#still had a scar where the wound was. like he's just got a bullet wound scar on his chest now

[meowsticmarvels]

I think we need to discuss more about tbe fact that junpeis awakening involves him literally dying and getting revived. like that has got to feel so fucking strange afterwards. like he is literally on borrowed time. if chidori didn't choose to revive him he would've been shot and killed by takaya and that would've been it. knowing that has got to be so weird it's another level of near death experience good lord. like that shit fucks you up

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

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

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this. 

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces. 

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds. 

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now. 

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin. 

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height. 

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents. 

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with. 

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?” 

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse. 

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door. 

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.” 

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.” 

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket. 

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt. 

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess. 

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic. 

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”  

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.” 

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt. 

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.” 

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you. 

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.” 

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.” 

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after. 

It was so quiet here. 

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you. 

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down. 

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’. 

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open. 

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind. 

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light. 

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back. 

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it. 

You are made of memories. 

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?” 

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.” 

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror. 

Tall; formidable. 

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him. 

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise. 

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.” 

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping. 

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation. 

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care. 

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting. 

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed. 

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork. 

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting. 

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp. 

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?” 

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you. 

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him. 

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.” 

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?” 

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind. 

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet. 

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?” 

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt. 

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood. 

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness. 

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better. 

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass. 

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb. 

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?” 

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone. 

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours. 

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.” 

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone. 

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists. 

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities. 

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace. 

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur. 

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?” 

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.” 

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?” 

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree. 

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building. 

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so. 

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another. 

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears. 

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull. 

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him. 

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs. 

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull. 

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.” 

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard. 

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway. 

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was. 

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips. 

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning. 

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow. 

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.” 

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing. 

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling. 

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back. 

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.” 

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents. 

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.  

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence. 

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully. 

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly. 

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin. 

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath. 

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame. 

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.” 

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast. 

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him. 

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to. 

You loved each other. 

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms. 

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be. 

What should be. 

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17. 

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity. 

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures. 

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen. 

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy. 

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power. 

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging. 

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street. 

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing. 

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.” 

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location. 

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop. 

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you. 

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on. 

Not you. 

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love. 

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic. 

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up. 

Emmett was a snake. 

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman. 

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch. 

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now. 

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues. 

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista. 

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation. 

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!” 

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line. 

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in. 

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing. 

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him. 

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you? 

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known. 

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze. 

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight. 

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before. 

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete. 

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion. 

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat. 

It’s nothing. 

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over. 

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding. 

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse. 

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.” 

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet. 

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression. 

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.” 

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight. 

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base. 

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter. 

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.” 

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.” 

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh. 

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you. 

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers. 

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping. 

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming. 

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump. 

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter. 

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded. 

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully. 

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping. 

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means. 

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond. 

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables. 

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful. 

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall. 

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture. 

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door. 

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her. 

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost. 

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture. 

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses. 

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say. 

But this is something else. 

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.” 

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it. 

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose. 

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried. 

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them. 

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once. 

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak. 

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.” 

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose. 

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive. 

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality. 

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic. 

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife. 

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors. 

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath. 

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop. 

But the brain is a funny thing. 

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout. 

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe. 

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs. 

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace. 

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting. 

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own. 

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open. 

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths. 

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back. 

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.” 

Your chest is heavy. 

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.” 

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?” 

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind. 

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers. 

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much. 

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words. 

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form. 

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants. 

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for. 

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away. 

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room. 

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor. 

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this. 

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment. 

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.” 

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess. 

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow. 

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily. 

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.” 

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him. 

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.” 

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum. 

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all. 

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial. 

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed? 

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked. 

“I love you.” 

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all. 

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment. 

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that. 

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting , @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[vikkirosko]

The last story was amazing, hope you can get this one in before the holdidays, and have a nice vacation. And just a great next few months on top of that! But I was wondering ( sorry this may be long ) if you could do a headcanon of alastor, lucifer, Angel Dust, lucifer, fizz + Ozzie, and Rosie? ( sorry if that's to many characters there all just great characters ) x a reader who has CIP ( the inablility ) to feel pain? Thank you! Also how have you been?

