her head before making eye contact with John, giving the man a wink. You furrow your eyebrows a bit and look towards the handsome man.

"What was that about?" You question while grabbing the glass, taking a sip of the mixed drink.

"Oh, nothing. She's just… picking on me," John explains and you lick your lips while giggling.

"Who knew the Baba Yaga would let someone pick on him," you jokingly say with a laugh, scooting your chair closer to him.

John laughs in response, looking into his cup before taking the last sip of it. He sets the empty glass onto the bar top before looking towards you. "I can have a soft side," he smiles and you smile as well, leaning your cheek against the palm of your hand.

"I can see that. It's a nice side of you for sure," you inform him and John grins, flagging the bartender for another drink.

Five drinks later and the two of you are stumbling towards the elevator. Well, you were stumbling towards the elevator and John's walking just fine. You link your arm with him, a stupid grin on your lips as you rest your head against his arm.

"Thanks for inviting me for a drink. I needed the break," you tell him with a slight slur, looking up at the man.

"It's not a problem, sweetheart. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," John mumbles as the two of you step into the elevator.

It's silent for a few moments before you decide to say what's on your mind. "You had a good time, yeah?" Your hand squeezes his arm as your eyes meet, seeing the admiration in them.

"The best time. Probably the best time I've had in years," he explains and you blush, feeling your heart skip a beat. John places a hand on your face, stroking your cheek gently and you lean against his touch.

"Does this night have to end?"

The elevator doors open and the two of you step out before you get pushed against the wall. "Do you want it to?" He asks in a husky voice, making you shiver slightly.

You shake your head no, swallowing thickly while placing your hands on his forearms. John rests his forehead against yours, your heart pounding in both of your chests as your lips are centimeters from one another.

"S-Should we take this inside?" You stutter while breathing heavily, your eyes fluttering shut at the tension.

He hums in response and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "As much as I would love to. I have an early morning. But…" John trails off and grabs a hold of your chin, making you look at him. "I'll call you. Take you out somewhere nice."

A breathy chuckle leaves your lips and you nod your head. John drags his thumb across the bottom of your lip before closing the space between the two of you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you arch into him, your arms wrapping around his neck. John wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close to him while pressing you against the wall.

Someone clears their throat and the two of you pull apart as John glances over his shoulder. Your cheeks flare up as Harry stands in front of the elevator doors, his eyes set on you and John.

"Harry," John mumbles with a head nod.

"You know you guys could use a room to do that?" He questions while raising an eyebrow.

John looks back at you and a chuckle leaves his lips. "Yeah, you're right. Got a bit carried away," the man explains and you clear your throat, gathering the two's attention.

"I'm gonna turn in for the night. I'll see you later, John," you mention and smile at him. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Y/N. Good to see you again."

You nod your head and press your lips together, squeezing John's forearm one last time before heading into your room. The tall man looks at your door as it shuts before glancing down at his old buddy.

"So, you and Y/N, huh?" Harry asks and John runs a hand through his slightly messed up hair.

"Yeah, it seems that way doesn't it."

The black man pats John on the shoulder, giving him a genuine smile. "I'm happy for you. You deserve some happiness in this fucked up life we live in. G'night, John," Harry mentions while walking past him.

"Goodnight, Harry, and thank you," John nods with a grin on his lips. He tucks his hands into his pockets and treks towards his hotel door to call it a night.

-

You wince while limping down the streets of NYC, putting pressure on your side. You weren't proud of how this assignment turned out. You thought you did everything right. Made sure that no one saw you, but you were wrong.

A simple kill turned out to be a gunfight with thirty to forty people. How you managed to make it out alive shocks you a bit. Your injured leg gives out and you collapse onto the concrete sidewalk, the people around you not even giving you a second look.

Almost there. Just a little farther… You think as you pick yourself up off the ground, continuing to stumble towards the Continental. You're becoming fainter by the second as you finally reach the steps of the hotel, slowly climbing up them before entering the building.

"Good evening, Miss," Charon greets and you give him a pained grin.

"Charon. Mind sending the doctor up, please," you tell him while pressing the button to the elevator.

The man nods his head and picks up the phone, contacting the man in question. As soon as the elevator door opens you hop inside, pressing the number eight. You wince some more, breathing heavily as you apply more pressure onto the wound.

"Fuck, fuck," you panic and wish the elevator would move fucking faster.

As soon as the doors open you rush out, stumbling over yourself. A pained cry leaves your lips and you lean against the wall to try and ease the pain a bit. You make it to room 813 and start to rapidly knock on the wooden door.

