#just the little found family chilling under a tree

[kingsmint]

you honour i miss them

close ups!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I’ll Take the Night Shift

Pairing: Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

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

Word Count: 15.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?! Is all you can numbly think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that meant he was either dead or captured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he had never met you before.

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

You quite liked him looking surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you would have it no other way.

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

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

You can’t leave him behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Little Lady, I–”

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

But for John, you’d do anything. 

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

No, no, no. No, it can’t be.

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

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

But you can’t stop seeing red.

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

But all you do is stare. 

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

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

“He’s not dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

…And we can’t stay here. 

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

Don’t think about him. Don’t do it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akin to betrayal.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was all that mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy, Ma’am.”

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

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

Johnny.

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

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

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

The comment warms your heart.

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

“Never, Ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There he was. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm, I’d let you.”

“J-Johnathan Price!”

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

—

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

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

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

He remembers the explosion, and then nothing more. 

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

Muppet, he should have just run. 

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

And then he woke up in the room.

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

His whole body hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

And if he was already dead…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so illegal. 

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

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

“Earpiece.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you could play that part quintessentially. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well…what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But nothing could have prepared you for what came next. 

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

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

What?! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ma’am–!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps are hidden behind hands and handkerchiefs.

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

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

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

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

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

Please be okay, Love.

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

Did they even feed him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If possible, he gravitates toward you even more.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Ma’am?” 

“Take it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John hums under his breath, “Beautiful.”

Then he goes limp, and you start screaming.

—

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

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

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

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

They had only just gotten John stable an hour ago. 

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

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

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

Would he have died in your arms?

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

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

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

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

It was the least you could do.

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

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

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

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

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

I really must be tired.

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

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

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

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

Gaz, well…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs but nods his head.

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

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was there. He was right there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had a dream.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[rustedhearts]

battlefield (boxer!steve x librarian!fem au)

summary: you reappear in hawkins after eight months away—only this time, steve’s nowhere to be found. what happened while you were away, and why are you refusing his calls?

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ the king of the ring ♡

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, breakup (though not really), manhandling (steve leaves a bruise), toxic relationship, steve sucks! but he tries to make up for it, reader (libby) wears glasses and has a little brother.

a/n: here's what i have to say about this one: the girls that get it, get it. the girls that don't, don't.

“it would help me to know, do i stand in your way? or am i the best thing you’ve had?”

—battlefield, pat benatar

hawkins, indiana october 1990

In February, you said goodbye to your family. You gave a temporary two week’s notice to the library with a firm promise to return when Steve’s first tournament had finished. You packed up your old bedroom, said goodbye to childhood forever, and stepped out a woman. Steve’s woman.

And all you knew, for the next eight months, was: Steve. Training, dieting, fights, press conferences, and endorsement deals. Steve, Steve, Steve. Life revolved around him completely.

Until October, when you returned to Hawkins, and said hello to your family once more.

You appeared on a Saturday afternoon. A crisp chill hung in the air, scented of damp soil and the sweet aroma of autumn leaves. They filled the town with rust-colored enthusiasm; the tree in front of your old bedroom window, though, was golden yellow. They made your green lawn appear like a pool of honey. And it was on your yellow lawn that your mother gazed out to find you standing, luggage in hand, staring at the door.

She dropped the duster in her hand and flew to the door, practically tumbling down the front steps to fling herself at you. She squeezed and prodded and pulled, assessing you like some sort of miracle on her doorstep.

“Oh, honey, I’m so happy to see you! What are you doing home?”

You kissed her cheek, flashed a smile, and rolled your suitcase into the house. You hugged and kissed your father hello, laughed dryly when your younger brother Nick made a joke, and strolled upstairs with your luggage. It was half of what you’d left with eight months ago. You appeared just as proportionally empty—halved. Missing, quite literally, the other part of you.

There was no Steve, and no sign of him on you. Only the big black sweatshirt he bought you from the Hot Rod cafe, paired with a white turtleneck and old, worn denim jeans from high school. You climbed into your old bed—still made with the same colorful quilt and frilly sheets—and closed your eyes, still wearing the clothes you’d worn on your flight.

You said nothing of Steve, or why you were home.

You just…slept.

♡ ♡

You slept until Sunday evening.

Until the sunlight dwindled and your father’s knuckles rapped at the door. You brought your head out from beneath the covers to peer toward the door just as it cracked open. Your father’s glasses glared with yellow lamplight.

“Honey…are you okay? You’ve been in here…—well, sweetheart, we haven’t seen you since you got home.”

You shrugged, sniffling. The sound came with a slurp of thick snot, and upon closer inspection, your father immediately noticed the swollen bags under your eyes and their reddened, bloodshot state. “Sorry,” you murmured. “Just jet-lagged.”

Your father stepped into the room, leaving the door open, and sank onto the edge of the bed.“Honey, did he hurt you? Is that why you’re home?”

Huffing, you threw yourself onto your back and let your hands flop atop the mattress. You glared at the poster of James Dean above your bed.

“No, Dad—“

“—because if he hurt you…I know people. I can have him taken out in—“

“—Dad! Stop,” you groaned, rubbing at your swollen, aching eyes. The pillowcase under your head had been soaked and resoaked with a river of tears, and now they sat in a crusty, dried trail on your cheeks.

Your father sighed, though that look of furrowed concern and disappointment lingered. You wanted to assure him he was incorrect. You wanted to promise Steve didn’t hurt you, that you were here on your own volition just to visit. But you’d be lying. And you were tired of lying on Steve’s behalf.

You hoped and prayed your father wouldn’t ask you again—because the next time, you wouldn’t be able to muster anything but the truth.

“We’re happy you’re home, honey, but…we just wanna make sure everything’s okay.”

You pushed your hair away from your face, puffing air into your cheeks only to expel it out. “It’s fine, Dad! Okay? I just…I just want to sleep.”

Your father slid off the bed, standing to full height again. He rubbed at his jaw—salt and pepper beard sounding rough and dry—and backed away.

“Alright. Well, your dinner’s in the oven to keep warm. Mom’s making pudding. Chocolate, your favorite.”

You pursed your lips, feeling guilty and small, and nodded meekly. Your father flashed a minuscule smile and headed toward the door. Maybe you could blame the jet-lag for your sudden abruptness, but that would be another lie. You’d been a bristly version of yourself ever since you left New York(…and Steve).

“Alright, honey. Sleep tight.”

“Night, dad.”

When the door clicked closed, you groaned and kicked the covers off. The room was stiff and warm, the windows firmly shut to clamp off any semblance of an autumn breeze, curtains and blinds drawn to hide the leaves. You didn’t want to see how pretty the world looked while you suffered miserably.

But at least you could shower. You could try to do that.

In your old bathroom—floral wallpaper, pink tile, frilly bath mats, potpourri on the back of the toilet tank—you stripped down bare. You clenched your fists and gazed into the mirror, and almost instinctually, your eyes fell to your left forearm. A swell of blood popped beneath the skin just in the center of your arm, appearing violet in the aftermath, indigo in spots: the shape of Steve, left bruised on you in a handprint.

You turned away from the mirror and turned the shower on, heat high. You stepped in and closed your eyes, lip caged between your teeth to cease the trembling. The shower stream boiled your tears and drained your nose. The water smelled a little metallic: old pipes gone unused.

Eyes sinking closed, you tipped your head back into the water and let it rain over you.

♡ ♡

"Who the fuck was that?"

Seated on a padded leather bench on a gym in New York City—book in hand, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose—gazing up at Steve looming over you. His skin practically steamed, drowning in a sheen of glimmering sweat, hair clinging to his forehead, overgrown and neglected on the road. Cheeks swollen with red warmth, brows creased, eyes nothing other than empty.

You closed your book and glanced off toward the back of the strange man's head, exiting your periphery. "I don't know. He wanted to know where the bathroom was, Steve."

Five minutes ago, another gym-goer came up to you, towel thrown over his hulking shoulder, and asked you where the bathroom was. He smiled a dazzling white, catalogue smile, and you pointed toward the toilets. You directed your eyes back to the book in your lap and said nothing else. Steve wailed on the mitts in the ring, answering every of Big's 'one, two' with a sharp smack of fist.

And now here he was, towering over you like you'd asked the man to dinner.

"How come every time I turn around, some creep is all over you? Huh?"

You sighed, setting the book on the bench beside your purse. Big lingered in the ring, pretending not to listen as he slurped water from a Gatorade bottle.

"I don't know, Steve—"

"—oh, so he was a creep?"

"Jesus," you groaned, throwing your head back toward the fluorescents above you. Steve had been a tangy sour taste in your mouth since you arrived in New York two days ago. "No, Steve, he was not a creep. He was just—"

"—you know, you must be doin' somethin' to invite all these guys your way."

You turned back to Steve, gaping at his furrowed frown. Surely he didn't mean that. Surely he wasn't questioning your loyalty to him. You'd done nothing but cater to him all year. You followed him around the country for his career; put your life on hold for his career; neglected and abandoned your own needs and desires for his career—only to be scolded for every wrongdoing in Steve's eyes.

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm tired of having to worry if every time I turn around, the vultures will swarm my girlfriend. They just eat you up, huh?"

You leapt to your feet, the ache to cry growing stronger by the second. His words cut deep—the implications behind them cut deeper.

"That sounds like your problem, Steve. Those are your insecurities talking, and they don't have shit to do with me," you hissed, snatching your belongings from the bench.

You were a step away from Steve when he called back out. "Hey. Hey! Get back here when I'm talking to you, Libby."

You scoffed, shaking your head furiously as you stomped toward the door. "You're fucking crazy if you think I'm gonna listen to you—"

His hand was on your arm then, yanking you into a spin. You flew into his chest, a painful collision for both of you. But you glared, serpent-like, as mean as you could muster, into the death stare of your boyfriend. You didn't like that look on his face. You didn't like the grip he had on you. It came out of nowhere.

But his rage-fits usually did these days.

"You're not goin' anywhere," he growled evenly.

You yanked at your arm, teeth clenching together. "Yes. I. Am. Let me go, Steven."

He persisted, fingers squeezing tighter. You coughed away a yelp, wondering if you stomped on his foot if that would loosen his grip or make it worse. You weren't sure you wanted to try—and suddenly, that hurt worse.

You never wanted to be afraid of Steve, and he promised you'd never have to be.

"Harrington," Big called sternly from the ring. He leaned on the ropes now, watching carefully.

"Shut the fuck up," Steve barked his coach's way, though his attention never left you. You pulled at your arm again.

"Let me go!"

"Let her go, Harrington."

"I said shut up!"

Eyes stinging with tears, you pushed at his chest with your spare hand, smacking your book against his bare skin. "Let go, Steve!"

You sprung loose, exhaling a weak cry when your arm came away throbbing and splotchy. You adjusted the strap of your purse on your shoulder and clutched your book against your chest, gazing at Steve like a stranger.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you wailed, tears slipping free as you slammed into the door to exit.

He didn't come after you.

He stayed to train. You waited in the room, weeping noisily in the cold bathroom. As the hours ticked away, you found yourself dreading his arrival. Fearing what might come of it.

You scrambled to your feet, and in a rush of hyperventilation and buzzing nerves, you packed your bags. Anything you could grab on hand, anything you recognized as yours—you shoved it all into your suitcase on the floor and zipped it up. You knew, even as you slipped your coat on and rolled it through the door, that you'd forgotten most of your things.

And as you rode the elevator down, you stopped crying. You snatched the pen in your purse and hurried to the front desk, snatching a stationary pad and using the marble countertop for something solid.

Steve,

You promised me happiness, but all you've given me is pain. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep letting you hurt me, no matter how much I love you, or how much you claim to love me. Your anger and jealousy have ruined us, and I can't take it anymore.

I'm going home. Please don't follow me. Not even if you're sorry, and not even if you really mean it this time.

—Libby

"Please give this to Mr. Harrington when he comes back."

♡ ♡

"Hey, honey. Glad to see you up and...dressed! It's a miracle."

Your smile veered toward a scowl as you sank into your chair at the kitchen table, showered and in a fresh change of clothes: your high school sweatshirt from your final homecoming game, the green and gold of Hawkins High. It was still soft and smelled of laundry soap.

All your other clothes smelled like Steve.

"Yeah," you murmured, wet hair dripping on the table.

Your father shuffled into the room in his slippers, glasses perched low on his nose, just as your mother slid a cup of homemade pudding your way. You gingerly accepted the spoon, mustering the smallest grin of appreciation. You hadn't wanted to eat. You tried a packet of trail-mix on the plane and it made your stomach flop. The smell of Sunday dinner (meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans) still hanging in the kitchen air made you want to throw up.

But the pudding was smooth and sweet, and you ate small bites to keep your mother happy and your father quiet. You couldn't stomach another 'are you okay?'

You kept your sleeves tucked over your knuckles as you ate, limbs hidden in your sweatshirt and a pair of linty joggers. Soon, your entire family gathered at the table, licking pudding from spoons, tapping silver against porcelain to fill the quiet. The television hummed with an evening program in the living room. Even Nick sat, slump-shouldered beside you.

Their silence was almost as bad as their pestering.

"Guys," you sighed, spoon clattering on the table. "I'm fine, okay? I don't need you to...please don't hover, okay? I'm home now, and that's that."

You bounced between their gazes with a pointed look of your own, brows raised in question. Your parents bobbed their agreement, though the sourness to their expressions leaned toward hesitation. Your little brother, Nick, however, stared at the table with pursed lips. In his own silent way, his admiration for Steve spanned past athletic abilities and bled into morality. You didn't want to give him reason to believe Steve didn't deserve that admiration. Whatever happened between the two of you had nothing to do with him as a person.

You didn't want your little brother to think differently of his idol.

Before anyone could say anything else, the phone on the wall shrilled. You knew who'd be on the other line the moment your mother stood to answer, shuffling over in her pajamas and answering with a polite, chipper tone. You inhaled deeply when her eyes cut over to you.

"Sure, she's right here. Honey, it's Ste—"

You stood to your feet, chair screeching on the tile. "I'm sleeping."

You disappeared swiftly, steps ascending the creaking stairs followed by the clamp of your bedroom door slamming. Your father looked toward your mother, who pulled the phone from her chest and cleared her throat.

"You know what? She's sleeping right now. Try back in the morning?"

Steve's voice murmured through the other line in response, and your mother glanced at your father, who strained to listen.

"I'm sure she'll call you when she's ready, Steven. Just give her some space."

♡ ♡

Monday

You woke at noon and pouted at your disheveled reflection in the vanity mirror. A polaroid of Steve was wedged in the corner of the mirror: black hoodie, hood pulled up, strong jaw, cut cheekbones, a purpled split in his lip from a prior fight. He came home to you like that, bloody and bruised. He wasn't supposed to make you feel that way, too.

You pulled it from the mirror and placed it face-down on the vanity table. The kitchen phone rang while you coated your lashes in mascara, and again as you rummaged through your closet and a half-empty wardrobe left abandoned for months. You refused to touch your suitcase or the contents inside. It all reeked of Steve. All tainted by his touch.

The phone rang as you plucked your car keys from the glass bowl in the kitchen, and you heard it again—a distant, muffled blare—as you threw open the garage door and uncovered your untouched car. You drowned it in the growl of your engine, and for a moment, you felt relieved that it wouldn't be you crying today.

It would be Steve.

♡ ♡

You went to the only place you felt safe: the library.

Two words into your explanation speech, your boss, Shelly, placed a hand on your shoulder and slipped your name tag into your palm.

"Welcome back, sweetheart." She beamed, patting your arm and directing you on your way.

You dove right in, swimming through the stacks of books at a glacial, peaceful pace. You knew the system like the back of your hand, and soon all the books were in their rightful places on the shelves.

"Libby? Oh my god, when did you get home?" Lisa, another victim of abandonment for the sake of Steve, came rushing down the aisle you were in.

You hadn't spoken to Lisa since you left, and suddenly a pang of guilt crashed into you as she wrapped her arms around your shoulders. You returned the hug and mirrored her smile.

"Just the other day," you told her as she pulled away. "It was a last minute thing."

She bombarded you with questions, too blinded by enthusiasm to be upset with you for ghosting your friendship. You told her as much as you could, wincing when Steve's name came from her mouth. And like Beetlejuice or some other demonic figure, call his name three times and he shall appear.

"Baby."

You whipped around, smile crumbling at the sight of Steve stalking your way: sunglasses on, new Cadillac keys in one hand, a bouquet of pink roses in the other. Lisa became forgotten, and the stacks of books darkened like in vignette around you as Steve closed in on you.

You dropped the book in your hand on the metal cart you'd been working on, turning away from Steve to rush down the aisle.

"Lib—baby, come on!"

Lisa watched Steve zoom past her, mouth agape with confused awe as he chased after you. Your poker face remained bitter and impenetrable as you made your way through the center aisle, skirt flouncing with every stomp of your kitten heels.

"Libby, please, stop."

"I told you not to follow me," you droned without turning around.