I'm all good. I haven't had much free time lately, so I'm a little behind schedule on writing requests, but I still don't lose hope that I'll be able to finish everything before the end of the year. And how are you doing?

Headcanons CIP

🕷 Angel Dust x Reader 💖

You and Angel have known each other for a long time. You knew that he often got into various scuffles and always reminded him to be careful. One of the times you knew for sure that he was going to get into trouble, you went with him. You were right and helped him cope and not get hurt, but there was something that caused him concern. You were hit by several bullets, but you didn't seem to pay any attention to it at all

Only when you noticed the blood on your clothes did you say with irritation that you had ruined your favorite sweater. Angel jumped up to you, worried about your wounds, but you didn't seem to feel the pain, which you soon informed him about. That's why Angel took you back to the hotel, where he treated your wounds. You told him that you had a CIP. You haven't felt pain since you were born, even when you were human, and even in Hell, the absence of pain has remained with you

Angel was surprised that for so long he didn't know that you don't feel pain at all. You had to pay attention to little things so as not to harm yourself, for example, be careful about hot dishes, because you might not notice how hot the soup could be or how hot the cup of coffee was. Angel listened attentively to you, surprised that he didn't notice it

Angel has become more attentive towards you. He didn't constantly take care of you, but sometimes he reminded you that the food or drink was hot, that you held the knife too close to your fingers, or that you were injured. Angel understood that even if you didn't feel pain, it didn't mean that the wounds didn't hurt you, which is why he tried to take care of you at least a little

📻 Alastor x Reader🎙

Alastor found out that you don't feel pain when he noticed that you returned to the hotel with an injured leg. You weren't even limping. You just went to your room like everything was completely normal. He didn't know any other reason for this. He went to your room with a first-aid kit and you did not hide from him either your own wound or the fact that you really did not feel pain

Alastor stayed in your room while you treated the wound on your leg. You told him that even when you were human, you didn't feel pain. You assumed that at least in Hell this would change, but it turned out not to be so. Because of this, you didn't notice the wounds you could get until you noticed the blood on your clothes

The origin of the scars on your skin was now clear. He understood that you probably got these scars in Hell. On your palms, hands, and obviously not only there. You really weren't very worried about your own health, and the lack of pain only made it harder for you to take care of yourself

Alastor understood that in Hell there was much less harm from this for you. Dying in Hell was much more difficult for a sinner than when you were alive, so Alastor didn't worry too much about you. He knew you'd be fine, but he still left a first-aid kit in your room in case you needed it

💀Rosie x Reader 🌹

You were a frequent guest at Rosie's and helped her with some problems at her store. You often stayed at her house for weeks at a time, but Rosie was only too happy to spend time with you. Sometimes you came in with wounds after fights, but Rosie was sure they weren't that serious, so you didn't pay attention to it. However, when you came in seriously injured but behaved as if everything was fine, she became worried

Rosie insistently asked you to sit down and brought a first aid kit. She was in no hurry to ask questions or jump to conclusions, primarily focusing on your wounds. You didn't make a sound when she was treating your wounds, which gave Rosie certain thoughts

You honestly told her that you didn't feel pain at all. Even before your death, you had CIP and you learned to live with it, but in Hell you became more relaxed and took much less care of your own health, which led to your injury. Rosie listened to you carefully, then gently stroked your hair and asked you to be careful

Rosie didn't want you to try. She knew that you tried to be more attentive to yourself and tried to avoid new wounds. You didn't want to upset Rosie and make her worry, which is why you tried not to put yourself in danger, not even realizing that Rosie was ready to show those who would harm you why she was overlord

🍎 Lucifer Morningstar x Reader 🐍

Lucifer knew perfectly well that you didn't feel pain. You've known each other for a long time and he often saw you after fights. You didn't pay attention to the wounds, just talked irritably about stained or torn clothes. You both knew that the lack of feeling pain had its own characteristics, so you made sure that the wounds were treated, and Lucifer made sure that no one dared to hurt you

Lucifer was much stronger than you, and when you were together, no one dared even try to look at you askance, but sometimes you got involved in fights, especially when it was the end of the year. You didn't want to hide, even though you knew you could have died. Every time Lucifer found out that you were fighting again, he watched, taking his time to intervene. It was only when he saw that you were seriously injured that he intervened

Lucifer sometimes offered to pick up personal guards for you, but you kept telling him that it wasn't necessary. Just because you didn't feel pain didn't mean you were reckless. You tried not to put yourself in excessive danger, realizing that even in Hell you could die