"John!? John, please open up," you cry out and rest your forehead against it.

Not even ten seconds later the hotel room door opens and you fall into the room. John steps out of the way before catching you, nearly missing your head banging off of the floor.

"Y/N? What happened?" He asks, his eyes widening at the state you're in.

"D-Didn't turn out too well," you whisper and John picks you up off the floor before laying you on his bed.

The doctor walks by the room just as John was about to close it, ushering the older man to come in. You're going in and out of consciousness from the amount of blood you've lost, reaching your hand out towards John.

"If I… If I don't make it-" you start but he shakes his head while grabbing your hand, cutting you off. 

"You're gonna make it. I promise you."

The doctor got to work immediately, lifting your shirt to see the bullet wounds in your stomach. John squeezes your hand and pushes the hair out of your face.

"I've had…" you start and wince as the doc puts some alcohol onto the wound, "I've always had a crush on you, John Wick."

John lets out a chuckle while stroking your cheekbone, watching your eyes slowly shut. "Me too, Y/N. Save your strength," he tells you as you grow unconscious. He kisses your forehead gently before looking towards the doctor. "She's gonna make it, right?"

The older man nods his head and John breathes a sigh of relief. "She'll most likely be out of commission for a bit, but she'll live."

-

Tagging: @lovefilledtragedy @ficsnroses @jessalyn-jpeg​ @maddz-world​

[stxleslyds]

NIGHTWING #81

UMM... HOW ABOUT NO. 

Ever since Tom Taylor took over Nightwing I have only made a post about one issue of his (I will leave it here Nightwing #78), that issue was beautiful, it was a solid start and the little things that made me feel a bit icky were not mentioned in the post because the issue was good.

Then the issues felt like connectors or just very bland story wise. I had problems with the book also feeling like a Nightwing and (fake) Oracle book instead of just Nightwing. There were many instances where Dick alone could have gotten himself out of situations without Barbara, but because she was there the opportunity to show that he can do things was taken from him. I guess what I am trying to say is that the book has disappointed me but I didn’t feel like making a post because it was too early and this is an ongoing book that Taylor said he planned on continuing for a while, but now I can’t not make a post.

A few days ago, I finally read the Red Hood story in Urban Legends (I have a review for that one too I will link it here Red Hood part 4) and I couldn’t stand how OOC and disappointing the story/characterization has been. I am saying this because I am only reading these two books at the moment, ONLY these two, and all I have gotten from them is shit.

I know it’s still early to say that the Nightwing book is bad but…I hated this issue, I hated it with all of my heart. But now that I am a bit calmer, I have come up with some ideas of what is truly going on with the Melinda situation.

Anyway, let me give you my thoughts.

There are big Wilson Fisk vibes coming from both Blockbuster and Melinda Zucco. Those two will lie, manipulate and be evil every chance they get. They are working together to make Nightwing disappear. I know it. The whole “make us all much wealthier and to extend your power beyond the city” idea does not include Nightwing.

Melinda might not want to burn anything down but she sure isn’t a hero. This woman accepted the position of Mayor after watching Blockbuster kill the former mayor. I understand that talking with the BHPD isn’t the best idea but this woman feels way too comfortable in the presence of a killer.

She is cunning and she has plans, I strongly believe that she might be a villain and that she will betray Blockbuster and take all the power (if it reaches that point) to herself.

Heartless is just another weirdo, he tricks both Nightwing and the reader into thinking that he has a soft spot for kids but surprise! He doesn’t. There isn’t much to say about him, he just has very complex gadgets and doesn’t know how to fight. I don’t even have any ideas about who he might be.

What I know though is that there was absolutely no need for Dick to think that he had “underestimated” Heartless, my love you threw your stick at him while he was looking directly at you, there was a 50/50 chance of him catching it. I swear I don’t understand the need to write him thinking that mostly because Taylor then has Dick swiping the floor with the guy, not only is it a simple fight (for Dick) but it’s also boring for him. Taylor’s writing is so annoying sometimes, he just loves to write extra things that are out of place like the “Tim Drake. Thought of by many as the best Robin” why the fuck did he put that there? Honestly, what was the point of having Dick say that, I don’t read a Nightwing book to have Tim Drake praise. If it doesn’t offer anything to the story that is being told then keep the thought to yourself Tom...

Moving forward the scene in the pier was quite nice, mostly because it’s Dick’s quick thinking that gets everyone to safety, he knows exactly what to do and how to contact the Maritime distress channel.