His keys jingled with every jog after you, cellophane-wrapped flowers crinkling in his fist. You curled your fingers into a fist of your own, nails biting skin as his scent crept your way. You were grateful it was still school hours and the library was only half empty. Half the humiliation.

"You really thought—baby, please, stop."

Thick fingers circled your wrist, skirting you to a stop far gentler than the one that drove you away. His grip, much more delicate, still made your eyes sting. You kept your chin turned away but allowed your body to stop at his will. In your periphery, his puppy-dog look begged you to pay attention to him.

Steve heaved for air. "You really thought I wouldn't come after you? That I wouldn't fight for you? Baby, please. Come on, I love you so much. I'm-I'm sorry."

Your cheeks burned white hot, lip wobbling. He was always sorry.

You pushed at his hand, urging his touch away from you. He followed your movements, and like he didn't understand, he pulled you closer. You pushed at his chest this time, insistent on space between your bodies.

"Steve, stop," you sighed, wiggling your wrist in his hold.

"Baby, please just talk to me—"

"—you hurt me, Steve."

Steve sighed, head hanging toward yours. "I know, baby—"

"—you don't know. I told you not to come after me."

Steve took his hand away, shoulders drooping. He deflated with a syrupy sigh, the heel of his palms reaching for your jaw. The metal of his car key bit into your chin, the cellophane of the flowers you wouldn't be taking tapping your cheek.

"Libby, why are you doing this? Please, I'm here, I'm sorry." His voice wavered with undeniable guilt, dripped with sorrowful regret.

But it wouldn't be that easy this time.

How many times have you stood in this position now? How many times has he grabbed your face and kissed it clean of tears he triggered you to shed? How many times has he stomped on your heart, only to glue it back together for a chance to shatter again.

"Go, Steve," you mumbled, shoving his hands away again.

He'd never seen you so withdrawn. You were almost...cold. Unfeeling. Steve recoiled like you'd burned him, hands coming to dangle at his sides. You hadn't looked at him once, and you turned on your heel without doing so.

He watched you walk away, standing in the carpeted center aisle of the library with his heart in his hands.

♡ ♡

Tuesday

Steve sat on your porch with his head in his hands, elbows digging divots in his thighs.

Big and Mikey were frantic, calling his apartment phone insisting he return before the endorsements caught wind of his sudden departure. He spent the night tossing and turning, glaring at your flowers still wrapped and tied with ribbon on the kitchen table. He'd let them die if you wouldn't have them.

He woke this morning after barely a wink of sleep and found himself here. He parked the Cadillac on the curb and tapped his fingers on the wheel, wondering if he should wait it out in there. But then your mother tapped on the glass of the window, and he rolled it down to flash her a smile.

"Steven...I think she wants to be alone."

Steve nodded, looking off toward your window. "Yeah. Right, yeah. I just...I want...I have to—I just want her to—"

"—you can stay. But if she asks you to leave, please respect her wishes."

Steve nodded again, and watched your mother's car back out of the driveway moments later. When she was gone, and the house was empty aside from you, Steve hurried to the steps. He lifted a hand to knock and paused.

He really hurt you this time, he knew it all too well. But…you always took him back. No matter what he did, you always took him back if he said he was sorry. Why was this time any different?

Steve huffed, kicking the wedge of metal under the door. Why did he always have to snap? Why did he always have to lose control? You deserved better, and if you gave him a chance, he’d try to be that for you.

Muttering under his breath, Steve fixed his hands on his hips and began to pace the porch, rehearsing before he knocked: “M’ sorry…m’ sorry for bein’—ach, fuck. Libby, m’ sorry for—“

“—do you know what you’re sorry for, Steve?”

Steve whirled around, hands dropping to his sides. You were pajama clad and puffy-eyed, a pair of glasses too big for your face slipping down your nose. Your slippers had bunny ears and lint around the edges.

“Everything, baby,” Steve breathed, taking a wide stride toward the door. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You sighed, leaning against the doorway. You crossed your arms, and as you tucked them against your chest, Steve found the bruise on your forearm. He stopped in his ascent toward you, hands paused mid-air.

“Wha—what is…did I—is that from me—“

“Steve,” you whispered, yanking your sleeve down. “Just…it’s not a big deal, okay?”

He blinked at you, shuffling back a step. “Not a big deal? Libby, I never meant—it is a big deal, baby—“

“—obviously it’s a big fucking deal, Steven. I just…I don’t wanna do this right now, alright?"

Steve understood your sudden hostility, but it still made him frown. He took another step back, stumbled this time. He couldn't swallow past his heart, thumping in his throat. "O-okay..."

You looked anywhere but him. His shoes, the tree-coated lawn, the birds swooping down. You reached for the door behind you, stepping back into the house. Steve jerked forward, jaw clenching. He wasn't used to refraining from you. He didn't know how to stop from touching you, kissing you, feeling you. He felt sick over what he did.

"Is it—can I...come back? Can we talk?" He took his lip between his teeth and gnawed, ripping skin and splitting the seams. He sucked the blood into his mouth and you tipped your head, letting it rest against the front door.

His cheeks held the faintest pink glow, eyes doe-like and melancholic. God, you were easy, weren't you?

"Yeah...yeah, Steve, we'll talk."

Steve released his lip, nodding. His hands wrung together in line with his pelvis. "Tomorrow?"

You nodded, lifting your head from the door. "Tomorrow."

♡ ♡

Wednesday

The only place in town to get coffee was Laurie's, and you sighed as you stood on the curb outside the diner. The autumn breeze whipped around you in a brisk tunnel, skipping crisp leaves across the street, bringing wisps of hair to your eyes. Steve was already inside, tapping his sunglasses on the granite tabletop, knee shaking furiously against the booth. It seemed like a lifetime ago that you had breakfast in that very booth with him, smitten with his charm and drunk on his attention.

The bell chimed with your arrival, and Steve watched you with half-lifted eyes as you slid his way. You sank into the booth with grace, reaching for a pink sugar packet to fiddle with.

"Got you a coffee. Vanilla creamer," he said, motioning toward the stained white porcelain on your left.

"Thanks."

He sat, hunched, like halved version of himself. Sliced by his own wrongdoings, a pile of poisoned pieces in a diner booth. His knuckles ached from punching the old bag in his apartment, eyes heavy from crying. He cracked a toe on the end of his dresser and broke a mug. He nicked his finger on a shard when he fumbled to put it together again.

Even his regret was enraged.

Steve tapped his sunglasses again, scratching at his scalp. You cupped your palms around the mug for warmth, steam fogging the lenses of your glasses. He hated that he didn't know what to say. He hated that you weren't yelling at him, throwing things at him—something. He'd let you tear his hair out if it meant you still cared enough.

"Baby...I don't know what to say," Steve sighed airily, hands resting on the table.

You clicked your shoes together under the table, watching the vat of brown liquid ripple in your mug. "Yeah."

Steve looked at you. He watched you stare blankly, he watched you breathe out. "Yeah? That's...that's it?"

You shrugged. "I'm tired of being the one to explain, Steve. I'm tired of outlining your own behavior for you."

Steve dragged a hand through his hair, huffing through his nose.

"Alright, I'm not...I'm not sayin' you should. I just—I'm just sorry. You know I'd never hurt you—"

You cut him a look: incredulous, pinched, pained. Steve tossed his glasses aside, and they skittered toward the sugar packets.

"—on purpose...God, baby, I'd never hurt you on purpose."

You rolled your lip between your teeth, looking toward your arm, bruise hidden beneath another sweater. Steve mirrored your gaze, head sagging toward his shoulder.

"Can I...can I see it?" he murmured.

You turned to him, cheeks warm. The diner clinked with cutlery, clattering with piles plates. Only a few truckers and an old woman filled the space around you.

You pulled away from your coffee and nodded, hands falling to your lap. You took another look around as Steve sat up, inhaling to steady himself, and inched toward the edge of the booth.

"Not here."

Steve followed you to the alley, keeping a reasonable distance that killed him to maintain. You rolled your sleeve up, back to the brick wall, and let Steve cradle your arm to inspect. The hand that squeezed the skin scraped gently across you now. You shivered as his breath fanned the indigo mark. It was starting to fade at least.

You were about to remark on this small relief, attempt an ill-humored joke, when Steve collapsed to his knees. Chunks of gravel skittered with his weight upon them. You gasped and flinched at his sudden movement, gazing down to find his mouth coating your arm in weepy kisses.

You were frozen in his featherlight touch, fingers barely pressing into your wrist; smattering you in wet lip prints.

"Jesus, m' sorry. M' so—" He sniffled, loud and slurping. "M' so fuckin' sorry."

You leaned into the brick for support, mouth agape and only capable of silence.

"Please f-forgive me, angel, please. I'll never do it again, I p-promise," he whimpered, eyes like shallow, pink pools of water pleading up at you.

With unsteady fingers, you lifted your right hand to his cheek. He fell into you touch, sighing into the skin. He pressed a kiss to your palm, smeared tears against your uninjured skin. He hiccuped for air, jolting with stacattoed sobs. You'd never seen him so distressed. The closest he ever came to this was in Seattle, when the mention of his mother sent him into a spiral.

You slid your hand across the nape of his neck, lifting your palm to glide down the back of his silky hair. "Alright. Alright, Steve, it's okay."

He fell forward, arms winding around your thighs, face smushed against your stomach. You buried your fingers in his hair, kneading like dough.

"It's okay, you're okay. I forgive you, baby."

Steve nodded, squeezing you tight. You ached something awful in your gut, a piercing pang in your chest. You dipped down to press a kiss on his head, squeezing your eyes shut.

And right there in that sharp graveled alleyway, you got down on your knees with him. Eye to eye, mouth to mouth, you hid your bruise beneath a sleeve again and attached yourself to him. His tears were salty and cool, sucked free of warmth by the air nipping at exposed skin. His lips were soft and tasted like acidic coffee.

Remnants of a sob lingered on his tongue when he exhaled into your open mouth. His hands were hot and heavy on your cheeks. You clutched at his hoodie for dear life. He tore away from your mouth and journeyed kisses down your cheek—open-mouthed, full of breath, a little slice of teeth. He wandered to your neck and nuzzled deep.

A ceremonial on your knees.

Your mother would have questions. Your father wouldn't trust Steve for a long time. Your little brother would never know the difference. Big and Mikey would take the pair of you back without a word, because at least their pockets would still be lined with dough.

And Steve?

Steve learned that you'd stay, no matter how bad he could be.

♡ ♡

[bagerfluff]

The Fox and The Wolf

Nico di Angelo x Male Half-Blood Reader

Prompt - Werecreature AU

You were a werefox.

With red ears sitting on top of your head. A fluffy tail with white at it tips right below your waist. A charming smile and mischievous personality. Always planning something. You were cunning, clever, and quick.

You were always stealing something.

You were the embodiment of a fox has a werefox. With the ability to transform to a red fox at will. You had a laugh that was loud and set people's nerves off. Whenever you laughed, something was going to happen.

You were amazing at smell, hearing, and sight. You could hear a tree fall from miles away. You could smell what someone ate a week after they ate it. You could see amazingly, in the dark. You were mostly asleep during the day and were rarely seen out of your cabin at night.

But you were really active at night. Always running around, eating, chasing something, or plotting something. You had really sharp nails that grew pretty fast. You were great at climbing and could climb almost anything.

You weren’t the best smelling.

Your tail always made a scent that didn’t smell the best, no matter how much you showered. You were very playful. You loved playing with friends. You loved chasing them around, playing hide and seek, or training.

Some saw you were the life of the party.

But one thing was that you were quite lonely. You didn’t mind, foxes normally spend their time alone. You would spend time eating, sleeping, and doing hobbies alone. You might be playful and make people smile but you didn’t really have any friends.

Except for one.

Nico di Angelo.

Well he wasn’t your friend. He was your boyfriend. He was a werewolf. With streak ears on the top of his head and a black tail below his waist. Nico was more of a lone wolf. He had great senses of smell, hearing, and sight.

Just like you.

But he was different from you. Nico was more quiet, calm, and thinking. Nico mostly just stays in the shadows away from people. Nico would mostly just chill while you would go steal something. But Nico was impressive too.

Nico could sneak up on someone in seconds. Nico could run far too. Nico could also turn into a wolf, a streak black wolf with scars littered under the fur. But Nico was caring too. Always asking if something was wrong.

Nico could be quite playful too, when he wanted too. If you and Nico were both playful. Run. Nico was also very protective. Nico had a lot of friends that he cared about.

Though Nico mostly was alone he did care about his friends and family. Especially you. How you and Nico became friends then started to date, you’ll never forget that. 

You were hiding behind a cabin as you watched two kids talking. One was playing with something and you were waiting for the perfect time to steal it. “What are you doing”, you jumped and your ears stood straight up.

You should have heard the person coming but you were a little too preoccupied with your thoughts. “Shhh”, you turned around while making the sound. The person that scared you and almost blew your cover was Nico di Angelo.

You’ve seen him around camp and you knew about him. He was one of the only other werecreatures in Camp Half-Blood. He was a werewolf. Mostly alone and in the shadows. You turned back around but you noticed that the people had left.

And the kid didn’t leave what he was playing with. “You made me miss my opportunity”, you sneered at Nico. A glare was evident on your face. “What were you even trying to do?”

You had no idea why Nico was talking to you. From why you knew Nico rarely talked to anyone except his friends.

“I was trying to steal something”

“but that's wrong”

“I give it back”

“still wrong”.

You growled and your ears stood up again. “Just don’t do it again” “maybe you should try doing it at night next time”. You glanced over at Nico to see a small smile on his face.

You watched as Nico walked away. 

Ever since then you’ve hung out with Nico. You found him cute. Especially whenever you called Nico a pet name or petted his head. Then after a while you two got together. You admit that wasn’t your best moment.

You were walking around with your tail in between your legs. You were looking for Nico. You felt extremely sad and guilty. You had yelled at Nico. Nico had just come back from an outing and you saw him when he was walking out of infirmary.

You were worried about him so you asked him what happened. Nico didn’t tell you anything, just that he got hurt. You knew that but you wanted to know how he got hurt. But Nico didn’t tell you. You were fine with that so you just told Nico to be more careful.

But Nico got mad and raised his voice at you. You did the same and the conversation, turned screaming match, ended with Nico running away. An hour later you were looking for him because you wanted to apologize.

You hadn’t found him anywhere.

Your last place to try was the forest. So with a heavy heart you walked to the forest and started looking for Nico. You tried yelling to see if he would come. You tried hearing for anything. You tried smelling for anything.

But you found nothing.

You felt like crying. The reason you felt so bad was because you loved Nico. He was one of the only people you wanted to hang out with. Maybe spend the rest of your life with. You knew you liked guys and you were fine with that.

Nobody cared that you were a guy that liked guys. You slowly walked back to camp. Nico didn’t want to talk to you so you respected that. Once you got close enough to camp to see it you decided that you didn’t want to go there.

So you just sat down near a tree and transformed. You curled up next to the tree and started to whimper. After a while you heard something sit and curl up in front of you.

You didn’t feel like looking at it so you just buried your head deeper into your fur. But when you felt something touch your head you looked up. When you looked up you saw a black wolf. It was Nico! You knew it.

You started to laugh and jump up and down as a fox. You ran around Nico and jumped all around him. You jumped on top of him and played around with him. Nico, was a wolf, did nothing. He just watched as you did this.

After you were done you pressed your nose to Nico’s.

You remember after that you and Nico had your first kiss and became boyfriends. You loved that moment. But you couldn’t get stuck in the past, you were busy. You were running around, tail wagging in excitement.

You heard from Percy that Nico was here at camp. So you wanted to find him. You knew that Nico tended to either hang out in the training ring, near the trees, or talking to friends. You stopped running and looked around. You were right next to the training ring and didn’t see Nico.

You just ran into Percy and Annabeth.

Maybe Nico was in the forest. You started to book it for the forest when you smelled something. You stopped running and looked around. Eventually you found what you were looking for. You ran over to the tree with a smile on your face.

“Nico!” You yelled. Nico looked up from his lap and smiled slightly. “Hey Y/n”, Nico glanced behind you. Your tail was wagging really fast. Nico’s tail started to wag slowly behind him. “Whatcha doing angel?” You asked.

You leaned down to look Nico in the eyes. Nico blushed when you called him the pet name “Nothing. What about you?” A mischievous smile took over your face and Nico wondered what you did. “I’ll show you”, you leaned up and stuck your hands out.

Nico took your hand and you pulled him up. You and Nico might be different. But you liked Nico and Nico liked you. So you both walked away. You with a cunning smile on your face and Nico’s face showed that he was worried.

Tails wagging at the same speed. 

[narrans]

My Borrowed Son | 13 | P.O.V.

Chapter Thirteen | P.O.V

What had he just witnessed?

Was what he saw real? Or part of a dream?

No.

There was no way this was part of a dream. It was real.

Kers decided when the snow began to fall that staying on the ground was far too dangerous, so an elevated position above the roots would be better. The four-inch tall Borrower scaled the side of the tree he was hiding under using his broken paperclips and the little bit of string he had saved.