You didn't know how long you would be in Hell and whether it was possible to leave Hell at all, but while you were there you weren't going to let yourself die again, especially because you didn't notice any wound and Lucifer didn't mind helping you with it

🎪 Fizzarolli x Reader x Asmodeus 💕

In your relationship, Asmodeus has always tried to take care of Fizzarolli and you. He had sincere feelings for both of you, and you responded in kind, but if Fizzarolli really tried to be careful, then you got into trouble more often. They both saw the wounds healing on you, but you always said it was just a small accident and they had nothing to worry about. This went on until you returned with bloodstains on your clothes and serious wounds that you didn't pay attention to

They immediately rushed to you, both very worried. You convinced them that you were fine, but this time it was obviously not the case. Asmodeus treated your wounds, after which he seriously asked who did it. To his question, you smiled gently and said that they were much worse off than you, so you shouldn't have worried about it. However, there was something that did not escape their eyes. It's like you didn't feel the touch of your wounds

When Fizzarolli asked you if you were in pain, you were confused and said that you didn't feel any pain at all. You've had CIP and you've never felt pain in your entire life. There used to be problems because of this, but now you have learned to avoid serious problems, at least you tried

Asmodeus and Fizzarolli weren't going to leave you alone until your wounds were completely healed. They both surrounded you with care, worrying about you, to which you laughed softly and hugged them. Even in Hell, you were able to find those who gave you the warmth that warmed your heart and soul

[scarlethexelove]

If possible could you do a intersex kate bishop x Stark fem reader where Kate and reader are rivals with alot of tension towards each other and soon they begin to have a argument/fight that turns into a love confession with reader and Kate ending up sleeping together and reader becoming pregnant with Kate's child

I Love You, You Idiot

Pairing: Kate Bishop x Stark!Reader

Word Count: 4804

Warnings: Intersex Kate, Little bit of angst, Smut, Some fluff, being shot, being trapped, Kate's got a big dick (Yes that needs to be a warning in itself), unexpected pregnancy, throwing up, blood draw, soft protective Tony, Mentions of torture, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of being skinned, Scars, Kind of a frenemies vibe, P in V, unprotected sex, Little bit rough sex, Choking, Maybe more I can't think of

Pt 2

A/n: I loved writing this one. Sorry it took so long. I knew this one was going to get long and I hope you like it. I would definitely be up for adding some more to this in the future.

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN

You grunt as you pull yourself off the floor. Pain coursing through your shoulder, arm, and head as you look around the room. Pallets of equipment covered in tarps surround the room. A dim light only lets you see the center of the room. You look towards the exit but it is covered in rubble leaving you with no way out. Kate had shot an explosive arrow which had went terribly wrong. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Your eyes land on the raven haired girl who is dusting herself off. “What’s wrong with me? What is wrong with you? You pushed me.” Kate shoots back at you. Anger now taking over and making you forget about the pain you’re in. 

Your Dad Tony Stark sent you on this mission with Kate. You and her don’t get along, always bickering and trying to one up the other. Most of the Avengers know that you both can’t stand to be in the same room with one another so why did your father send you out with her of all people. It’s not that you don’t find the girl endearing but she just, you don’t know how to put your finger on it. This mission was supposed to be easy in and out but that all changed in a matter of moments. 

“I had to push you you idiot or did you want to fucking die?” You scoff as you jump and sit on one of the pallets. Grimacing when you poke at the bullet wound adorning your left arm not even being able to lift it to get a better look at the wound. Kate’s features soften for a moment as she sees your condition. You look up at her and see her shifting as she looks at you just causing you to scowl. “Oh so you had a death wish, got it. Next time leave me the fuck out of it.” Kate quickly snaps out of it. “If you hadn’t pushed me then we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Her arms cross over her chest as she huffs. You roll your eyes. “Kate, that agent would have shot you if I hadn’t pushed you out of the way.” You notice how Kate’s nostrils flare when she is angry. “I would have been fine. I would have gotten him.” 

Your patience is already wearing thin as your arm bleeds and you can now feel blood trickling down your face from your head. “He would have killed you, but I took the damn bullet.” You shake your head at the other girl and she shakes her head. “I could have gotten him.” You groan at her arrogance. “No you wouldn't, you didn’t even see him.” Kate just scoffed. She doesn’t want to admit she is wrong and that you are right. “Well if he was going to kill me why did you save me hmm? I thought you hated me.” Kate counters. You don't know what to say. You don’t hate her at all. Yes she annoys the hell out of you but she is a good person and someone that you can rival with. “Why did you do it Y/n?” She raises her voice. When you still stay quiet she yells. “Why the fuck did you save me if you hate me so much?” 