He has hope for his city, he knows there is good in it and he believes help will show up when lives are about to be lost. I loved that, just like Heartless said, Nightwing IS Bludhaven’s Guardian Angel. Once again, I am having Daredevil vibes from Dick (like from the show)

After the fight we get to see consequences of Dick not healing properly from a shot to the head. He loses his consciousness which is extremely dangerous but luckily Tim is at arm’s reach to help him out of the pier.

There are many things I want to talk about from the scenes that happen after Dick wakes up in his apartment so here we go.

First of all, Bitewing is adorable, she loves Dick the most and was happy to see him awake once more, what a good girl!

Secondly, Barbara, honey, you do not have three names, you aren’t Batgirl anymore, you are a grown woman that needs to move on from a mantle that has other people that can do something else/better with it. And we all know that this Oracle is just the ableist version of Oracle. So yeah…all I ask is for Barbara to move on from Batgirl, Cass and Stephanie are right there, enough is enough.

In these panels we have Dick, Tim and Barbara being kinda dismissive about the homeless kids, and it has been happening for so many issues, what is the point, Taylor? You made Dick a millionaire and you just can’t have him say or think for a second that he will monetarily help those kids and make sure they are put somewhere safe? You are really going to wait up until you have Dick running for Mayor or something to help the kids? I just don’t get it. Kids living on the streets and each time they are mentioned the three heroes of the book act like it’s normal and doesn’t need fixing. What the fuck.

Then we have the gang finding out that Melinda Zucco is the new mayor, the woman has an FBI file and a redacted one! This makes me think two things, either things are like I thought in the beginning of the post (she is evil and very good at it) or this woman is actually FBI and she is undercover (this one is less likely because of what happens at the end of the issue).

What we can see from the file that Barbara found is very little, but in these two pictures we can see that maybe she was put in foster care and x age? Also, she was apparently investigated in April of 20xx, the investigation must have been recent, why would the FBI investigate a minor or college student? What if these files were implanted by Melinda for someone to find them, and for her to have some sort of proof of her lies? If the file is about her being left in foster care or something while would the file be redacted? I don’t know, everything about her is shady and I don’t trust anything from or about her.

This could be a complex and very interesting character but Tom Taylor and DC really love to do stupid shit for shock value (more of this later).

All the new information (the Maroni, Blockbuster and now this very shady Mayor) has Dick saying that it is a bit too much for him and yeah, it is too much, you know who could help? Red Hood. I am of course not talking about current DC comics Red Hood, I am talking about the Red Hood that I would love to see, just yesterday I had an ask about who would I like to see working with Jason and I said Nightwing because Dick puts a lot of responsibility on his shoulders so it would be nice if they negotiated and each could work on different crime areas in Bludhaven, if only DC would hear me…

Anyway, now that we come to the end of the scene let’s talk about Barbara’s shirt.

That was unnecessary and not funny. That’s all it was. Yeah, I know it’s a meme and I know it was included for funny ha-ha purposes but I am not laughing. Bruce has been written as abusive towards his kids for so long, Jason, Tim and Dick have been physically harmed by Bruce and writers use it as just something that happens, there are never repercussions for the Bat. And this shirt sucks because Dick was Robin there and he was a kid, so having Barbara or anyone wearing a shirt with Batman hitting Robin!Dick right in front of Dick is just disgusting. What if someone wore a shirt that had Joker beating Jason with a crowbar in front of Jason, would that be a funny ha-ha too? What about Dick wearing a shirt with the Joker shooting Barbara, is that a funny ha-ha? The answer to those questions is no, it’s not funny.

The idea of that shirt shouldn’t have been pitched, drawn or included after the editor took a look at it.

The picture is a meme in our world, not in theirs. And the readers aren’t laughing.

 Back to the issue, Dick is left alone in his apartment to rest (seriously? You think the man that showed up to help Bruce in Gotham with a knee brace is going to rest?) but he can’t, he just found out that Mayor Zucco might be trouble for Bludhaven and might be working with not only Blockbuster but the Maroni family. He is not waiting one more second to have a chat with her.

Dick is obviously still concussed so of course he grabs a mask that has a camera that Oracle can view, and of course he enters yet another window without being careful.

Melinda and Audre were obviously waiting for him.

But here is where the real bullshit begins. Dick is unmasked.

I am so mad; it’s been four issues and Dick gets his ass in a trap and is unmasked by a villain? Are you kidding me right now?