He had to immigrate because the previous home he was in gave their two young daughters cats for their shared birthday. Two cats. One Borrower. Kers did the math and decided it would be safer to leave, even during the cold winter months, and chance getting into another apartment building a few doors down.

He trudged out into the frigid cold with all of his worldly borrowings on his back and found shelter among the roots of a nearby tree. It wasn’t until the morning that he realized he needed to find a safer place, hence the dangerous climb up the tree.

Each handhold felt as though it would give way at any moment. The slickness of the frosted bark was treacherous. The slightest slip would mean his demise, but it needed to be done.

As he climbed, he couldn’t believe that immense creatures such as squirrels and mice could scurry up these things with such ease.

Part of the terror and danger and thrill of being a Borrower.

The few times he nearly slipped made him tremble and shake, but Kers finally made it to the top where he found a notch in the tree that used to belong to a family of squirrels. He wasn’t sure why it was abandoned, but it was warm and a place he could secure while he waited out the storm.

After a midmorning nap and a quick inventory of his belongings, Kers began preparing his food ration for the day when he heard a voice outside. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and send chills ripping down his spine. The Borrower knew the volume of the voice could only mean one thing – a human was nearby.

And, based on the words she was saying, the human wasn’t alone. He couldn’t hear who she was with, but the words she was using made Kers think she was with a young child.

It was odd.

Usually children were loud and obnoxious, making them easy to identify and run away from. So, why couldn’t he hear the child? Was she even with a child? Maybe the human woman was with a pet. Humans did that – talked to animals as if they could understand.

The thought that humans would treat animals more like humans than his own kind if Borrowers were discovered made Kers squirm uncomfortably. If he were caught, Kers had little doubt in his mind that he would be tossed in a cage to live out the rest of his days. He suspected he would be tricked into talking and, if everything went well for him, would live performing tricks like some pet. If things went poorly, he would be experimented on and exposed to the whole world.

It was a terrifying thought.

Still, his Borrower’s curiosity got the better of him after an hour or so of listening to the woman talking and responding to someone she called “Parker” and he peered out of his hiding place, acorn cap disguise on his head, to see what he could see.

His heart sank into the pit of his stomach when he glanced down and saw a Borrower child far below near the roots of the tree. He was barely visible because Kers was so high up in the tree, but there was no mistaking the frame of the small being.

What is happening?

What is going on?

That’s a child!

Has that human noticed him?

A more terrifying thought seized Kers.

That human… that’s who that human woman has been talking to?! She’s been talking to that kid?!

Kers couldn’t see as well as he wanted from his vantage point, but he could tell that the child didn’t seem anxious and didn’t seem like he was trying to escape or get away. At the moment, the Borrower high in the trees had a more pressing issue – the child had found his camp from the night before as well as his footprints.

Shoot. Shoot shoot shoot shoot shoot! If he looks up or tells that human woman he’s working with, I’m screwed!

Take a breath.

I’m okay.

I’m too high for that human to reach me. She can’t get to me up here. Even if she tries, I’m inside the tree and can climb higher if I need to.

His panic made Kers’ limbs shake as he hurriedly began shoving all of his essentials into his getaway bag. The strap was barely over his shoulder when Kers heard the human woman speak, and it sounded close, and her words made him jump out of his skin.

“Parker? What are you doing in there?”

Kers instantly dropped onto the floor of the old squirrel next and listened as hard as he could. This time, because he was a bit closer, Kers could pick up elements of what the boy was saying – and it made his already chilled blood run cold.

“Momma! Momma! I… I think there’s someone else out here!”

No! No! I’m not here. Why are you working with that human? And did… you just call her momma?

“Someone else? That’s not possible,” said the woman. This was a huge benefit in Kers’ mind, and it was enough to inspire a moment of courage in the disguised Borrower.

Kers didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t bear the thought of simply waiting and seeing looming fingers or, heaven forbid, an eye looking in at him reaching for his frame. He needed to look. Kers crawled to the entrance and, heart pounding a hole through him, dared to look over the ledge down toward the ground.

The human woman was there looming over that small, innocent child! The sight alone made him sick and anxious, but he forced himself to look anyway. From what he could tell, the child didn’t seem nervous in the slightest and spoke loudly and clearly for the human woman to hear.

“It’s true! Look! There are footprints. They look like mine!” urged the Borrower boy.

Kers felt his insides churn. Did the child not know the rules? Did he not understand what he was doing? He was about to root out Kers’ hiding place and not protect his fellow Borrower; and for what? To protect his own family? To protect himself?

Why?

Kers watched the human woman look long and hard at the footprints he had left behind hours and hours ago. The whole time, his prayers revolved around not being discovered. After an agonizing amount of time, the woman responded.

“Parker, I think these might’ve just belonged to a small critter like a mouse or rat. Maybe even a squirrel? I just don’t know who would be out in cold like this.”

Kers couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

The human woman was dissuading the Borrower child from asking further questions? The human woman was trying to convince the Borrower child that no one else was out here? The backwardness of the situation made his head spin. It should have been the other way around.

The child should have hidden the footprints.

The child should be persuading the human woman no one was out here.

“But… momma…” The boy looked around before looking, to Kers, defeated. “Maybe.”

Kers let out a sigh of relief, but it didn’t dissuade his confusion. What was going on? Why were they interacting so freely? Was all of this a ruse? Or was there something more going on here?

He continued listening as the woman continued. “Good. Now, I think we’ve had enough fun in the snow. Let’s get inside and get warm; and maybe, just maybe, you and I can read some of that ‘Eragon’ book together. Would you like that?”

The child sighed and nodded, still looking defeated.

“Yes, momma,” said the child named Parker.

Kers felt every nerve in his body screaming in protest and fear as he watched the small child willingly climb into the human woman’s hands. He wanted to call out to the child. He wanted to tell him to fight and that he’d be rescued soon, but something inside of him kept Kers silent.

There was something in the woman’s voice and in the entire interaction that felt too tender – too genuine – to be fake or forced.

It felt impossible, but was it true?

Did that Borrower child think that human was actually his mom? Did she brainwash him? Trick him into thinking that this was normal?

Or was there something more?

Was this genuine?

Was this human woman actually taking care of this Borrower child, treating him like an equal?

Kers had to know more.

He carefully leaned out of his hiding place and watched the woman and the child disappear into a nearby apartment.