“Because I fucking love you you idiot!” You yell back before going quiet and looking down. You honestly didn’t expect for that to come out of you and neither did Kate. Her jaw dropped as the room was completely silent. It takes her a moment to comprehend what you said. “W-what.” That is when the panic starts to build in you. You just told Kate that you love her. You hadn’t even accepted the fact in your mind before your heart took over and made you yell it out. Kate couldn’t lie she has always found you attractive and hated to admit that she was falling for you even though you bicker all the time. She just thought nothing could ever happen since you obviously hated her but she knows that she was wrong now. 

You can’t bring yourself to look at her as you try to take part of your suit off. You need to check your wound and you want to forget that you just admitted feeling you haven’t fully grasped. “I-It’s nothing.” You mumble. You whimper when you can’t get your suit from off your shoulder. 

Kate snaps out of her stupor when she hears you whimper in pain. She quickly makes her way over to you. “I think your shoulder is dislocated.” You hadn’t noticed how close Kate had gotten until you looked up startled. You don’t say anything and just nod. “Let me help.” You want to push her away and deal with it yourself but you know you can’t so you just nod again. “Okay.” 

Kate looks over you to assess your injuries. When her explosive arrow went off it sent you flying into the wall. Your shoulder taking most of the impact and your head hitting against the wall. Blood drips down your face from the cut on your head. A sliver of it peaking through your hairline. All of the anger washes away as she sees the bullet wound adorning your arm. You were right and she might have been dead if you hadn’t pushed her out of the way. Your left side taking the brunt of all your injuries. Kate uses what Clint has taught her in order to treat you in the field. She helps get your suit down until it is sitting around your hips but you are wearing a long sleeve black shirt underneath. Kate hesitates before asking. “May I?” 

You’re worried about Kate seeing you without your shirt on. Some of your past is only known to a select few outside of your immediate family. Four people to be exact Fury, Steve, Natasha, and Wanda. But you know for her to be able to help you she needs more access so you nod once again. A lump forming in your throat as she carefully removes your shirt. If she sees the scars she isn’t letting on but you know she can see them and you're thankful that she isn’t bringing attention to them. 

It’s mostly silent other than your grunts and whimpers of pain as Kate pops your shoulder back in place and dresses your wounds. Leaving you thankful for the silence but the room is tense. Once Kate is done you look up at her and give her a soft smile. “Thank you.” It’s barely above a whisper but she hears it. Kate is about to speak before you cut her off. “I’m sorry.” Tears shine in your eyes not meeting her gaze. So many emotions are flooding you and you are struggling to hold onto one. “What for?” Kate asks you. “For everything. I was mean and spiteful to you for no reason. Well, more like I was scared.” Kate’s gaze softens. “Scared of what?” You struggle to find the right words to say. “Scared of what you would think of me. Scared of feelings that I don’t understand.” You look up at her and she sees the tears shining in your eyes. “I thought if I pushed you away and just was, I don’t know meaner to you I could just get rid of those feelings. I thought it would be better if you just hated me instead. But instead you made me fall for you more and I know that now. You don’t have to accept anything from me and you can hate me. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.” 

Kate takes the chance she cups your cheeks leaning in and kissing you. You're surprised but soon reciprocate the kiss. You don’t even realize how heated the kiss has gotten until Kate pulls away and you're breathing heavier. She leans her forehead against yours and whispers. “I love you too Y/n.” You look into her eyes for any hint of doubt but all you find is truth. Kate pulls back slightly her hands moving to your waist. Your legs wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer just wanting to feel closer to her. 

That is when you feel it. Her bulge in her pants and you can tell just from the short make out session that it definitely stirred something within her. Kate notices that you can tell and starts to pull away. “I-I’m sorry.” You wrap your legs around her tighter and shake your head. “I want you Kate, please.” You grind your hips lightly making the other girl groan. “R-right here?” You don’t know where some of this confidence has come from but with your good arm you cup her cheek in your hand and rub gently. “Katie we are kind of stuck here and I just want to feel you.” Your words flipping a switch in her grip on your waist tightening. “Fuck.” She groans. 