But that’s not all, after Dick breaks free and accuses Melinda of being the daughter of the man that killed his parents, she pulls out a uno reverse card and says that her actual father is John Grayson, and that she is his sister.

How about no. Absolutely not. Go away.

Let’s re-visit Melinda’s appearances in the book so far so we can start theorizing about her real intentions or if she could be saying the truth.

Back in issue #78 where she is first introduced to us, after Melinda watches Blockbuster kill the mayor, she goes home and tells her Audre that she is now mayor because Blockbuster did what he does, so she knows that this guy is trash and a killer. But that’s not all, Audre asks her if she came across Dick Grayson to which Melinda answers “I am not ready for him yet”. Audre suggests she talks to him sooner rather than later because she might not have “another chance”, and the issue ends with Melinda agreeing with her while she is looking at a Flying Graysons poster with a red circle framing Dick’s face.

That whole thing? Shady. Melinda, obviously, wanted to talk to Dick Grayson, probably to tell him that she is his sister, but why is there a time limit, why is Audre telling Melinda that she can’t wait too long? Is it because her undercover work is ending soon? Is it because it’s not real at all and she needs to tell that lie in order to move forward with some sort of plan? I don’t know…

In issue #79 Melinda (and Audre) are out in the open with Maroni and they are talking about her becoming the next Mayor, Nightwing was watching from afar so this is his first contact with her. And it might be the first time that Melinda and her friend see Nightwing in action too. I cannot tell if she is aware that Nightwing/Dick Grayson are the same person here.

In #80 she doesn’t make an appearance.

But now in #81 she is taking her place as Mayor of Bludhaven, there Commissioner McClean takes her somewhere she didn’t expect to go (she is shown not knowing that Maroni and Blockbuster were in the next room over). Once in the room she refuses to take the cash from McClean but she will take the money as a transaction (for a second I thought she wouldn’t take the money but she did because she is very corrupt) and talks to Maroni once more. Before I talk about what happens with Blockbuster let me say this, she acts so distant to Maroni, she calls him Mr. Maroni every single time and she comes off as cold and feeling no type of way while talking with someone that is part of the family that actually raised her, and this is not because she is in a room full of other people, she did it too in #79. It seems weird that she acts that way with someone that took her under his wing since she was eight years old.

When she sits with Blockbuster he says “tell us your plan for my city” to which she says all of this: “My plan, Blockbuster, is to make us all much wealthier and to extend your power beyond the city. But to do so in a way that builds on the good work you’ve already done I have no interest in burning anything down.”

At the start of the post I said she gave me big Wilson Fisk vibes and that right there is why. She is shady, she has plans on top of plans, she calls Roland Desmond Blockbuster to his face but says that he has done good work for Bludhaven, which is weird because Blockbuster destroys Bludhaven a couple of times a year…

As I said before whatever she has planned does not include Nightwing, and here is where I kinda start theorizing a bit more, what if Blockbuster told Melinda Nightwing’s real name, he used to know who he was once upon a time…

Later in this issue when Nightwing is going to Melinda’s place Audre is already waiting for him right next to the window (with a sword), so, was he making an insane amount of noise or were they told to be ready for him?

Melinda traps him and takes his mask off, she barely seems surprised about Nightwing being Dick, she barely reacts when he jumps at her. She is in complete control of the situation and proves that by disarming Dick, as fast as he accuses her of being Zucco’s daughter she tells him that her real father is John Grayson.

She is in complete control. She has to be lying, she put a stop to whatever Dick had to say and do in seconds. This woman is trained and she is manipulative as fuck!

And if she isn’t lying then fuck DC and fuck Tom Taylor, this woman is either younger or the same age as Dick, John Grayson was not a cheater, the man is dead, has been dead for so long, don’t throw dirt on his name at this point. I refuse to believe this is true.

I honestly think that she is evil, and knows more than we are aware of, her first appearance was shady as fuck, let's suppose that she didn’t truly know that Dick was Nightwing, why on earth did she have a Flying Graysons poster with a red circle on top of Dick’s face? That doesn’t seem like something a sister would do! And why would this be information that is so important that she NEEDS to tell him in a certain amount of time?

It’s fucking insane. Tom Taylor, if she is actually Dick's sister then shame on you. Disgusting, what is with writers and cheating, what the hell is going on? Dick doesn’t need to think back to his parents and see a cheater in one of them. This better be Melinda being a cruel and vile human being that is trying to emotionally hurt Dick/Nightwing so she and Blockbuster can do whatever its they want to do.

That’s all I have to say.