Well… at least I know where my next home is going to be. Kers thought.

~~~^*^*^~~~

The trek was a long one and lasted the next day and partway into the night, but Kers finally made it. The apartment where the human woman and Borrower child vanished into was in sight, and he even had an entrance. With precision and care, Kers shimmied up the frozen drainage pipe and he made his way to the roof, which thankfully had a vent pipe that he could slip down.

Eyes adjusting to the dim light and stomach growling uncomfortably, Kers knew he was now bound by fate to whatever was happening inside of this apartment.

He tiptoed through the beams and shimmied on top of the wires as he found the ceiling fan socket which let him look down into the room. The Borrower crouched low and peered down into what looked like the living area only to see the human woman sitting on the couch with a blanket in her lap, book in her hand, and the small child on her shoulder.

The sight was enough to make his blood run cold.

How could that child just sit there on the human’s shoulder without a care in the world? Kers thought about his own level of bravery as he wondered whether he could manage such a feat with calm nerves. The scene was a fascinating one and it had him completely entranced.

Kers wanted – needed – to learn more.

The miniscule man found himself hours later sitting and watching the pair interact and talk. It was like watching the human family he just left interact with one another, the only difference being size between the child and he woman.

At some point, the two of them made dinner, which smelled tantalizing, before the two of them went off to bed.

Now was his chance.

Now was his time!

Kers stared down at the little box that the boy, Parker, called his “room” and saw every opportunity to go and save the child.

But…

Something stopped him.

For years, Kers was convinced that humans would treat Borrowers as pets. He was convinced that someone like him would be shoved into a cage and belittled until the end of their days.

What he just witnessed, however, was something far different.

It was mutual respect. It was like his own mother speaking to him and his siblings. It was like the tender care he had seen the human family he just left from the parents to their two young daughters.

This human was treating this child like a human.

Kers felt confusion wracking his brain, and the hunger in his gut wasn’t helping. He glanced at his pack, which held everything he possessed, and then looked back down at the sleeping kid in the room far below.

It was the most impossible, difficult decision he needed to make, but here he was making it.

At the moment, Kers knew two things.

One, he didn’t have enough supplies to sustain himself right here and now. He needed to go down to the apartment below and borrow as much as he could to set up a proper home for himself.

Two – which was the most gut-wrenching thing he had to decide – was that the child wasn’t in danger. The human woman didn’t have the boy in a cage and, from what Kers could tell, the boy was being taken care of. There was no fear in his voice when he spoke to the woman he called “momma” and he seemed comfortable interacting and maneuvering around in the human world.

Whatever this kid’s story was, Kers wanted to know it; but he couldn’t do that if he needed to take care of himself. For now, he would be the child’s silent protector from the walls, ready to act and save at a moment’s notice. He could learn about this woman from the walls and, when the time came, Kers would venture down and talk to the boy about who he was and what they were if the kid didn’t know.

With a fateful glance down at the boy, Kers vowed that the child wouldn’t be alone, forgotten and abandoned by his own kind. The Borrower ducked into the darkness toward the kitchen, heaviness in his heart as he hoped he made the right decision.

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

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[shares-a-vest]

@flufftober Spring Edition Day 9: Daisies

wc: 612 | Rated: T for Alcohol Consumption (Not Excessive - Wayne is sipping on a beer) | cw: Alcohol Consumption, Food Consumption

Tags: Claudia Henderson, Wayne Munson, Grandparents, Backyard, Found Family, Family Lunch, Steddie Being Silly in the Background

'Daisy Chains'

“Pa!” Joanie shrieks, waving wild and big.

Wayne chuckles at the sight of his granddaughter, sitting barely a few paces beyond the back porch, gesturing as if they are miles apart. He remains on the deck, watching over the backyard as he quietly sips from a chilled afternoon beer. Beside Joanie is Claudia Henderson, concentrating on the daisy chain in her hands that cascades off her lap in a long line off to the side.

They have been working on it for a good while now, ever since Wayne roused them outside so he could do the dishes. But Joanie appears as if she is growing distracted. A four-year-old’s attention span only goes so far, he thinks.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, setting his beer down on the glass patio table, hurried along when Joanie sits back on her haunches and frowns.

“Come here!” she whines, allowing herself to fall against Claudia’s shoulder with an oomph and a startled “ah!” despite him very clearly making his way over.

“I’m here,” he says, lowering to the ground not a few moments later.

He only just manages to stretch out his left leg (and his bad knee) when Joanie plops onto his lap.

She haphazardly brushes her hair off her face, revealing sun-kissed flushed cheeks as grins up at him, all toothy and excitable.

“Ganma is making me a daisy chain,” she nods.

Wayne had watched the pair from the kitchen window as they gathered the flowers, all scattered around the backyard where they grow wild.

“That so?” he asks, humouring Joanie as he looks past her to Claudia’s handiwork.

She picks up another daisy and makes an incision with her bare thumbnail, splitting apart the stem enough to loop the next flower through.

“Thought you were helping me, Missy?” Claudia jokes, threading and splitting another flower like she has worked up a practised rhythm.

“You do this,” Joanie begins to instruct, breezing past her Ganma’s quip entirely as she picks up another flower.

She is rough, pinching her index finger and thumb together to rip a hole in the flower’s stem rather than Claudia’s delicate tearing motion. It reminds Wayne of Eddie at that age, sitting on the patchy grass of the Forest Hills trailer park all those years ago – looking a lot more lonely but nonetheless doing the exact same thing.

His heart pains at the memory of that kid, uncomfortable in himself, quiet and secluded.

Eddie, now older and happier, is sitting under a tree on the far side of the yard with Steve sitting impossibly close by. He looks a sight under the tree, shaded and wearing all black despite the springtime sunshine.

Meanwhile, Steve looks to be devouring another admittedly, delicious sandwich courtesy of Claudia’s elaborate Family Lunch. A smorgasbord of choices. Deli meats and breads, salads and dressings. All of which she insists on preparing and bringing over herself.

Something falls out the bottom of the thing and the sandwich collapses completely. Eddie throws his head back and cackles before offering to help with the cleanup. A task that somehow involves licking his partner’s face. Steve splutters, leaning away as he attempts to pick at the mess that has spilled down his yellow polo shirt.

“Stevie…” Eddie whines through giggles when the other boy leans away with a frown.

Wayne rolls his eyes, knowing full well that at any moment, those two are going to say or do something a little too inappropriate for a family afternoon out in the sun.

But he will leave them be he thinks as he turns his attention back to his beaming granddaughter who is holding out a daisy ready for him.

More of my Flufftober Spring Edition posts here

[love-kurdt]

Swooping, Sloping, Cursive Letters: 16

word count: 466

PLEASE READ THIS IS ME TRYING FIRST, AS THIS STORY RELIES HEAVILY UPON THE CONTEXT OF TIMT

December 24, 1988

Dear Will,

For as long as I can remember after becoming friends with you, I’ve spent Hanukkah with your family, and you’ve spent Christmas with mine. I’m not sure when exactly this tradition started, but I think it stemmed from me being a whiny little shit as a kid. It was probably along the lines of something about feeling left out. I’m not even Jewish, and you’re not Christian (neither am I at this point, if I’m being completely honest with you), but we make it work.

Hanukkah at your place was great this year. Your mom’s cooking was fucking legendary, which is kind of funny, because on any other day, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a kitchen. But Hanukkah is different. And I’m glad that she raised you and Jonathan to embrace your Jewish identity. I think it’s pretty admirable.

Speaking of admirable; I have absolutely no idea how you got through tonight in one piece. I’m barely holding it together. You know how I talked in one of these letters about that grace you have during horrible situations that helps you persevere? You certainly had it tonight. I fucking wish I had that.

Every time my dad said something related to his objection to having you over, or how art was a terrible career path to take, or how we weren’t to do any funny business later (which we weren't going to do anyway, because we aren't dating), I wanted to fucking lunge across the table and strangle him. Every time I found myself teetering on the edge of murder trying to stand up for you, though, you’d put your hand on my leg under the table and run your thumb against my knee, almost as if to say, I can take it, Mike, don’t worry. But I do worry. You deserve so much more than what you can simply “take.” And I hate that my dad has the sheer audacity to insult you like that, even on a fucking holiday. He has no chill.

…Well, neither do I right now, so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.

Anyway, I’m just writing this to thank you for helping me keep my cool. If it weren’t for you, I probably would have ruined the night with some indignant squawking about how you’ve been through enough and how my dad’s remarks were nothing short of dense. But I’m glad I didn’t blow up, or else you probably wouldn’t be too keen on staying over into tomorrow morning like you usually do. I really hope you like the gift I got for you. Spoiler alert: it’s a new set of pastels. And no, you can’t not accept them, because I threw out the receipt.

Merry Christmas, Will.

Love,

Mike

-

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[winxanity-ii]

𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐔𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄

╚»★«╝ 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐞𝐧: 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 x 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐋𝐨𝐭𝐮𝐬 𝐄𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╚»★«╝

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: fluff, cuuttteeee

‌🇷‌🇦‌🇹‌🇮‌🇳‌🇬‌: non-explicit

🇵‌🇴‌🇻‌: 2nd person; You/Your

🇩‌🇪‌🇸‌🇨‌🇷‌🇮‌🇵‌🇹‌🇮‌🇴‌🇳‌: in which, your peaceful life on an idyllic island is disrupted by the arrival of strangers.

🇼‌🇴‌🇷‌🇩‌ 🇨‌🇴‌🇺‌🇳‌🇹‌: 6.1k

🇦‌/🇳‌‌: Y'all forgive me, i'm currently addicted to EPIC: The Musical 😭😭😭 i had to get it out......so because i'm such a random ass person, expect a few one-shots of these 🥴

★·.·´🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌🇸‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

In the dappled shade of overhanging trees, you, a daughter of the Lotus Eaters, moved with the silence of a whisper. The island, your home, was a place of serene beauty and hidden sorrows, where every berry and leaf held stories untold. As you foraged, the unexpected sound of low voices sliced through the quiet, a rarity in this secluded paradise.

In the heart of the island, where the sun played peek-a-boo through the lush canopy, you were lost in your routine of foraging, the familiar, comforting task providing a rhythm to your day. The island was your sanctuary, a place where each leaf and berry whispered stories of peace and forgetfulness. But today, an unfamiliar murmur shattered the symphony of rustling leaves and distant waves—a discordant note that prickled your skin.

Hiding wasn't something you Lotus Eaters did often; your island was a haven, not a battlefield. Yet, instinct took over, and you found yourself crouching under the embracing shadow of an overhanging tree, its leaves casting a mosaic of light and dark around you. Your heart thudded a frantic rhythm, trying to drown out the low, masculine voices that sliced through the serenity of your world.

You couldn't catch their words clearly, just fragments floating through the air like leaves caught in a breeze—"too worried," "need to relax"—phrases that seemed out of place in the tranquility of your island. Your curiosity piqued as their voices faded, swallowed by the whispers of the forest. The urge to look, to know, overpowered your hesitation, and you peered through the veil of green, your gaze snagging on flashes of gold.

Gold here was not a common sight. It wasn't woven into your garments or hoarded in chests; it was a color of the sunsets, not of men. Yet, there it was, adorning these strangers in the form of armor, glinting with a promise of other worlds, other wars. Your breath caught at the sight of their swords, tools of harm so alien to your way of life, and a chill skittered down your spine.

They were heading toward your village, toward your people who knew no harm.

Panic, sharp and urgent, spurred you into motion. You couldn't just sit and watch. The safety of your village, of the gentle souls who had never known the cold bite of steel, was in your hands.

As you darted through the underbrush, the island blurred around you, a whirl of green and brown streaked with your anxiety. "Strangers are coming," you rehearsed in your mind, "armed strangers, with intentions as unclear as the shadowed depths of our waters." Your feet knew the way, carrying you faster than thought, driven by a need to protect, to warn.

Reaching the village felt like emerging from water, a sudden rush of air and noise. Your people, your family, they were all there, living their peaceful lives, unaware of the disturbance heading their way. You gasped for breath, words tumbling out in a rush, "Strangers… armed… heading this way…"

The village's rhythm halted, eyes turning to you, a mixture of confusion and concern blooming on familiar faces. Kio, your elder, stepped forward, his presence like a calm in the storm. "Tell me everything," his voice was the steady beat of the drum, grounding and solid.

As you recounted what little you saw and heard, the weight of responsibility bore down on you. You were a community that thrived on harmony and understanding, yet here you were, the harbinger of potential discord. "I saw their swords," you confessed, the words heavy, "weapons that shows tales of war and death."

The air was thick with unspoken fears, with the weight of what was to come. You stood there, amid your people, feeling the shift in the breeze, a harbinger of change, unwelcome and unbidden. In that moment, you realized that the sanctuary of your island was no longer a given—and you can't help but wonder what the arrival of these strangers heralds for your people, for your way of life, and for the harmony that has always been your world's heartbeat.

As the last echoes of your warning hang in the air, a sudden rustling at the village's edge cuts through the stillness. You barely have time to finish, "We must hide!" before the underbrush parts, revealing the very strangers you feared. The village, usually a bastion of tranquility, pulses with a mix of apprehension and curiosity.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to the darker-skinned man, whose presence seems to command the sun's rays, casting a warm glow on his deep-toned skin. He stands out with a demeanor that contrasts sharply with the tense atmosphere, his short, dark curls restrained by a golden headband that speaks of valor yet does not overshadow his approachable aura. His face, framed by a full beard, is alight with a friendly smile, his brown eyes reflecting a depth of wisdom and kindness, suggesting a soul seasoned by journeys and battles yet untouched by their harshness.

He is clad in a heroic ensemble that marries form and function—a chest plate of polished bronze that narrates tales of past skirmishes, worn over a tunic vibrant against the natural backdrop of the village. Golden armlets encircle his muscular arms, shimmering with each movement, while a belt with intricate designs anchors a leather skirt, designed for the dual demands of agility and protection. His attire is completed with greaves and sandals, hinting at readiness for both celebration and conflict.

Beside him, a man with lighter skin presents a stark contrast, his rigid posture exuding a sense of urgency and latent power. His armor, less adorned yet no less formidable, speaks of a life spent in strategy and combat, his expression one of focus and resolve, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a commander's vigilance.

You watch, your gaze hardening, as Elder Kio and the other respected leaders step forward, their arms spread in a gesture of welcome that's as much a part of your culture as the lotus itself; it's a silent offering of peace and welcome, a tradition unbroken for generations.

The children, with their innocent faces peeking out from behind their mothers' skirts, gawked at the men, their usual playground of earth and sky momentarily forgotten. The mothers, though curious, held their children close, sensing the shift in the wind, the ripple of change that these strangers brought with them.

A greeting that's supposed to be met with gratitude is instead met with tension.

The lighter one, his armor catching the sun's rays, draws his sword in a swift motion that cuts the air and the brief moment of peace.

The reaction is immediate. The elders halt in their tracks, their expressions morphing from open welcome to guarded caution. The villagers, their voices once rising in a harmonious welcome, now fall silent, their songs of greeting dissolving into a tense hush. The children, sensing the shift, draw closer to their mothers, their expressions morphing from excitement to a dawning unease.

"Stay back!" the command ripples through the gathered crowd, a stark contrast to the open-hearted reception offered by your people; it acts as chilling reminder of the potential danger these strangers represent.

The villagers, once buoyed by curiosity and the novelty of new faces, now retreat into a wary distance, their initial welcome cooling into a collective apprehension; unused to such intensity, leaned in, their eyes flickering between the sword in his hand and the stoic expressions of their elders. Yet, you, alongside the village elders, remain steadfast, your eyes locked on the two men who've disrupted the peace of your haven.

"We're only here for food," the lighter one said, his voice carrying the weight of command and desperation. "I need enough to feed 600 men."

The word 'food' echoed through the crowd, a simple yet profound need that resonated with every villager. Your people, always so giving, now faced a dilemma as the shadow of the upcoming drought season loomed over the island like an ominous cloud, now facing the prospect of feeding an army.

Elder Kio looked worried; his face, etched with the lines of countless smiles and furrowed brows of concern, now bore a look of deep contemplation. He's seen a lot over the years, and you could tell he was trying to figure out what to do. His eyes, reflecting a storm of thoughts, met the soldier's—an exchange brimming with the weight of unspoken negotiations.

With his stance firm and his expression unyielding, the pale one held Kio's gaze. The elder's eyes, usually reflecting pools of calm, now mirrored the tumultuous sea of issues before him. The island, a paradise of peace and plenty, was unused to such extreme demands, and Kio's hesitation was a testament of the conflict within—a battle between the inner desire to extend a hand in hospitality or the impending need to safeguard their future against the looming threat of scarcity.

Before Elder Kio could open his mouth to offer a bit of help despite future trouble, the soldier cut him off, sensing the hesitation, sharpened his stance, "Stay back, I'm warning you," he repeated, his sword gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. "If we don't get back safely, my men will turn this place into blazes."

The threat hung in the air, stark and chilling. A collective shiver ran through the villagers, a silent wave of fear that you felt keenly. Your own reaction was immediate—a frown, a tightening of your jaw, an instinctive readiness to defend your home against this thinly veiled menace.

Yet, from across the clearing, your mother's calm gaze met yours. Her presence, unswayed by the lotus's usual soporific effect, served as a silent beacon of restraint. Her eyes, so like your own, whispered a message of patience and wisdom, cooling the fire of your indignation.

Around you, the elders, those first-generation Lotus Eaters who seldom displayed such collective lucidity, stood with a shared gravity. Their usual, dreamlike detachment was replaced by a sharp, collective focus, a rare and telling shift that spoke volumes of the gravity of the situation.

"Odysseus, my friend, it's okay to greet the world with open arms, no need to be harsh," the darker one spoke in a gentle tone, trying to dispel the tension; his words, meant to soothe, seemed almost out of place against the backdrop of his companion's stark ultimatum.

The lighter one—Odysseus—still on edge, shot a glance at his friend, his expression a mix of frustration and urgency. "We need to find food for our men, Polites," he insisted, the weight of his responsibility evident in his voice.

The villagers watched, a silent audience to this back-and-forth between the two men. Elder Kio, after a moment of anxious contemplation, stepped forward, his voice steady but his concern clear. "We can offer you some of our reserves," he said to Odysseus, "It's not much, but we're willing to share what we have."

With a nod from Kio, a few of the women villagers moved toward the storerooms, their steps hesitant but determined. Kio then turned his gaze to you and a small group of young villagers standing nearby. With a subtle but firm nod, he signaled for you to assist in gathering the provisions.

Watching you all get into action, Polites' face lights up in with relief, nudged Odysseus. "See? You were worrying for nothing," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

Just then, a young child, innocent to the tension, approached the men with a tray of refreshments, among them the lotus fruit. Polites reached out, his hand hovering over the fruit, drawn to its vibrant hue.

Odysseus's hand shot out, stopping Polites just in time. "Wait," he cautioned, eyeing the fruit with suspicion.

And as the little boy who had offered the tray turned to leave, Odysseus called out to him, "Hey, wait a minute, boy." His voice, firm yet not unkind, prompted the child to halt in his tracks and look back, a mix of curiosity and wariness in his eyes.