Kate is quick to help rid you of the rest of your suit. Tossing it to the side already sees a wet patch forming on your underwear. She bites her lip admiring your body. You normally would be self conscious of your body but the look in Kate’s eyes has that washing away. Letting yourself be vulnerable with her. She doesn’t seem to care about the scars that litter your body. She only sees the beauty in your strength. 

A finger hooks into the waistband of your underwear as Kate slides them down your thighs until they fall to the ground. Your body is now naked in front of the fully dressed woman but not for long. Kate eagerly strips down until she is only in a sports bra and boxers. You can see her cock straining against the fabric. You reach out for her, wanting her to come closer, but she takes her time. Finally pulling her boxers down and letting her cock spring free. She is much larger than you had expected. Kate notices your look of shock which makes her feel a little self conscious. She is about to step back when you reach for her again. “Katie.” She hesitates for a moment so you speak again. “I’ve never taken anything… anyone so big before.” Kate relaxes, finally stepping closer to you, slotting herself between your legs. “If at any point it becomes too much, let me know and I’ll stop.” She gets closer, the tip of her cock bumping your clit making you groan. 

“Please Katie.” Your need and want for her taking over. Kate just chuckles with one hand on her cock as she looks down slowly, swiping it through your folds. Coating it in your juices. She hasn’t even done anything yet and you're already a dripping mess. She is entranced by your dripping pussy as she keeps teasing you. You whine a little and buck your hips but that doesn’t stop her teasing. You start to grow frustrated. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already.” You're barely able to get the words out before Kate is thrusting her length into you. Her cock splitting you open and stretching your walls further than ever before. 

“O-oh fuck.” You gasp. Kate takes a minute with her hands going back to grip at your hips. “Shit so fucking tight.” Kate starts to ease out before pushing back in. A painfully delicious stretch as she picks up speed. Small breathy moans start tumbling from your lips as Kate pistons her hips into you. Kate looks from where you two are connected looking at your already blissed out face. Your mouth hangs slightly open as moans continue to fall from your lips. “Fuck so this is how I get you to shut up pretty girl. Fucking your tight little hole with by big cock.” You can’t help the blush that rises as you nod your head words escaping you. 

Kate tests the waters with you a little bit as one of her hands moves up to your neck wrapping around it loosely. Your eyes widen and with a particularly hard thrust from Kate you moan. She applies some pressure to your throat causing another moan to be caught in your throat. Your head falling back and your arm wrapping around Kate and digging your nails into her back causing her to moan. You like the sound of her moan so you scratch down her back and clench around her length. More moans tumbling from her lips. Your combined moans bouncing off the walls as Kate continues fucking herself into you. 

“Mmmm K-Kate.” Your words breathy as the knot grows tighter. Kate's hand is still firm around your neck as she drives her hips into yours. “Fuck you feel so good around me baby girl.” Kate leans in kissing you. You moan into her mouth giving her access, allowing her tongue to explore your mouth. Your legs pull her closer to you as your nails draw blood on her back. You're both so close. Kate’s thrust becomes sloppy as she draws near. You grind your hips into hers looking for your release. 

“Wanna cum baby girl?” Kate mumbles against your lips. Trying desperately to hold her own orgasm back wanting to see and feel you fall apart for her. “Mmm please.” You whimper. “Cum for me.” Kate demands. Your vision blurs and your legs shake around her hips. Your nails racking down her back leaving angry red lines cuming harder than you have ever cum before gushing around her cock which just sets Kate off. Her hips stutter as she paints your walls white. Her thrust slows as she continues to cum. Filling you so full there is a slightly large bulge on your lower abdomen and her cum leaking out around her cock. You have never felt this full in your life but it’s a feeling that you could get used to. 

When Kate stops her hands drop from your throat as she wraps her arms around you and buries her head in your neck pulling you as close as possible. Your head falls on her shoulder as you both hold one another panting. When you both have calmed down enough Kate pulls back and looks at your disheveled state finding you even more beautiful than before. “That was…” You breathe and Kate finishes. “Wow.” Which causes you both to giggle. 

Kate slowly pulls out of you which causes you to wince and whimper. “I’m sorry.” She says hating that she could have hurt you. “It’s ok Katie, just sensitive.” You say with a small smile. She smiles back at you before her attention is drawn down. She watches as a mix of both of your cums leak out of you. Wish she could just push back into you making sure that it all stays in but she doesn’t want to hurt you. So Kate does what she can to make you more comfortable. She wanders around setting up a small place for the both of you to lay down. Once she is done she picks you up but you stop her. “Kate, I can walk.” You slap at her arm lightly. She holds up her hands in defense. You get up but your legs wobble and your knees give out. You would have hit the ground if it weren’t for Kate’s strong arms catching you. “Don’t say it.” You warn the girl. She just chuckles. 