The boy, clutching the hem of his shirt, took hesitant steps back toward the two strangers. His gaze flitted between the fruit in Odysseus's hand and the stern look on the man's face.

"What's this?" Odysseus asked, holding up the luminescent fruit for the boy to see. The child, now standing a safe distance away, glanced at the fruit and then up at Odysseus's questioning eyes.

"I-It's what we eat here," the boy replied, his voice a soft murmur against the backdrop of the watching villagers. "It makes people happy."

Odysseus exchanged a quick, meaningful look with Polites, who wore an expression of dawning understanding mixed with concern. The child, sensing the men's unease, added, "It's good… it helps people forget their sadness."

Odysseus, still locked in his silent communication with Polites, missed the approach of an older teenager who came to retrieve the young boy. The girl, with a respectful bow, offered a gentle apology for the interruption, her actions protective as she guided the boy to stand behind her, his curious eyes peeking out from her leg.

As the villagers began to place baskets filled with an assortment of foods beside the men, Odysseus turned his attention to the girl. "Is what the child said true? You eat these?" he inquired, gesturing towards the lotus fruit in his hand.

The girl nodded, her eyes fixed on the ground, a hint of defensiveness in her posture. "Yes," she confirmed softly, "we use the fruit as a base for many of our meals." Her hand swept towards the growing pile of food offerings, which included more than just the fruit, illustrating the variety in their diet.

When the girl and child left, Odysseus picked up one of the fruits. "Look at this," he said, holding it high, its seeds emitting a faint glow. "Do you see how it glows? This is a lotus fruit. It's not just any food; it affects your mind, traps you in bliss." He then turned to Polites with a stern look, his words sharp and clear. "If we indulge in this, we could become like the lotus eaters here, essentially addicts lost to their escape, detached from reality."

With a gesture that carried a mix of disdain and warning, Odysseus dropped the fruit to the ground, his hand swiftly brushing against his pants, as if to rid himself of its influence.

You returned to the scene, arms aching slightly from helping to transport the village's food reserves, only to catch Odysseus's dismissive gesture as he dropped a lotus fruit to the ground. His words, laden with disdain, hung heavily in the air, criticizing the very essence of your people's way of life.

You felt a surge of emotions as you stood there, witnessing this display of ignorance. Anger bubbled up inside you, mixed with a deep sadness. These outsiders didn't understand. They didn't see that the lotus fruit, while powerful, was not a chain but a choice for many who came to your island seeking peace from their troubled pasts. You knew the stories well—of travelers and wanderers, lost souls who found solace on your shores, much like your own parents had.

You were a child of two lotus eaters who had discovered love and a new beginning amidst the island's gentle embrace. Unlike the outsiders' assumptions, you all lived in harmony, connecting deeply with each other's hearts and minds, a unity that was rare and precious.

Odysseus's words, though meant for Polites, echoed through the village, casting a shadow over the offered hospitality. The villagers' expressions shifted from welcome to wariness, their eyes reflecting a mix of hurt and disappointment.

The notion that your home, your culture, and your people were reduced to being labeled as 'useless' by those who knew nothing of your world cut deeply. It was a stark reminder of how the outside world viewed the lotus eaters—a place of forgetfulness and oblivion, not healing and community.

The tension in the village was palpable, a thick veil of unease that hung over the villagers, all felt but unseen by Odysseus and Polites. Polites, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, took a modest step forward, his head slightly bowed, exuding a sense of genuine remorse.

"Lotus eaters," Polites addressed the villagers with a tone full of sincerity, "I apologize for the misunderstanding. We, as soldiers, must remain vigilant and at our peak, which means we cannot partake in your lotus fruit." While his apology was sincere, it didn't sit well with the villagers. The fact that it was Polites apologizing, and not Odysseus—the one who had actually insulted the community—only intensified the villagers' resentment and frustration.

The villagers exchanged glances, questioning why the man who had caused the offense hadn't stepped forward to make amends himself.

Elder Kio, masking the village's collective discomfort with a practiced ease, responded, "The cave," he stated simply, his voice imbued with a reassuring calm that seemed to gently brush away the lingering tension.

Polites's interest piqued. "A cave! You're saying there's a cave where we could feast? Where might we find this food-filled cave?" His tone carried a mix of curiosity and relief.

Kio, with a gentle nod, extended his arm eastward, as if presenting a gift. "Eastward…There lies a cave you seek, abundant and generous, just as our village strives to be. It'll take 3 days and 2 nights to reach."

Gratitude washed over Polites's features, lighting them up with a grateful smile. "Thank you!" he exclaimed, his appreciation clear.

"You are most welcome," echoed the villagers, their chorus of voices a blend of politeness and restraint, a testament to their enduring hospitality even in the face of discomfort.

Kio then turned to you, his next words taking everyone by surprise—including you. "We also offer a guide's service to lead you there," he said, gesturing toward you. "She's the best on the entire island."

You felt a jolt of responsibility as all eyes turned to you. As Kio's gaze met yours, a silent message passed between you, clear and unmistakable. You could almost hear his unspoken strategy: 'Feed them to the beasts, since they want to behave as such.'

Understanding Kio's underlying intention, you stepped forward from the crowd, now the focus of Odysseus and Polites's attention. "I need just a moment to prepare," you told them, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts inside you. "Then, you'll guide me to your ship to gather more of your men before we start for the cave."

As you stepped out to meet Odysseus and Polites, their eyes landed on you, taking in your appearance for the first time. The tropical sun of your island home cast a warm glow on your rich brown skin, highlighting your beauty and the distinctiveness of your village's attire.

You stood there, embodying the spirit of your people with your attire that was both practical for the island's warmth and symbolic of your culture. Your outfit consisted of a dark brown loincloth, complementing your skin tone, paired with a bralette fashioned from sparkling beads that caught the light with every movement, signaling your status and style.

Your hair, a cascade of back-length, fuzzy locks, was adorned with beads whose colors denoted your age and status within the village. At 19, the azure and emerald beads woven into your hair were a vibrant mix, reflecting your youth and vigor, and marking you as one of the youngest warriors and hunters of your people.

Your arms bore white tattoos, striped patterns that ran up to your shoulders, interspersed with specks of blue and seafoam green, signifying your prowess and skill. Around your lower stomach and navel, intricate grayish designs sprawled, symbolizing your single status and fertility, a visual marker that you are of age and ready to bear children, aligning with the island's traditions and its deep-rooted connection to the cycles of life and continuity.

Beauty marks dotted gracefully along the bridge of your nose and over your cupid's bow, drawing attention to your face, enhancing your natural features, and expressing the unique blend of strength and elegance that characterized your presence.

Polites's reaction was immediate as his gaze swept over you; his brown cheeks flushed a slight shade of pink, a subtle but telling reaction to your striking appearance. There was an unmistakable look of admiration in his eyes, a clear indication that he found you to be perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. Under his breath, awestruck, he murmured a phrase that likened you to the goddess of beauty herself, "By Aphrodite's grace…" His words were a whisper, a testament to the impression you'd made on him, acknowledging your beauty as one that could rival the goddess's unparalleled allure.

Even Odysseus, whose heart was steadfastly anchored to Penelope, couldn't ignore the striking presence you radiated. While loyalty to his wife remained unshaken, he recognized the undeniable fact that your beauty was something extraordinary, a rare and captivating elegance, one that could easily stir the hearts of men and gods alike.

He thought to himself that your beauty was such that, were it known beyond this secluded island, it might provoke kingdoms to vie for your favor, much like they once did for Helen of Troy—igniting conflicts driven by desire and admiration.

You quickly made your way to your family's tent to collect the necessary items for the journey ahead. Inside the small, familiar space, you grabbed a satchel, packing it with essential items: a few lotus fruits, a canteen of water, a bow and arrows, and a knife, which you secured around your thigh. As part of the preparation, you began to apply dark paint to your face, a method used by your village's hunters to meld into the night, a tactic you knew would serve well in the environment you were about to navigate.

Your mother entered the tent, her face etched with concern. She understood the gravity of your task, her maternal instinct overshadowing the usual lotus-induced calm. "I know you can handle this," she said, her voice laced with a mix of pride and worry, "but be cautious around those soldiers. It's not the giants that I fear for you, but the company you'll be keeping on this journey."

Your heart softened at her words, touched by the depth of her concern. Your mother, with her gentle spirit and enduring strength, had faced her own harrowing journey before embracing the lotus's forgetful peace.

The fact that her past might include such dark experiences, particularly involving men, made her caution all the more touching. It was a reminder of the life she led before the island, the trials she endured, and the refuge she found among the lotus eaters. Her concern for you now, in the context of being alone with the soldiers, was a reflection of her own vulnerabilities and the protective love she held for you.

You met her gaze, your expression resolute, offering reassurance. "I'm the right person for this," you affirmed, echoing the confidence Kio placed in you. In a gesture steeped in your village's traditions, you pressed your forehead against hers, a moment of silent solidarity and affection that transcended words.

Pulling back with a smile, you reached into your satchel and gently placed a lotus fruit in her hand. She returned your smile, a gesture of mutual understanding and love, before consuming the fruit. Her eyes soon glazed over, a serene calm washing over her as the fruit's effects took hold, guiding her back to a blissful repose next to your father.

With a final, affectionate kiss on her forehead, you ensured she was comfortably resting before turning your attention back to the task at hand. Your face now marked for the hunt, your gear secured, and your heart steeled for what lay ahead, you stepped out of the tent with a determined stride, ready to confront whatever challenges awaited with Odysseus and Polites.

☆

☆

As you traversed the winding path with Odysseus and Polites, the latter seemed increasingly eager to engage with you, his intrigue clearly sparked by more than just your striking appearance. Polites's attempts at conversation were persistent, as he ventured to break through your focused demeanor with a series of stuttered, simple questions.

"So, um, do you… do you always assist with… such tasks?" Polites inquired, his voice wavering slightly as he sought to learn more about you.

You didn't immediately respond, your attention fixed on the journey ahead, but his persistent curiosity eventually drew your gaze. When your eyes finally met his, he was met with a flush of embarrassment, his cheeks turning a noticeable shade of red. He offered a shy, somewhat awkward smile, his hands fumbling with his shield in a nervous gesture, betraying his unease under your scrutinizing look.

"And, ah, the… the paint," he stumbled on his words again, gesturing vaguely towards your face, "Is it… for camouflage, or…?" His question trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air, incomplete.

You observed his flustered state for a moment, the warrior seemingly at odds with his usual battlefield composure, now unsettled by the simple act of conversing with you. His earnestness, juxtaposed with his bashfulness, painted a starkly different picture from the soldierly demeanor you'd expected.

Odysseus, observing his friend's futile efforts, couldn't help but interject with a scoff. "I'm not sure why you're bothering," he remarked to Polites, his voice tinged with a mix of amusement and disdain. "She's probably lost in the haze of lotus fruit, like the rest of them here."

This assumption ignited a spark of anger within you. Up until now, you had maintained a composed silence, but Odysseus's words struck a nerve. Turning to face him, your eyes flashed with indignation.

"How dare you," you began, your voice slicing through the tension like a blade, "judge us so arrogantly?" The words tumbled out, sharp and unrelenting. "Men like you—soldiers—are the very reason why so many seek refuge on this island. Some of us are survivors of village plunders, forced to witness the atrocities committed by armies, the horrors inflicted upon innocent lives."

Your gaze intensified, boring into his as you took in the full measure of the man before you. "You inflict unspeakable horrors and drape them in the guise of glory, yet you stand here, with blood still staining your hands, daring to pass judgment on us? On how we choose to heal our wounds?"

Odysseus's eyes shifted away under the weight of your accusation, a flicker of discomfort, perhaps even guilt, crossing his features as he was confronted with the stark mirror of his actions.

You paused, ensuring your next words hit home. "You know nothing of our resilience," you continued, your tone edged with a cold clarity, "And for your information, offspring of lotus eaters, like myself, aren't as affected by the fruit's power. We retain our minds, our memories, and, most importantly, our judgments."

The air hung heavy between you, charged with your spoken truths. Odysseus, now looking away, seemed momentarily lost for words, the usual confidence of the seasoned warrior faltering under the weight of your piercing glare and the bitter truths it conveyed.

In this moment of silence, Polites saw an opportunity to shift the atmosphere, perhaps lighten the heavy load of the conversation that had just transpired. He ventured to draw your attention away from the discomfort, eager to see a different side of you beyond the anger and the pain.

"So, uh…" Polites began, a cautious optimism in his voice, "Do the… lotus fruits taste like… regular fruits, or are they… different?" His question, awkward yet sincere, seemed to pierce through the lingering tension.

Your initial reaction was to maintain your guarded demeanor, but something about his genuine curiosity and the awkward earnestness in his attempt sparked a different response within you. A soft laugh escaped your lips, not mocking but genuine, a sound that seemed to momentarily lift the heavy cloak of your responsibilities and the grim realities of your world.

Polites's reaction was immediate; his smile widened, his cheeks flushed with a renewed sense of hope as he heard the lightness in your laughter. It was a sound, he realized, that he wanted to understand more, to hear again, not just as a distraction from the weight of the journey ahead but as a glimpse into the person you truly were beneath the warrior's exterior.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't so bad after all—a thought that, for a fleeting moment, allowed you to see him not just as a soldier from a foreign land but as a person capable of recognizing and respecting your humanity.

☆

☆

Over the two days spent guiding Odysseus, Polites, and the other Trojan guards to the cave, you noticed a shift in your own defenses. While Odysseus and his men maintained a distance, treating you with a detached wariness or outright indifference, Polites pursued a different path. His presence was a constant by your side, his demeanor gentle, marked by a curiosity that felt genuine and devoid of judgment.

His questions, simple yet insightful, sparked conversations you hadn't anticipated. "What's life like on the island for you?" he'd ask, or "Have you ever tried Pastelis?" His inquiries, far from the prying or strategic, seemed to stem from a place of genuine interest, a desire to understand your world and perhaps to find common ground.

Even when the group settled down for the night, Polites's attentiveness didn't wane. As the others succumbed to sleep or took up their watchful posts, he remained by your side, sharing stories under the blanket of stars. His tales of battles fought alongside Odysseus, of distant lands and fierce confrontations, offered a glimpse into his life beyond the armor and sword.

On one particularly windy night, as the campfire flickered and cast its glow on the weary faces of the slumbering soldiers, Polites drew closer to you. With a thoughtful gesture, he unfurled the cape attached to his armor and draped it around the both of you, creating a shared warmth against the chill of the night. There, beside the dwindling bonfire, with the sounds of the night around you and the rest of the troops lost in their dreams or watchful silence, a different kind of connection began to form.

The stories he told, imbued with his personal experiences, fears, and triumphs, resonated with you, bridging the gap between your worlds. His willingness to open up, to share the realities of his life beyond the battlefield, painted him in a more humane light, contrasting sharply with the silent, stoic figures of Odysseus and the other guards.

By the third day, with the cave's looming presence just a few hours away, your initial resolve began to waver. Polites' consistent kindness and attention gradually chipped away at the wall you had built around yourself; you found yourself engaging more with him, answering his questions, sharing glimpses of your life and views, which you hadn't expected to divulge. His attentive nature, so starkly different from the others', made you see him in a new light—not just as a soldier but as someone who might truly be seeking understanding and connection.

The thought of guiding them into potential danger, particularly the danger represented by the giants' cave, made you question not only your mission but also the potential consequences of your actions for him and his companions.

☆

☆

As the ominous entrance of the cave loomed in the distance, you halted atop a hill, the wind carrying your firm words to the group of soldiers. "This is where I leave you," you declared, your voice echoing a mix of duty and unease. "I must return to my village."

The soldiers, heeding your announcement, resumed their march toward the cave, but Polites faltered, his steps slowing as he turned to cast a lingering glance in your direction. Odysseus, noticing his friend's hesitation, paused, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

Polites's internal struggle was evident, torn between his obligations and the connection he felt with you. After a moment's contemplation, he jogged back to where you stood, his hand extended, revealing a small, shimmering coin. "This is an Ithaca gold coin," he explained as you examined the coin with a mix of curiosity and surprise. "Consider it a memento," he added, a gentle sincerity in his voice.

His next words were softer, imbued with a shy yet profound promise. "After we complete our journey, after I ensure Odysseus's safe return to his kingdom, I will come back for you," he vowed, his eyes searching yours for a reaction, revealing a budding warmth and longing.

In a fleeting moment, Polites leaned forward, his forehead gently pressing against yours, an intimate gesture that held significant meaning within your culture. You felt a surge of emotion, your heart fluttering with a blend of surprise and warmth, as you realized he not only remembered this detail from your conversations over the past three days but also understood its deep significance.

This forehead touch, a symbol of profound trust and affection, was reserved for those you hold dear, those you would trust with your life. The fact that Polites, a man from a world so different from your own, had not only remembered this but chose to express his farewell in such a manner, spoke volumes of his respect and growing affection for you.

Leaning back, Polites adds a tender kiss on your forehead; his hand then gently caressed the side of your face, a silent affirmation of the bond that had formed between you.

With a final, meaningful glance, Polites turned and hurried to rejoin his companions, leaving you with the weight of his promise and the gold coin in your hand. After Polites's departure, you stood there, the Ithacan coin clutched tightly against your chest, a tangible reminder of the connection you'd just acknowledged. Odysseus's gaze lingered on you, his expression one of contemplation and perhaps, newfound respect.

Defensively, feeling the intensity of his stare, you challenged him with a sharp "What?" Odysseus exhaled deeply, his sigh carrying the weight of realization and regret.

"May the gods bless you," he finally said, offering a small nod of acknowledgment, a gesture that seemed to convey his admission of having misjudged you and your people. It was an apology, unspoken but clear in his demeanor.

As he turned to leave, your name on his lips as a farewell, you found yourself compelled to act. "Odysseus," you called out, causing him to pause and look back. Approaching him with averted eyes, you reached into your satchel, the rustle of leaves underfoot marking your hesitant steps.

From your bag, you retrieved a lotus fruit, its familiar weight a contrast to the swirling emotions within you. Extending your hand, you offered the fruit to him, your voice a soft murmur, "Just in case you need it…" Your words trailed off, laden with an unspoken wish for his well-being, your gaze drifting past him, lingering on Polites. There he was, amidst his fellow soldiers, his laughter a bright sound in the dense forest, his smile a vivid image that tugged at your heartstrings.

With that silent offering, you turned away, leaving Odysseus to contemplate the fruit in his hand, his expression a mix of gratitude and confusion.

As you walked back to your village, the gold coin Polites had given you felt heavy in your hand, a symbol of promise and longing.

Your steps were slow, each one a reluctant move away from the hilltop and the cave, away from the man who had unexpectedly captured your heart. The promise of his return was a fragile thread of hope, and as the distance grew, you clung to it, letting the silent plea echo in your mind, a mantra to guide you through the days ahead…

Please come back to me, Polites...I'll be waiting.

**my babbyyyyyy pollie 🥹❤️❤️❤️

[aphroditesswan]

Thanks!

So I have a black butler idea that you probably won't like cause it is sabciel BUT it's completely platonic like it's a father figure situation and not romantic at all

I was thinking about Ciel having a nightmare and waking up and screaming or something and sabastian helping him calm down and stuff? I'm really bad at explaining things

little person

ciel & sebastian

warnings: night terrors, sebaciel shippers dni i will actually starting rolling around on the floor if those nasty proshippers start following me 

summary: ciel has always woken up from nightmares, usually falling asleep just a couple minutes later, but this time was slightly different.

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff ish

notes: i honestly did not know how to write this but this pushed me out of my comfort zone n it was so fun ALSO SORRY IVE BEEN LATE TO GET TO REQUEST my personal life is extremely busy, especially with family and school but i have this and another fic coming in 🙏🙏 

Being the Earl Phantomhive wasn’t easy. The only (living) person who could speak from experience is of course the Young Earl, Ciel. He hadn’t much experience, but he was determined. 

Determined and had his own help. 

Restless nights were nothing to Ciel. Ever since his parent’s passing, waking up in a cold sweat is nothing new to him. In fact, he’s rather surprised if he manages to get a good nights rest. 

He’s tried everything you could think of. Counting sheep, glasses of warm milk and tea to relax him, going through immense activities throughout the day to tire him. These all do nothing but make him wish for the bed that he so dreads sleeping in every night and curses in the morning. 

Now was one of those nights. Thrashing, shaking, shivering, throwing around the blanket, tossing and turning in every way he could on the ginormous mattress in a room that didn’t belong to him a couple years prior. 

His late parents room was a drastic change from his own. 

It was certainly larger. Which meant more space. More cold, empty space that he never knew how to fill. Being head of the household wasn’t easy, you weren’t a child anymore, you had no reason to fill your desolate room with little toys and fun nicknacks from various corners of the world. 

This nightmare, this one particular nightmare, haunted him like no other. One where he watches his parents, his home, everything he’s ever known burn to the ground. He dreads this dream, he waits eagerly for his body to wake itself up like it usually should. But it never does. 

He continues to watch his home burn and collapse, the smoke from the flames going into his lungs and making it hard to breathe, even in the dream. He can feel himself choking, gasping for air, sweating and panicking with every crackle of the oversized fire engulfing his manor. 

Suddenly, his world started shaking. His body, the trees around him, the entire scenery in his dream. 

Then he woke up. Finally, he thought. He was sweating, the chill of his still cold and empty room not providing any aid to his already chilly state. But he felt a hand on his shoulder, a gentle one akin to his father’s. 

“Young Master,, are you alright? You seem a bit shaken up.” 

He looked over, squinting his eyes to see the figure of his butler looming over his bed with a candle where he sat. 

“I’m,, I’m fine Sebastian.” He whispered out, for a moment forgetting this was his own manor where he could do what he wanted and speak how he wished. 

“Come with me, Young Master.” Sebastian stood up straight, walking a bit then turning to face the boy, waiting for him to get up and follow suit. 

For some reason, he wanted to, and he did. He stood up and walked behind Sebastian, following his own butler all the way down his own stairs. Sometimes he couldn’t believe that this was all his, that all of this was now under his name, not his father’s or grandfather’s or even a distant uncle’s. This was all his. 

He found himself in the kitchen. Looking around, watching Sebastian pouring a glass of warm chamomile tea. 

“Sebastian you know that’s no use.” He scoffed, all of this just a waste of time to him. “Now My Lord, we might as well try.” 

The young earl took the cup reluctantly, drinking just a bit of it. He felt his butler just gazing at him, so he drank more out of pure awkwardness. Not because he wanted to, not because he butler had graciously added sugar to his tea, not because he had faith he wouldn’t go to sleep just to wake up to another nightmare, but because his butler annoyed him with the staring. 

“There. Are you satisfied?” “Are you?” That was unprompted. What did that even mean? Ciel took a minute, just staring down into the cup with the tea leaves. Supposedly, they could read your future. He didn’t see much, he wasn’t trained in that field. He had also never believed in superstitions, even though an entire being whose existence defies humanity was standing only 3 maybe 4 feet in front of him. 

“Yes Sebastian, I am. Now take me to bed.” He huffed, setting down the cup onto the counter. “Are you positive, young master?” “Don’t question me, Sebastian.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He walked Ciel up the stairs, following two to three steps behind him with a candle and standing by the door once he got to his room. 

“Good night, my lord.” “Good night, Sebastian.” Ciel laid down, turning away from the door where Sebastian stayed for a moment, only a moment, before placing the candle down on the dresser. He bowed, although Ciel couldn’t see it, and shut the door. Ciel listened for the footsteps, hearing the clicking of shoes descend the stairs. He sat up, looking at the candle through the corner of his eyes. He wondered how such a small flame, something so minuscule compared to his still small stature, could take away everything he had ever known. He was there when his parents had passed, and there will be someone to watch him die as well.

im so sorry my req have been taking so longgg i’ve been so busy with christmas shopping and finals and studying but consider this and another fic that’s coming out BEFORE CHRISTMAS as a present 🥲🙏

[violet-shadows]

I’d do anything for you.

Summary: Cassian will do anything to make his mate happy, even if it means sacrificing his own comfort.

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Cassian x Reader

Warnings: mention of non-violent, non-graphic death of a pet

A/N: So I find I really enjoy writing for Cassian. Tbh I was a little unsure about this one but hopefully, you like it. As always, I’m open to feedback, prompts, and general chitchat. Drop me a line!

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰ 

You were young when your powers first manifested.  Your mother had already put you to bed, drawing the curtains to hold in the heat and try to block out the howling wind. You were drifting in the twilight state between wake and sleep when you heard it, or rather, felt it. It started as a pit in your stomach, a sense of dread that didn’t quite belong to you. Then, you were shivering, the icy wind outside chilling you to the bone, despite the warmth underneath your covers. Before you could comprehend what you were feeling, you were out of bed and donning your coat and boots as quietly as you could manage. You slipped into the blinding snowstorm, the strange pull inside of you guiding your steps.

You found the source of your unease at the edge of the woods, huddled at the base of a great conifer tree. The faelights from your home provided just enough light for you to see two wide blue eyes peeking out from a snow-covered lump. It was a puppy, only just weaned, with fuzzy white and grey fur like the sled dogs bred in some parts of your court. When your eyes met hers, a message, crystal clear yet entirely unspoken, was relayed.

Help me.

And help her you did, your parents had been furious at first, but as time went on, they began to realize that your affinity for animals went beyond ordinary affection. It wasn’t so much that you could talk to the animals, for your languages and means of communicating were wholly mismatched, but, somehow, you could understand them. You could parse their needs, their emotions, and, if enough trust was established between the two of you, they might share a snippet or two of their experience, not unlike the way daemati could show memories to others. The puppy, who you named Selene, was the first animal with whom you shared a close connection. By the time her natural life came to an end two decades later, the two of you had long since learned to share information with ease, your communication as natural as thinking or breathing.

Other animals came in and out of your life. The birds and squirrels around your home would whisper their thanks when you brought them food, and in exchange, they would alert you to changes in the surrounding woods. The power, while rare, was not of particular political or defensive value, so most Fae regarded it as a novelty if nothing else. The newly minted High Lord of the Night Court, however, thought otherwise. Before meeting Rhysand, the extent of your communication with animals was largely idle chatter. But while others saw an oddity, Rhys saw potential. Under his tutelage, your ability to receive and convey messages with various creatures grew, and it was through the experience that your found ways to leverage your power for good. Animals, especially small, common creatures like birds or squirrels, or rats, are never thought of as threats to privacy. So, the creatures you had befriended were audience to private matters, and through your unique connection, they shared secrets of great political value.

It was through these activities that you became a permanent fixture in the Night Court’s Inner Circle, a makeshift family in which you also found your mate. When you first met Cassian, you were deep in mourning over your last close companion, a raven you met as a fledgling named Icarus. He remained your constant companion throughout his unusually long life, but eventually, time came for him, as it did with all mortal creatures. The loss of Icarus, who you had come to think of as more of a friend and confidant than a pet, had devastated you. Coupled with your newfound mating bond and role in the Night Court, you decided you would endeavor to keep animals at a distance, not allowing anyone to stick around too long, lest it endear itself to you once more.

You kept that promise to yourself for a long time, finding that your bond with Cassian helped to fill the void of loneliness that crept up when you lost your companions. Sure, you had a fondness for the creatures you spoke to regularly but avoided forming a deep connection as you had with Selene and Icarus. Then, less than a year since the period of peace had begun, on a chilly autumn day in Velaris, you felt it again. The tug was not uncommon, as the animals that knew you could reach out over that indescribable bridge to grab your attention when they needed it. This feeling, however, was strong and tinged with desperation, reminiscent of a cold winter night all those years ago when you found Selene.

You found her huddled in an alleyway, among some discarded crates and trash. Grey and white with familiar blue eyes, except this time, in the form of a tiny, malnourished kitten. She was weak and flea-bitten, and when she stood to crawl to you, she swayed on her feet. You were whisking her to your apartment in an instant, her cry for help piercing your core. The first night, you weren’t sure she would make it. She was dehydrated and skinny, her gums pale and skin cold to the touch. You spent the evening next to the hearth, picking fleas out of her downy fur and coaxing her to drink milk. Your plans of avoiding attachment went out the window in an instant as you whispered words of comfort throughout the arduous night, willing the little feline to fight.

And fight she did. Over the next two weeks, the kitten became your constant shadow as she put on weight and built-up strength. The line of communication between the two of you was unusually well developed, and at times, when she whispered her whims into your mind, you could swear it felt like Selene was at your side. When Cassian came home from the camps, you were giddy with excitement. You couldn’t wait to introduce your mate to your new friend, who had taken up residence at the foot of your shared bed. In the weeks since you found her, you had resisted the urge to give her a name, intent on having Cassian involved in the decision. After all, she would be living in his home for the foreseeable future.

When Cassian returned, you all but dragged him to your apartment, babbling excitedly about the creature you had quickly come to adore. Cassian was grinning from ear to ear, your own elation reflected on his face. He had seen the way your previous losses had affected you, especially after the bond snapped. He felt the twinge of longing when you watched birds soaring over the streets of Velaris. He felt the ache when you heard wolves howl while visiting the cabin. He knew, perhaps more than you did, how much you missed the unique friendship you formed with some animals. When you told him of your new discovery, his heart soared. Throughout the week, he had received bits of your joy down the bond, little pulses of sunlight that made his time away from you slightly more bearable. It was only when you dragged him into the house, fingers interlaced with his, that his smile momentarily faltered.

A kitten. Your new pet was a cat.

The General was quick to conceal his alarm, his smile returning as you looked back at him, cuddling the fuzzy creature to your chest. It wasn’t that he didn’t find her adorable, quite the contrary, in fact. The picture of you grinning in the afternoon sunlight and cooing softly made his chest constrict in a way he would never admit to his brothers. His apprehension, rather, came from his previous experience with cats.

In Illyria, Rhys’s mother’s cabin developed a rat problem one spring and the solution was a big, white mouser borrowed from a local farm. The cat had stayed with them for three weeks and in that time, Cassian quickly learned he was very, very allergic to cats. Still unendingly grateful for the grace Rhys’s mother had shown him, Cassian didn’t say anything about the constant itch of his skin or his watering eyes. It wasn’t until he woke up one morning with his eyes nearly swollen shut that the truth came out and the cat was returned to its post at the farm.

He thought about telling you for a brief moment, but the look on your face stalled him. You were selfless, so very selfless, and he knew if he told you that you would find the kitten a new home for his sake. Simply picturing your smile fall at the news had him resolving not to tell you. You would be devastated, and he would itch and sneeze and sniffle for an eternity before he would cause you pain.

So, he ignored the tickle in his throat when you thrust the little fuzzball into his arms. The two of you decided on the name Celeste, a tribute to the court you now called home, and it wasn’t long before Cassian’s affection for the animal matched your own. For the first three weeks, he was able to hide his symptoms from you. At night, when you readied yourself for bed in the bathing room, he would quickly swap out his pillowcase for a one not covered in cat hair before shooing Celeste into the hallway, lest she get too close to his face in the night. During the day, he spent as much time as possible out of the house, making excuses to bring you with him to places unsuitable for a kitten. When Rhys and Azriel learned of your new pet, he’d practically screamed at Rhys in his mind to keep him from saying anything. The two shared a knowing smirk but dutifully kept his secret.

For nearly a month, Cassian kept his allergies a secret, blaming cold weather or dust when you did catch him in a sneezing fit. It wasn’t until he woke up one morning with Celeste sleeping on his chest that the truth came to light.

“Cassian!” He startled awake, sensing your alarm through the bond before you even spoke his name. His movement was quick enough to send the cat scrambling off of him as he jumped to his feet, his hand on the dagger he kept under the mattress in an instant.

“What’s wrong?” When he was sure there was no immediate threat in the room, he took to examining you for injuries.

“Your face!” The response puzzled him, his sleep-addled mind still reeling from the rude awakening. Were you calling him ugly? “Your eyes! They’re swollen. Are you sick? Do you feel okay?”

It was only then that Cassian realized just how itchy he was. The skin on his chest and face was splotchy, red welts broken out where the Celeste had slumbered. His eyes were indeed swollen and itchy beyond belief. It was worse than visiting the Spring Court, Tamlin and all. Still, he thought of the alternative, of the guilt and grief the truth would cause you and he scrambled to come up with an explanation.

“I—uh, it’s probably just the pollen.” He stammered.

“It’s nearly winter, Cas.” You raised an eyebrow incredulously, the concern not leaving your features. Cassian rubbed the back of his neck nervously and you leaned forward, taking one hand in yours. “You’re not telling me something.”

It wasn’t quite an accusation, but keeping something from you, even for your own benefit, didn’t sit right with Cassian. He sighed, his gaze fixing on where your hands connected and spoke. “I didn’t want to tell you, and it’s really not that bad but I’m sort of… a little bit… allergic to cats.”

Your eyes went wide at the realization, and you quickly snatched up Celeste who had since returned to her spot on the bed, gently depositing her outside the door before returning to your mate. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I saw how happy she makes you; I didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t keep her.” You opened your mouth to rebuttal, your eyes slightly glassy, and Cassian’s heart sunk to his stomach. “But it’s really not that bad, sweetheart. She can stay. I want her to stay.”

“Cas, it is bad. You’re miserable and I’ve been completely oblivious.” The look on your face when you spoke broke Cassian’s heart and he silently cursed himself for his inability to lie to you.

“Please, sweetheart. I don’t want you to send her away. I will be itchy for the rest of my life if it means you’re happy.” His tone was pleading, and you could have laughed were it not for you’re the pit in your stomach. He should have been asking you to find a new home for the kitten, but your generous, stubborn mate was instead advocating for the source of his discomfort to remain if only to make you happy.

You went back and forth on the matter as you flitted about the bedroom, pressing a cold compress to Cassian’s face while you removed everything Celeste had touched, hoping to ease his symptoms. By the time Cassian had to leave for a meeting, his eyes were nearly back to normal and his skin was significantly less red, but you didn’t miss how he scratched at it when he thought you weren’t looking. When he left, he pressed a kiss on your forehead and said again, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I like her too. We should keep her.”

Despite Cassian’s insistence, you spent the day contemplating how you would find your beloved pet a new home. Despite the grief you felt at being separated from her, it wasn’t reasonable to expect your mate to tolerate his allergies for the next twenty years, even if he would gladly do so for you. You waited until he was gone to cry, allowing yourself a few moments of private grief before you set off to begin asking some friends if they would be interested in a new pet.

When you returned home at the end of the day, you did so with a heavy heart. A friend of a friend who owned a book shop on the Rainbow had recently lost her cat and was more than willing to take in Celeste. Tomorrow, you would pack up her things and bring her there. You thought about how you would tell the kitten the whole walk home. How would you explain that you were bringing her somewhere else to live? How would she feel about living with someone who couldn’t understand her the way you could? Would she feel abandoned? Rejected? By the time you stepped in the door, the tears had returned. You picked her up when she greeted you, stroking her silken fur while you blubbered. It wasn’t until he had crossed the room and placed his hands on your shoulders that you registered Cassian’s presence.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He looked alarmed as he asked, a calloused hand coming up to wipe away your tears. You thought about lying to spare his guilt, but in the moment, you could conjure no excuse.

“I’m just a little sad,” you croaked. “I shouldn’t be. I found someone to take her. It’s a great home.”

To your surprise, Cassian smiled, an excited gleam in his hazel eyes. “Tell them you’re keeping her.” You opened your mouth the argue but Cassian continued, “I talked to Madja. She got me a potion to treat the allergies. I already tested it out and it works! She can stay!”

Your heart pounded, hope blooming in your chest as your mate smiled down at you. “Here, watch this.” Before you could protest, Cassian was hauling Celeste out of your arms and rubbing the bewildered feline on his face. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight and soon Cassian was joining you. True to his word, his eyes did not swell at the contact and no red splotches appeared on his skin. He kept Celeste settled in the crook of his arm, his soft smile turning into a grin when she purred affectionately. “Madja said that over time, I might not even need the potion.”

Your heart could have burst at the tender moment. To think that your mate was willing to hide his misery just to make you happy, then sought out a solution to alleviate your guilt, was enough to bring tears to your eyes. “It really works?” you asked, and he nodded enthusiastically, bowing his head to smile down at his new pet. “You’ll tell me if it stops working, right?”

“I will.” He glanced up, catching sight of the tears in your eyes, and his eyebrow furrowed. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You let out a choked laugh, stepping forward to wrap your arms around your mate. “Nothing’s wrong,” Cassian’s free arm wrapped around your waist, and you added, “everything is perfect, actually. I just… I can’t believe you went through all that trouble just to make me happy…”

His wings came around you then, wrapping you and Celeste in a warm embrace and he smiled, his eyes filling with sincerity. “Of course,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead and continued, “I’d do anything for you, sweetheart.”

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

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[upsidedownwithsteve]

The Eleventh Day Of Christmas

Eddie Munson x fem!reader [1.2K]

Honestly? You were pretty sure you wouldn’t have found Eddie if you hadn't managed to catch Wayne before he left the trailer.

You’d pulled up outside the Munson residence just before ten o’clock, the night dark and icy, the kind that made your bones ache with the chill in the air. Wayne was locking up the dark trailer, his truck already running in a half hearted bid to warm it up before he drove to another night shift.