Soon you’re both laying on the ground, you on your side that isn’t injured cuddled up into Kate’s side. Your bummed arm draped lightly over her stomach. Her arms wrapped securely around you as her fingers dance across your skin lightly brushing the large scar adorning your side. You know that she is just absentmindedly just doing it but you feel safe with her. Your head that was laying on her chest now propped up on your chin looking at the raven haired girl. “Would you like to know?” You question her, your words soft. Kate smiles at you. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

You lay your head back on her chest and let out a deep sigh. “When I was 13 a group of men kidnapped me. The daughter of the great Tony Stark should be able to get access to all the money and weapons they desire. I don’t know why they thought a 13 year old would have that but I guess they weren’t all that smart. When I couldn’t give them what they wanted they tortured me.” You have to pause for a second letting out a shaky breath. Kate is listening and holding you close for comfort. “I was there for a week with little food or water. Right before my Dad found me they took a large knife and literally skinned my side. They um, they sent it to my Dad which actually helped him find me. For as dumb as they were, they were also good at hiding. Not many people know outside of my Mom and Dad. Only Fury, Steve, Natasha, and Wanda and well I guess now you.” 

You nuzzle into Kate’s chest trying to stop the tears from falling. You can hear Kate sniffle causing you to look up at her and see the tears shining in her eyes. Her other hand moves up to cup your cheek. “I’m so sorry that happened to you Y/n/n.” You give her a reassuring smile. “It’s ok. I um still go to therapy for it and still have some nightmares but they have gotten better.” She leans in and kisses your forehead. The room grows silent as you both lay in each other's embrace. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you grow close to sleep but you're woken when you hear a voice and not of Kate’s. Your com is sitting on top of your clothes. You quickly crawl over to it and stick it in your ear. “Y/n/n are you there? Please be there.” You hear your Dads voice come through the com. “Dad?” You question hoping you're not just hearing things. “Thank god you’re alive. Are you hurt? Is Kate there with you?” He asks quickly. “Yes Dad, we are ok.” You tell him as Kate is behind you rubbing her hand up and down your back. “Y/n is injured but I patched her up the best I can.” You can’t help but look back at her and scowl which just causes her to smirk. “Shit, okay. We have your tackers and we are working to get you two out of there. I’ll have medical on standby.” You huff. “Dad, I'm fine.” Kate talks over you. “No, she was shot.” Your head shoots back to look at her again. “It was nothing.” Your Dad is silent for a moment. “Medical will be ready to look you over when we get you out. We should get to you in less than an hour.” You nod your head like your Dad can see you but you realize he can’t. “Okay see you soon.” 

You push Kate when you stop talking to your dad. “I just want to help you baby girl.” You can’t help but sigh knowing that she is right. Your cheeks are also heating up from hearing her call you that which just makes the girl smirk at you. So you push her playfully. You both quickly get dressed Kate helping you get dressed as you wait to be rescued. 

—---------

You’re sitting in the lab with your Dad as you work on upgrades for yours and Nat’s weapons. You even have some ideas for Kate which makes you smile to yourself. But the smile soon falls when the familiar feeling in your stomach has you stopping. The tools once in your hands clatter on the counter as you lung for the trashcan. With the trash can now grasped in your hands and propped on your lap the small amount of content in your stomach is thrown up. Tony is behind you in seconds rubbing his hand up and down your back.

Once you're done throwing up you set the trashcan back down and wipe your lips. “If I didn’t know any better I would think you were pregnant. You’ve been sick the last few days kiddo.” Tony says as he tries to comfort you. But his words spark something inside of you. You think back. It has been two months since the mission and you and Kate had sex. You’re just now realizing that you haven’t had your period either. 

You start to panic as you realize that your Dads words more than likely ring true. Tony watches your expression change. You get up and start to move around the lab. Tony grabs you and stops you in your tracks. “Hey kiddo calm down.” His hands are on your shoulder. You look up to him with tears in your eyes. “I-I need to go to the store.” He knows what you want and shakes your head. “We can do a blood test here in the lab. It is much more accurate than those tests.” You give your dad a small nod. He leads you over to his work area having you sit as he gets ready to draw your blood. You're both quiet as he sets up. As he starts taking your blood he speaks. “I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.” You sigh and look down. “It’s complicated Dad.” He is silent for a moment as he pulls the needle out and places a piece of gauze on the spot. You hold it there and pull your arm back. “Are you going to tell me who it is?” He asks you but you stay silent.