But Eddie’s van was sitting beside it, the windows frosted over - which made no sense when the trailer looked so vacant.

You half ran to the older man as you left your car door open, the crunch of ice under your feet as you walked across the grass. “Hi! Mr Munson?”

Wayne looked surprised to see you, eyebrows lifting in confusion before he walked down the steps and greeted you with a warm smile. “Hey, kid, what’re you doing here?”

“Is Eddie around?” You asked, already feeling like you knew the answer. There was no sound to be heard from the trailer, no TV, no stereo, no faint guitar.

Wayne looked sympathetic, keys twirling in his hand as he sighed. “Uh, I haven’t seen him for an hour or two, but he’ll turn up.” The older man moved to his truck, his hand on the door. “It’s rough this time of year, y’know? The boy - Eddie - he gets, he gets a little down. Misses people who aren’t around anymore.”

Wayne was squinting at you, shoulders tense and his smile was sad, as if he understood Eddie because he felt the same, both mourning a woman who wasn’t there to share the holidays with them anymore.

So you nodded and tried to swallow the lump in your throat, smiling back at the man a little watery. And just before Wayne left for work, he rolled down his truck window and gave you another world weary sigh.

“If you wanna take a walk down that way,” he pointed towards the back of the trailer park. “You can usually find him lurking somewhere he shouldn’t be.”

A glimmer of hope warmed your chest and you took a breath and held it, as if you were scared to let that feeling go. But you turned to Wayne and smiled, nodding. “Thank you, Mr Munson.”

He rolled his eyes before he drove off, engine groaning in protest as the truck started to move. “It’s Wayne,” he scolded you, “I’ve told you plenty times. And hey! Merry Christmas, kid, look after my boy for me.”

You found Eddie in the direction Wayne had pointed you in, his lean frame sprawled out on the roof of an empty trailer. He was bathed in the coloured lights of its neighbour, tiny jewel toned bulbs that were strung around the window frames, the trees in the yard.

You took the same route up that Eddie must’ve, following his footprints in the frost as you clambered onto the deck railing, ready to haul yourself onto the flat roof.

A hand appeared before you could embarrass yourself, a pretty face to match as Eddie’s crinkled brow and concerned eyes peered over the edge at you.

“Sweetheart, what the hell?” Eddie asked but he helped you up all the same, practically lifting you himself so you didn’t have to put your hands onto the icy metal. “What’re you doing here?”

“S’Christmas Eve, Teddy.”

You huffed as you stood a little shakily, the flat roof much higher than it seemed from the ground. So you kept your hand in the boy’s and squeezed it a little tighter, moving into him and away from the edge.

“I know, babe,” Eddie replied softly, tugging you into him. “So why aren’t you with your family, huh?”

You looked up at him with sad eyes and a furrowed brow, wanting to ask him the same. You knew money was tight in the Munson household, both men working as many jobs as they could, whenever they could to keep themselves going. You knew Wayne needed the overtime, you didn’t judge him for that. It just hurt a little to think that Eddie thought the older man was the only family he had.

“I wanted to see you,” you told him and god, he couldn’t be mad at that, could he? Not when you were looking at him with pretty, pretty eyes and an even prettier smile - shy and soft and lifted a little higher on the right side. “That’s okay, right?”

Eddie let out a huff of breath, smiling and turning a little pink around his cheeks. Maybe it was the cold you thought, stinging at his skin. Or maybe, maybe, it was you.

“‘Course it is, babe.”

You followed when Eddie took a step back, his hand still holding yours and he coaxed you back to where you’d first seen him lying, his leather jacket the only thing protecting him from the cold metal roof. He motioned for you to lie on it, his own sweater not doing much to protect him from the ice but he waved away your arguments before you could even open your mouth.

“It’s cold, Eddie, you must be freezing,” you admonished softly, but you lay down anyway, side by side and curling into him. He was all smoke and pine, sugar and warm spice. “It is freezing.”

“S’pretty though, right?” Eddie grinned in response. He pointed up, “see?”

And it was pretty, the stars laid out in the dark sky like another set of Christmas lights, white dots in the inky black. You followed his finger, the like of specks that made up the big dipper, another constellation that Eddie said he didn’t know the name of but liked all the same.

“You do this every Christmas Eve?” You asked quietly, scared to break the bubble of quiet. Your breath froze in the air, a huff of glitter out of your mouth. “Alone?”

Eddie shrugged, still looking up even though you were looking at him. If he blinked, maybe a tear would’ve escaped, a hot trail on cold cheeks.

“Sometimes,” he smiled but it was still a little sad. “S’nice, y’know? Quiet, pretty. I get to say hello to some people I don’t get to talk to all the time. Jus’ a little Christmas tradition.”

You turned onto your side to needle your arm through Eddie’s, chin tucked onto his shoulder, nose pressed to his neck. You breathed him in, lips on his skin and you felt him relax.

“It is pretty,” you agreed, ‘cause the stars in the sky and the lights around the park made everything glow and Eddie Munson had never looked lovelier than under the Milky Way. “But maybe next year, you can come and get me first?”

Eddie could hear the uncertainty in your voice, quiet and too soft, almost going unheard over the rush of a sudden chilly breeze. But he turned to you and smiled, wide, warm palm finding your leg and squeezing.

He nodded, tilting his chin down to brush his lips over your hairline, a reassurance to you as much as it was to him.

“I’d like that,” he whispered.

“I could bring hot chocolate,” you told him, pushing yourself into his touch, his warmth even more. “And a blanket, ‘cause this isn’t very well planned out, Teddy.”

He snorted at your chiding, but he rolled until he hovered over you, elbows pressed to the roof on either side of your head. He looked much happier than before, eyes brighter, smile more genuine. And he nodded, nose bumping yours as he moved.

“Okay,” he agreed, “smart girl, we can do that. Next year.”

[stat1cstarz]

🫧HOUSE OF WAX | MERMAID AU | SERIES|🫧

A/N:Their is still no title,and I don’t wanna just call it the little mermaid, so this will be the title for now! And yes, you’re apart of the royal family

Warnings:None

Genre:Fluff

Prologue:

A large shipped sailed over the briny depths, a wooden giant, carrying hundreds of men. The Captain, Gunther, and his companions. Bo, a skilled fisherman, famous for discovering countless of fish, even a close relative of the kraken. Even though it was probably untrue, he was the professional and many people believed it. The third, Bo’s little brother Lester, was a poor farmer, who lived on the outside of France. He had a wife and a few kids, and who merely survived on what few animals he had, as well as the vegetables and fruit his wife worked on that weren’t rotten.

Lester and Bo relied heavily upon Bo’s twin and Lester’s older brother, Vincent. A famous artist that owned a huge museum in Paris, and an estate on a nearby island. He was his brothers only source of income, when waters were frozen over with Crystal water, or the orange trees and chilled air stopped food from growing. The ship was littered with many other crew mates, ones that the heads didn’t care to remember, some even went hungry if they weren’t memorable. The ship had been sailing for a while, Bo was currently managing the net, Lester was cooking in the canteen, and Vincent was drinking with the captain in his study. A black sheet fell over the merfolk and the people on the top of the sea, encouraging everyone to eat dinner and go to bed. The anchor was dropped, and dug into the sand, coming close to a coral reef

————————

You were exploring the same coral reef, you followed the ship for a while, the humans truly fascinated you, their way of life seemed so relaxing, not having to deal with huge squids and sharks. They got to walk on two.. fleshy sticks..legs? You wanted to be one of them, but you knew that if your family found out you went against their orders, you’d be exiled, you had to come up with a plan, but for now, you would only admire from afar. The anchor fell from the sky, almost crushing you, you had to swim out of the way as fast as possible, so you or your tail wouldn’t be crushed under its weight. The coral reef was pretty much destroyed, broken coral floating around, as the ship stilled for the night.You got an idea, a dumb one of course, but an idea nonetheless, you swam up to the surface, wanting to look at the ship. You swam up as fast as possible, your tail flapping behind you, as you reached the surface.

You couldn’t stay up there for long, knowing your gills wouldn’t allow it, so you stopped at a rock, allowing you easy access to the ocean, you laid yourself on it, watching the ship. Some of the men were still awake, probably drinking, while everyone else was in the sleeping quarters. Vincent however, was sat on the bow of the ship, a sketchbook and pencil firmly clasped in his strong hands, and his long legs dangled over the sides. His raven hair was in a tight braid that fell down his back, a small rope secured it, as he was drawing on the paper. He looked beautiful in the moonlight, the bright stars enhanced his dark red scaring.

“Vincent” a crewman yelled, holding a harpoon over his shoulder. The man walked closer to Vincent, and because of the harpoon, you went back into the ocean. The men both noticed the splashing water by the rocks, but believed it to just be a manatee or something. They decided that it was time to go to bed, and hurried to the sleeping quarters, while you were heading back to the castle, you were hoping that your dad wasn’t up, or your sisters. Once you were finally back, you took a moment to catch your breath, leaning against a pole in the castle. Once you weren’t tired, you headed up to your bedroom. The bedroom includes a giant shell as a bed, with a full set of bedding, and a lavender blanket, and matching pillows. There was also a vanity sat in the corner, and a nightstand next to your bed. You pulled your blanket and sheets back, and climbed under, and let your head fall upon the soft pillows.

You woke up pretty early, from your father standing at your door with a bell. “Wake up Y/N, breakfast is ready.” He said, ringing the silver bell. You woke up from the loud ringing, and sat up, stretching. “I’m up, and thank you for making breakfast” you told him, getting up to adjust your bed, and swimming past him. You met your sisters downstairs in the dining hall, who were already busy eating, seemed to be shrimp and octopus. You found your seat and followed suit, you weren’t really focused on breakfast, though. You were to entranced on the man you saw last night, how badly you wanted to play with his long hair, or use his pecs as a pillow. The sister next to you started snapping to get your attention. “Y/N, eat your food, the hunters worked really hard to get it”, S/1 told you, annoyed at you. “Ok, I apologize. I just saw a man last night, and I can’t stop thinking about him.” You replied, you were sure their were love hearts in your eyes, as you began to chew on a tentacle. “Who’s the lucky man?” S/2 replied, jokingly raising her eyebrows, as most of the sisters were cleaning up. “I don’t know his name, but he’s a human I think” you said dreamily, causing both of your sisters to choke on their food. “Girls, is everything alright over here?” Your father appeared from behind you, his hand resting on your sisters head. Once sister gave a thumbs up, while she was downing her drink. “Everything’s alright father, don’t worry” you said, feeling your heart drop.

“Alright, but please follow me to my chair, I need to talk to you.” He told you, as he swam to the throne room. You followed behind him, as he sat in his chair. You sat on the chair closest to him, so you could hear what he says. He loudly cleared his throat, before he began speaking. “Y/N, how’d you meet this human?” He asked you, his brows furrowed. “You heard?” You replied, anxious. “Of course I did, now answer the question” he told you. “I went to surface, and saw a ship.” You said, fidgeting with your fingers, as an angry expression tainted his face. “I told you that you were forbidden from going to the surface, and you still go. Do you not know how tiring that is?” He said angrily. “I’ll have Sebastian watch over you, to make sure you don’t go anywhere near that man or the surface again, do you understand?”, you nodded in agreement, as you saw Sebastian swim as fast as possible. He landed on your shoulder, noticing your fathers look. “I came as soon as I heard my name..oh” he knew what was going on, and wasn’t ready to deal with it, but he knew it was his job. “Sebastian, can you please watch over them, they’re a bit rambunctious.” Your father said, and Sebastian reluctantly agreed. “Alright your majesty, I got her in between my claws” he joked, a raspy laugh leaving his mouth. “Y/N, please follow me?” He asked you, and you agreed.

You followed him to your bedroom, where you both sat on your bed, with a golden brush in his big claw. He sat atop your head, brushing your locks, while he allowed you to speak. “Y/N, you mind telling me what was going on?” He asked you, detangling your hair. “I saw a very beautiful man, he had long hair” you said quietly, causing Sebastian to squeal “Who is he?” He asked, excitedly. “He’s a human” you said ashamed. “Oh child, why do you have to be so difficult, theirs plenty of merfolk desperate to marry you” he said, trying to be convincing. “But I don’t want them, I want him” you said. “You don’t even know his name child” he told you. “I’ll learn it than” you said, swimming off, causing him and the brush to fall off your head.

[middleearthpixie]

Something in the Night ~ Chapter Seven

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a seriously wounded Thorin Oakenshield returns to Erebor to recuperate and eventually ascend the throne as king. With the deaths of Azog the Defiler and his son, Bolg, Thorin no longer has to worry about the bounty the Defiler placed on his head and can instead concentrate on restoring Erebor to its former glory. 

Nina Carren of Esgaroth has one goal—to make Thorin Oakenshield pay for unleashing Smaug the dragon unto her home—where he destroyed the town and killed her family. The Defiler might be gone, but his bounty remains very much in place, and she fully intends to collect on it. 

Finally, the opportunity shows itself for her to do just that, only to have it go horribly awry. Wounded and now at his mercy, neither Nina nor Thorin stopped to think what might happen, should things not go quite according to plan…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Nina Carren

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.6k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @fizzyxcustard @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @legolasbadass @lathalea @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @knittastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @msjava1972 @glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @sazzlep

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here. 

By nightfall, they’d set up camp at the base of the mountains, nestled among the rocks, on a bit of a rise so any trouble would be seen before it became a problem. Thorin sat back against a smooth slab of stone, staring off into the distance. It was most likely his imagination, but he thought the lights that shone as pinpricks on the horizon might be the lights of Rivendell. It was hard to know for certain, as the Southeast Passage twisted and turned, rose and fell, until if it wasn't for the sun’s dependability, he would have no clue as to where exactly they were.

A small fire crackled softly, taking the chill from the night air. They’d had a simple supper of hunter’s stew that the Rivendell kitchens had sent with them and now Dwalin dozed in his bedroll across from where Thorin sat. 

Nina sank onto the slab beside him and nodded toward the sleeping Dwalin. “Your friend does not like me.”

“He is gruff, is all.”

“Gruff?” She shook her head and he didn't miss the hint of a grin pulling at her lips. “Gruff is not what I would call it. I’m surprised he didn't jump up and lunge at me the moment I sat here.”

“He is my second, and watching over me is part of his job.” Thorin shrugged, looking down at the scraggly tree branch he had been in process of stripping. Bark curled away from it, revealing the soft green shade of wood that had broken from its tree only recently. “He sees himself as my keeper as a result.”

“I have to admit,” she met his gaze directly, “I should think a king would travel with more security.”

“I probably should,” he nodded, “but to be honest, sometimes, it is suffocating, always being under someone’s watchful eye.”

“True. But you’re their leader.”

He peeled off another strip of bark, which curled as it hit the dirt at his feet. “For what it’s worth, yes. But there are times if I wonder—”

She waited a moment, her eyes glittering like emeralds in the firelight, and when he just stared down at the stick, she said, “You wonder what?”

“It is of no matter,” he told her, tossing the stick to the ground before getting to his feet. It wouldn’t do to confide in this woman. She might have saved his life, but he knew nothing about her, nothing he could verify anyway, and although gruff was Dwalin’s baseline, even he normally thawed much more quickly than this. So, he would do well to follow Dwalin’s lead and eye Nina with at least a little suspicion and distrust. 

With that, he climbed back down from the rocks, waiting for her to call out to him and ask him where he was going. 

But she didn’t. Good. He hardly felt like talking any longer. Instead, he move down away from the rocks, toward a gentle slope where hearty pine trees refused to cry quarter. A hint of pine hung in the air, and with it, a hint of smoke.

He hated the smell of smoke. It brought rushing back memories he’d rather let rot in the deepest, dankest recesses of his mind. Even fire bothered him to a certain degree, although the fire crackling softly back where Dwalin slept was not about to consume them or the mountains or anything other than the sticks, brush, and leaves that made up its fuel. But, he didn't like to sit too close to the flames, and it didn't take much for even the heat to irritate him, before it gave him the urge to stand and move as far away as he could from it. 

But that wasn’t all that troubled him. As he moved closer to the line of conifers, he felt Nina’s eyes boring into his back, just between his shoulder blades. It wasn't the first time since they’d left Rivendell he’d had the feeling she watched him. And not only watched him, but studied him. 

Then there was that feeling he had seen her somewhere before. Each time he glanced over at her, the feeling grew stronger. Trouble was, he couldn’t figure out where he might have seen her. She was no dwarf, nor was she an elf. 

She was of Man.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Thorin stared off into the darkness, where his eyes tried to fool him into thinking the trees were orcs, or goblins, or any of the friends and family he’d lost over time. The gentle breeze that swept through the pine needles whispered softly in their voices, reminding him that no matter what, they were always with him. 

As peaceful as that light breeze was, as calming as the star-spangled night sky above him might be, his mind simply would not let him savor tranquility of any sort. Nina Carren was of Man. And she might claim to be from a village ‘west of Bree,’ but he had the feeling she was not telling them the whole truth. 

She did not have the wary look the people of Bree and their ilk did. She kept to herself, from what he’d seen the brief time they were in Rivendell, but she did not seem to favor the shadows or hug walls as she moved through the corridors. She did not have the careworn look that came from a hard scrabble life that the Men of that part of Middle Earth all seemed to share. 

The breeze picked up, carrying the hoot of a lone owl that reverberated about them. Where could he have seen her before? She certainly couldn't be from Dale. Although there were people living in Dale now, they were mostly people from Esgaroth and—

Esgaroth.

She could be from the town on the Long Lake. It had been fully populated when he and the Company arrived, thanks to Bard the Bowman, who was currently the master of Dale whilst Esgaroth was rebuilt. 

But why would a woman of Esgaroth be all the way out in these parts? After Esgaroth’s destruction at the mouth of Smaug, those who survived settled in Dale, rebuilding it into the thriving city it once was as well.

Still… 

“Is something there?”

He hadn’t heard Nina come up behind him, but he managed to keep from jumping at the unexpected sound of her husky voice. “No,” he shook his head, “nothing I can see.”

“So why do you stare?”

“I’m not staring.” He glanced down at her. “I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing you need worry about.” 

“Who said I was worried? I simply do not like being caught off-guard.”

“Then you have no need to worry. As I said, I’m merely thinking and by that, I mean letting my mind wander a bit.”

“You don’t seem the sort to engage in such things.”

“I don't seem the sort… No, I don’t suppose I do. But, just as anyone else needs a bit of respite, I am no different.”

“Take care,” she told him, her voice low but stern, “it can be dangerous to let your mind wander too far.”

“I’ll try to keep it in mind. So, tell me,” he said, turning his gaze back to the woods once more, “how did you come to be in that clearing at that particular time?”

“The same way you did, I supposed,” she told him without hesitation. “I was traveling.”

“To where, though? For I know it was not Rivendell.”

“Are you so certain?” Her voice was mild. “I was, in fact, making my way there. In search of work.”

“Work?” Now he turned to her. “What sort of work?”

“I take whatever I might find,” she replied with a lazy shrug. “I have to eat, don’t I?”

“So you thought to find employment in Rivendell?”

“I had hoped I might, yes. The worst they could have done was sent me on my way.” Another lazy shrug. “Everyone knows Lord Elrond would not have me imprisoned for asking for work. He most likely would have offered me lodging for the night and sent me on my way the next morning.”

She had him there. Elrond would not necessarily be troubled by a small girl appearing on his doorstep in search of work. He was no closer to figuring out where he might recognize her from and she was far too clever to give up the answers. 

But perhaps another tact would work.

“What sort of work do you do?”

“Whatever I can find.” The owl went silent and the breeze grew cooler as the night’s chill crept into it. Nina’s curls danced on that breeze, tugging free from whatever pins she tucked into her hair. In the pale glow of the silvery moon, those curls glinted copper as they floated about her face, which was almost as pale as the moon itself.

“Such as?”

“Why do you care how I support myself?” Her eyes narrowed as she stared up at him. “It is no concern of yours.”

“I am but curious.” He fought to keep his expression neutral and his voice even. “It appears to be a sensitive subject for you and I wonder why, is all.”

“Because my life is none of your concern. I’ve a job here and—”

“A job?” Now he smiled. “Am I paying you? Because I recall no such bargain.”

“I offered and you accepted and that means—” Her cheeks grew red as she visibly swallowed. 

“That means what, Miss Nina?”

“You—well… I thought… that is…”

“You never mentioned payment and no price was agreed upon.” He folded his arms across his chest and gazed down at her. “Was it?”

“No,” she murmured with a slow shake of her head, “I don't suppose it was.”

“No, it was not.” He tapped his forefinger against his forearm. “So, tell me again why you were out there, for I do not believe for one moment you were seeking employment at Rivendell.”

Nina could only barely hear Thorin’s voice over the thunder of her pulse pounding through her ears. You fool! You never thought to discuss payment for accompanying him!

He certainly wouldn’t believe she offered her services out of the goodness of her heart, nor would he believe she often acted as a mercenary. No, she’d just made a serious mistake. 

Her mouth dry and her heart slamming against her ribs, she met his narrowed eyes. Her brain whirled with any scenario she could possibly come up with that he might believe. 

“Any time you wish to explain,” he broke into her thoughts, his voice low, “I am listening.”

“Very well… I did not think of discussing payment,” she began slowly, choosing her words carefully, “because I was hoping that once we made our way East, I might convince you to take me on in your city.”

“As what? You’ve not yet said what it is you do.”

“I do a bit of everything. I’ve been a serving girl. I’ve worked as a cook. I can even be a maid, if you need one. Or, as you’ve seen, I’m quite handy with a weapon.”

“So I could take you on as solder?”

She shrugged, a hint of relief swirling through her. “Absolutely.”

“And what training have you?”

“Training? Well… if you mean formal training, then—”

“Of course I mean formal training. What else would I mean?”

She drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders as she said, “I have none. I am entirely self-taught, but you saw for yourself that I’ve skills with weapons and I fear neither man nor monster.”

“And you think I need a self-taught girl in my army?” A hint of amusement wove through his voice. “Why?”

That relief melted into hot embarrassment and her cheeks burned with it. “Very well. If you wish me to leave then, I will.”

As she moved to step around him, Thorin caught her by her upper arm. “Not so fast.”

She stared down at the massive hand clamped about her. “I beg your pardon, but let go of me.”

“You promised your services and I accepted them. And now you wish to tuck tail and run away?”

“You’re not paying me,” she countered evenly, “why should I remain here?”

“You gave your word.”

She held his stare. “And you expect me to be able to live off my word, do you? Dwarves have a funny way of viewing the world if that’s how you think I might survive.”

“I assure you,” his grip eased and he lowered his hand slowly from her, “I know just how the world works. Which is why I am curious as to why you—a girl who moves from place to place and survives on her wits and cunning, it seems—would not think to bargain for payment before trekking halfway across the world.”

She shrugged. “When you have nothing, you learn to do with nothing. And I thought, perhaps when we reached Erebor you would think I’d earned something for my trouble.”

For a moment, she thought he’d let the matter drop, or better still, would agree with her and insist that of course he would make such an offer. But, judging by the slight smile that curved his lips and the steeliness of his eyes, she had the feeling she had missed the mark. 

But to her surprise, all he said was, “And what would you consider sufficient?”

“I—that is, you—what I mean is…” Heat flooded her cheeks as she tried to control her stammering. Cleaning her throat, she clamped her lips together to quiet herself, and once she managed that, she drew in a deep breath, met his pale eyes once more, and finally said, “Whatever you think is sufficient.”

He just stared for a long moment and she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing once more. Still, even as her belly churned and her breath grew harder to catch once more, she held that stare   as if nothing troubled her. 

Finally, he broke the thickening silence, bobbing his head as he said, “A wise answer, indeed.”

“I am not greedy.”

“No,” he replied, “you don’t seem to be.”

Then he stepped back. “You should get some sleep.”

“I can take the first watch, if you’d rather rest some.” The words popped out on their own, but she didn't regret them. He did look tired, after all. Besides, she wasn't exactly a monster, either.

“I’m fine. Go and rest yourself. We still have a long road ahead of us.”

“I don't mind.”

“Nor do I. So, do as I say and get some sleep.” 

With that, he moved around her and made his way back up toward the rocks. She watched his retreating figure, and once she was certain he was out of earshot, she sighed. Her plan had seemed so simple when she set out to track him down. But now…

But now what? Nothing has changed, you fool. He unleashed the beast that killed your family. All of them. It is his fault and this is what he deserves.

She swallowed hard as she started back, pausing only when Dwalin’s snores reached her ears. He was sound asleep. There was no one else around them. She could sneak up on Thorin and be done with it and then disappear into the night.

With that, she curled her fingers about the worn leather grips of the blade at her hip and slipped the blade from its sheath without a sound. 

Her heart sped up as she drew nearer, as she caught sight of him sitting before the fire, the golden light dancing along his long tangle of silver-streaked jet black curls. 

He would never know what hit him.

[garfield-mug]

Lights

A/N: Written for Liz's (@sailor-aviator) Christmas Challenge! There was too much shit happening the past few weeks for me to write full fics, so please enjoy these fluffy headcanons instead!

Pairing: Bob Floyd x fem!Reader

Word: Lights

Warnings: none

bob did really enjoy christmas.

since he was little, it had been his favorite holiday. he enjoyed the presents and cookies and seeing extended family, sure, but his absolute favorite part about christmas were the lights.

every year on christmas eve, him and his siblings would pile into the car with their parents and slowly drive through the streets of a few different neighborhoods in town to see the lights.

some houses had no lights, others changed out their porch lights to bulbs of red and green. a few were completely decked out, strings of vibrant, dazzling lights from rooftop to driveway, all blinking in time to whatever christmas song was playing at the time. if little bob had to guess, he'd say those people had miles and miles of string lights wrapping their homes (as an adult, he can't comprehend the sheer cost of their electric bill). there was one house that had a lawn completely filled with different blow-up lawn ornaments. bob didn't really like that one, he thought it was much too busy.

his favorite house, by far, every year was a one story cape cod. it wasn't the most flashy, it didn't have all the bells and whistles. the trim of the roof and the pillar supporting it over the front porch were lined with soft, delicate vintage bulbs, casting a soft yellow glow across the drive and front yard. it was simple in its beauty. it was like the house knew (and the people living in it) that it didn't need to be bright and flashy to be beautiful. bob thought it was absolutely enchanting.

he found his mind drifting back to that house every christmas after he moved away and joined the navy, forever at the beck and call of uncle sam.

he pictured that house when he was on long deployments and craved a moment of peace and quiet. a tranquil winter scene played out before him: the golden glow of the lights gently washing over him as he closed his eyes, leaning into the feeling of the chilled air around him, enjoying the serene silence that winter brought every year.

when he opened his eyes, he was back on the aircraft carrier, but he was also a touch calmer, a touch more grounded.

it's a lot like how bob felt after he met you.

one fateful day during fleet week, and one guided tour later, bob landed your number and a date.

thankfully, it worked out and now you're coming up on your second christmas together.

you knew bob loved the christmas lights every year, and you had every intention of going all out in your apartment, but things just did not go your way.

life was life-ing.

work was extra busy in the weeks leading up to the holiday. longer hours meant less time to do things around the house and more time to dwell on how things weren't going how you planned.

you somehow managed to get the tree up just in time for your next date night, lights on, and ornaments in a bin for you and bob to put on together.

despite all the last minute decorating, you still didn't find yourself in a particularly festive mood.

frustrated, a little bit sad, and a lot exhausted, you decided to lie down on the floor, head under the tree. bleary eyes looked up through the fake branches, watching the vintage bulbs twinkle and sparkle.

so lost in your thoughts, you didn't hear bob come through the door and call your name.

"honey?" he calls again, confused, as he walks into the living area.

bob didn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't his girlfriend lying on the floor with her head under the tree. a bit of a strange sight, but a smile spreads across his lips as he watches you for a moment. he knows this time of year can be tough on you.

he shrugs off his jacket and makes his way over to your spot on the floor, taking your lead as he lays beside you, crossing his arms over his chest.

"what are we doing?" he asks, voice soft and sweet as he turns to face you.

"lights." you vaguely gesture to the tree above your heads.

"lights?"

"lights."

you grab his hand and lace your fingers together.

[tacticalhimbo]

Howdy hey @pheedraws , I'm your bloody valentine for this year's event held by @carlosoliveiraa !!

I had a really fun time learning about Ilona and her tense history with the rest of the family, but especially that with Heisenberg. I hope I managed to capture their push-and-pull kinda dynamic, and I hope you enjoy this! <3

Let me know if you'd like a more permanent copy of this, too! I'm always happy to provide a PDF version of the writings I do :3

Under the cut for length! (this ended up being almost 2k words hehe)

The coldest of the winter months had finally approached, thickened blankets of snow encapsulating the quaint village and its surrounding wilderness. Winds howled through the distant trees, sinking low into the narrow pathways between buildings, carrying a flurry of snow with it. Crystalline sculptures shimmered in the sun's overcast light as they fell, drawing attention to the way they'd gathered in a nearly blinding landscape. Dark stonework was accentuated by the vibrant snow, just as the flourishing pine needles were. Gnawing as the chill that lingered in the air was, there was, too, an odd comfort to its overwhelming presence. A comfort that, as the sun eventually began to settle behind the horizon and the village began to grow quiet, encouraged a few intriguing residents to take in the stillness of it all. To wander through the sparse lantern glows and out into the moonlit wilderness, abandoning the set paths for something more organic; less explored. Distant lycan howls set the boundary for it all, warnings of what may happen if one were to straggle too far away from the epicenter.

Yet even that comfort did not explain how, or why, Ilona found herself in the fields adjacent to the run-down, albeit functioning, factory on the village's outskirts.

There was no comfort in the metallic whirs and groans. No comfort in the prospect that, should fate decide to be a particularly cruel mistress, Ilona run into the factory's owner—or one of his creations. It was still up for debate which would have been worse, frankly. The hostility of the mechanical beings was simple in its nature. Programming kicking in as rusted mechanisms sputtered to life. A mere reflection of their created purpose: Defense. Lord Heisenberg's hostilities, on the other hand, were bred of arrogance. Full of malcontent. It was intentionally designed to get under the skin of whatever poor soul ended up on the other side of that wolfish grin. Yet that, too, proposed another discussion of whether it would have been better to be maimed physically, or walk away with a wounded ego. Regardless, the answer was lost as well-placed speakers crackled to life. As that grating, smug voice rang out across the field.

"Well well, what do we have here? A late night visitor, all the way from her mighty home in the comforts of the village. And what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dark eyes narrowed. "You don't. I was just leaving."

"Is that so? I don't know, might be dangerous to head back so late. Heard there's lycans about." The fact was spoken as if it were a rumor, words shadowed by a low purr resonating from the man's chest as he teased. It earned nothing more than a scoff and the roll of the woman's eyes, back turning to the building as she began to make her way down the field.

That was, until a series of rustling in the treeline created a pause. Brought Ilona to a stop as her annoyance only grew. There was no proof of it, and it was something so unlikely to consider, yet she couldn't help but clench her jaw at the prospect that—by some account—Karl had set something up to lure them. Or was it so simply as him setting up his fancy little radio, and daring to open that mouth of his? Whatever it was, two paths lay before her: Take her chances and throw herself to the 'wolves', or begrudgingly wait out the pack's hunt in that cursed factory. While the first option was infinitely more tempting, there was a weariness beginning to weigh on her shoulders. The biting cold that began to properly creep under the layers of cloth and tug at her skin; it was enough for her to begrudgingly turn herself back up the path. And hearing the static of the speakers was enough for Ilona to almost consider turning back once more. Instead, she simply glared to the closest one, sat upon the corner of the decrepit brick.

"Don't even. Just shut up and open the door already."

And, as instructed, the rustled mechanisms groaned as the factory's doors slid open, allowing the warm air from within to bleed out across the shrinking distance. Allow the whines and creaks to overwhelm the immediate landscape alongside it, subtly encouraging a quickness in the woman's steps. The lycans had heard it, too. Paused their consumptions to perk their heads toward the sound, feral eyes fixated in wait. Yet no meal came to them, and they'd simply returned to the chilled leftover at their claws' end as Ilona found herself walking right into the hands of her…

Adversary? Acquaintance? Whatever it was Heisenberg was today. And, based on the way he'd sauntered out of the distant shadows, allowing the dim light in the entry to illuminate him, it was leaning toward the former.

The brim of his worn hat concealed his features from the light, yet there was a subtle sort of glow to those fixated eyes of his. A near-clear view of the wolfish grin that stretched his skin and scrunched his nose.

"I would ask what pleasure I owed, but something…" his voice trails as he steps closer, leering at Ilona, "Something tells me it would be a wasted attempt at conversation. What could possibly have your petals so ruffled, buttercup?"

He knew. She knew that he knew. And yet, he pressed. Instigated. Ilona sighed and waved off the idea of giving him fuel. Of airing her grievances. 'It's because I'm stuck here. With you of all people.'

"It's not important, Karl." But there was no harm in a little nudge. A subtle jab that would get just far enough under his skin to keep things calm enough for the time being. Just far enough to cause his lips to curl and teeth to bare. Still, he did well to conceal the bitter feeling at being referred to so… personally.

"Oh, I'm sure it isn't. Surely it's nothing, if that pout of yours is anything to judge by. Or the little furrow of your brows." It seems he, too, is returning the nudge. Both in the metaphorical sense, and in the literal, especially as a gloved finger comes to roughly jab at Ilona's shoulder before he draws back.

It brings a more prominent scowl to the woman's features as she sighs, head shaking as she looks around for something—anything—else to preoccupy herself with amidst the mess. Piles of unsorted scrap are all that await her, and the prospect of scraping her hands against the rough metal isn't exactly appealing. So, instead, she simply pretends Heisenberg isn't there. Walks past him to, with some hesitation etching into her muscles, find a different area to plant herself in. Perhaps somewhere with a piece of proper furniture. With something less grimy to entertain her as the moon traverses the night sky and leads the sun along with it. It'd be too much to ask for a corner of the factory without Heisenberg, or his influence, especially as he trails along behind her, but at this point taking her chances with (another) Soldat would be preferable to the grating voice and smug laughter. Thankfully for both of them, much as neither would admit it, it doesn't come to that. Rather, through some rather subtle corralling on Heisenberg's part, the duo has found themselves in his personal alcove. Amidst the messy workbenches, scattered papers, and a rather intriguing wall of connections between the ragtag group. Red strings illuminating the relationships between their fucked up little family. Stiffened pieces of scrap that appear to have been thrown, and with quite some force, to decorate the spaces around Miranda's portrait. And, amidst the others, a smaller portrait of hers. A recognition that she was, willingly or otherwise, an important part of the dynamic. One that sat unmarked, highlighted by an uncertain air.

Friend, or foe? Ally, or enemy? To spare, or to tear down with the rest of them all? In a way, there was almost reassurance in that hesitation exhibited by Heisenberg. Something about the fact these waxing and waning feelings were, in a way, mutual. An intriguing series of questions echoed in her head as she'd stepped over to unpin her visage from the board. To allow her fingers to trace the weathered edges of the film as the candlelight found them. Heisenberg watched, biting his tongue for once and simply opting to bring himself back to organizing the remnants of his current project.

"So you do like me?" A tease, highlighted with an essence of genuine curiosity.

"Alive, perhaps. Jury's still out on if it goes any further, or if that's where the answer stays." Too, a tease, though there was a lingering bitterness in his voice. A seriousness that betrayed him. As it stood, he had no idea whose side she would fall on. And, albeit deep, deep down, that lack of clarity made him uneasy. Still, he did well to mask it, turning to lean with his back against the workbench, wrench twirling between gloved fingers. "For now, I suppose I could say yes."

Ilona's arms fold across her chest. "It never is quite a straight answer with you, is it?"

"Of course not. How else do you expect I keep everyone on their toes?" That wolfish grin of his spreads across his features once more, his own arms mimicking the movement of hers. "Especially now. With so many hours to kill. You wouldn't want things to be boring, would you?"

"I'd almost prefer it." Still, there's a subtle shift in her tone that betrays the minute enjoyment she receives from their bickering. A hint of potential for missing it, should things lead them astray from one another's path. "Fine, keep me on my toes all you'd like. Just don't be surprised if it grows tired. After all, not everyone is as devoid of basic manners as you are."

"So you've said, and so I continue to ignore."

Neither would expect any less from him. From one another. And as the hours passed, it remained just as so. Ilona attempting to mind her business while perusing the various work-in-progress projects scattered about. Karl finding himself particularly itchy with the urge to bother her, remind her how unfortunate the circumstances were to be stuck within his domain. A few back and forths. A few nudges and prods. Little things that ultimately left the two ever envigorated as the sun rose and the woodlands cleared, allowing for Ilona to return herself to the Village.

And for once, the two had parted on fairly decent terms. How long that lasted, only time would tell.

[reshramlove1ob]

So here are my YuuXuan ship kids, Amon and Ace!

General

-They're twins, both boys, age 9.

-Birthday: Nov. 14

-Both have a simplified and weaker version of their parents' powers, and both posses both parents powers.

-They are very protected under the Esper Union. If their existence was to be found out by outside sources, organizations like the Shadow Decree would definitely take advantage of them.

-Tang Xuan’s coworkers love them both very much, and take protecting them seriously.

-The only people who know of their existence outside of the Esper Union is Tang Xuan’s family besides Tang Yun, Yamato (that was a whoopsie but he’s chill for the most part), and Li Guang (also a whoopsie but she swears to keep her mouth shut).

Amon

-120 cm, and is the older twin.

-A sunny and nice guy...when he gets to know you. He's actually very shy around new people.

-Despite looking more like Tang Xuan, he’s much better at wielding Yuuhime’s powers.

-He loves to climb, weather it be on the walls, in trees, or on adults, he’ll be bound to be climbing on something.

-He loves to tease Ace, being a big stink a lot of the time. But at the end of the day, he’ll glad snuggle up with his brother for a nice nap.

-He loves his family a lot. He hates how Tang Xuan and Yuuhime go out to fight miramon all the time, when he just wants them to stay home with him and Ace.

-When he’s nervous, he wraps his tail around himself to try and comfort himself. Or, he hugs into one of his parent’s long hair.

Ace

-125 cm, and the younger twin.

-He’s shy too, but not on the level of Amon. He enjoys to get to know new people, it just takes a second to click. He can be a little grumpy at times, which is why Amon has such a fun time teasing him.

-His favorite pastime is reading. He loves Sci-Fi specifically, and will read any book that even mentions space. He also lives for horror and thriller, begging Yuuhime to take him to any scary movie that comes out.

-He practices both parent’s powers very often, wanting to someday be a great hero like Tang Xuan and the other hero’s he sees on the tv. He wishes to find a way to get rid of the miracles one day, so everyone can be happy.

-He likes it when Amon plays with his hair. He loves seeing all the ways he can style his hair.