As Tony starts running the test you go and brush your teeth before coming back to the silent room and continuing your work. Trying everything to distract yourself from the gnawing feeling in your gut. You don’t know how much time has passed. It feels like it is going slow and fast at the same time. You're brought back to reality when the computer beeps. You watch as your Dad rolls over to the computer screen and pulls up the results. You can’t see through his head but you're scared to look. It’s not that you don’t want kids, it is the fact you didn’t expect to have any right now and you’re not even dating Kate. 

Tony rolls out of the way and angels the screen towards you. The screen shows pregnant. You can feel the tears welling in your eyes as they move to your Dad’s face. You can’t tell what he is feeling at the moment but all you do is start to cry. “I-I’m sorry Daddy. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to.” You don’t even know why you're crying but just as before Tony is to you in seconds this time wrapping his arms around you tightly as you cry into his chest. He reassures you as he holds you close. Once you start to calm down he speaks up again. “Do you want to keep it?” You nod as you pull back a little and look up at him. There is a small smile on his face. “Now are you going to tell me who fucked my daughter?” You push at him a little as he chuckles which just brings a smile to your face. You know you are going to have to tell him because you have to tell Kate but you're still a little scared and you know if you don’t do it now you won’t have the courage. 

“Promise you won’t get mad?” You look at Tony who is still holding you in his arms. “Was it an Avenger?” He questions you. You pull back from him and wipe some of the tears off your face. “Please don’t be mad.” You tell him. “You fucked another Avenger!” He exclaimed. “Dad, if you don’t promise me that you aren’t going to be mad and respectful, I'm not going to tell you.” Tony grumbles but agrees. You let out a sigh before speaking again. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” It is quiet for a moment. “Yes Miss. Stark?” A female voice is heard overhead. “Can you please ask Kate to please come down to the lab.” You don’t dare to look at your Dad as you talk. “Right away Miss. Stark.” 

When you finally meet your Dad’s gaze his mouth is hanging open in shock. Everyone knew that you and Kate didn’t get along so how could it be her. Though most have noticed that since your mission with her and being trapped together your dynamic has changed. You two wanted to keep things private and navigate these changes without the others knowing. So in front of the others you two were friendlier with one another but spent time together to get to know one another in private. Most just figured you two being trapped together changed things for you both but this wasn’t on their bingo cards for sure. 

The door creaks open bringing your attention to the Raven hair girl that walks through the door. Kate notices the tear stains on your face and her gaze softens. “Is everything okay? F.R.I.D.A.Y. said you were looking for me.” She looks between you and Tony and she can see the obvious scowl on his face. You give her a short nod before speaking up. “Dad, can you give us the room?” But he doesn’t move, still scowling at the other girl. “Dad you promised.” He grumbles and moves to leave. “Don’t try anything funny with my daughter, I'll be watching you.” He says to Kate as he walks by before heading out the door. He has always been protective over you and even more so of your sister so it is no surprise that he is acting like this. 

“Y/n/n what's wrong?” Kate asks you but you don’t say anything, just taking her hand and walking her over to the screen. You drop her hand as you turn the screen for her to read. You drop your head not wanting to see her reaction. Not wanting to see her upset with you. The room goes silent once again as the results of the screen sink in. “You.. You’re pregnant?” Kate questions. You finally look up at her as tears that you didn’t even know were there start slipping down your face. You nod. “I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t m-mean for-” Your cut off when Kate wraps her arms around you and picks you up spinning you around. 

You have to tell her to stop and put you down before you throw up all over her. She quickly puts you down but doesn’t let you go. “I’m sorry.” You mumble looking down. Kate removes one of her arms from around you and makes you look up at her. “Why are you sorry?” You can see genuine excitement in her eyes but also the concern she has for you. “Because I got pregnant.” You tell her feeling disappointed in yourself. She just shakes her head at you with a soft smile on her face. “You don’t need to be sorry for that. It takes two to make a baby and last time I checked I wasn’t the only one who came that day.” Her words make you blush a little and she chuckles. “I want kids more than anything baby girl and I would love to have them with you if that is what you wanted.” 

You can’t help the happy tears that fall. “More than anything.” You mumble. You were so scared before but now all you have is excitement for a new chapter. Kate leans in capturing your lips with hers. The kiss becomes heated quickly as Kate pulls you closer, but you're both broken apart when you hear banging on the glass. You pull back looking past Kate at your Dad who is banging on the glass walls of the lab. You wave him off knowing that he is grumbling to himself. You both laugh at the situation before Kate gives you another quick peck. 

Kate looks down at you love and desire in her eyes. She moves one of her hands onto your stomach with a smile, her gaze on your stomach before looking back up at you. “Y/n Stark will you be my girlfriend?” You shed some more tears as you smile and nod. “I would love nothing more than that.” You kiss Kate again before pressing your foreheads together basking in the moment and the excitement of what is to come next on this new journey.

[imtherain]

How We Used To Be (Forced Closeness)

Oh Hai - Logan has inspired me again. This was supposed to be a very different story and there was supposed to be smut, but it didn't work out that way.

Warnings: Talk of injuries (basically that scene in Logan (2017)), Not smut, almost tho, talk about the past, angst I guess? Old Man Logan, who has issues with intimacy and it's not what you think (or maybe it is). I used y/n but it's in first person and I gave her powers/a mutant name, so idk what that's called.

Old Man Logan x mutant!reader I guess? I'm too old to learn the new tricks of labeling these things, all I know is I've been thirsty for Logan since I was literally 7 years old and this is quickly turning into one of the recipe blogs where you have to read a bazillion words before you see the directions. Sorry

Word Count: 3.2k (don't look at me)

[Masterlist]

“You look like shit, love,” I said, leaning in the doorway to the bathroom. Logan’s eyes shot up to glare at me in the mirror. He was bleeding from several bullet wounds and was currently shirtless and heaving over the sink. 

“Get the fuck out,” He ground out. I hadn’t seen him in almost six months. Almost a record.

“Calaban called me,” I told him, knowing he likely knew that was how I ended up here. “I’m glad he did, you’re worse off than anticipated.” 

“If you touch me, I’ll rip your arms off,” A caged animal snapping his teeth. I knew all of his threats to me were empty, but it still made my heart ache that he would rather suffer than let me help him.

“I’m not scared of you,” I told him, pulling myself off the doorframe. I shut the door behind me and crossed the tiles until I stood next to him. He was snarling in general, but didn’t move away when I took a cloth and began to clean the blood from one of the wounds on his arm.

My gift had earned me the name Booster back when things were good and goofy mutant names were all the rage, as my main ability was that I literally boosted other mutants powers when I touched them. I always joked about how it was a lazy XMen name. But now? There weren’t many of us left, no reason for silly code names. But we still stuck together when we could. I told myself that was the only reason I hung around this part of the country still. To be close to the few mutants I knew were left.

Nevermind that it was really the bleeding man in front of me that I stayed for.

“I don’t need your help,” Logan’s voice was quieter now, but still sharp edged like his teeth. I shushed him and wiped at another spot of blood, waiting for him to give in to the knowledge that I could actually make him feel better.

“I’m sure you don’t, but it would make me feel useful to help, would you deny me that?” I quirked an eyebrow at him and he looked away from me. 

“Last time you helped me I hurt you, I’m not letting that happen again,” I reached up and took his face in my hands. His eyes fluttered closed.

“Cuts heal,” I told him. He moved to cage me with his arms for a moment and I was sure he was going to give in. But all at once he shoved me away from him and I stumbled into the wall. “Logan,” I chided. 

“Leave, Y/N,” There was no snarl left in his voice, just defeat. 

And pain.

“No,” I told him simply. “Now are you going to let me Boost you or not?” 

“Last time…” 

“Yeah, yeah, last time,” I rolled my eyes as I cut him off. My abilities didn’t just boost one part of a mutant, it boosted all of them. So in Logan’s case, it made him a bit more animalistic for a time. Made him more likely to use his teeth, or use his claws.

The claws are what got me that last time he kept thinking about. He got me good, I'd give him that, I even had the scars on my ribcage if you looked close enough. But I didn't tell him that.

“If you do that again, I won’t be able to stop myself from…” Logan snarled at himself as a wave of pain contorted his features. “Fuck,” He cursed lowly to himself. I sighed and pulled my shirt off while he watched me in the mirror. 

“I’m a big girl, love, I can handle you,” I half teased, half soothed him. “And don’t forget, I get to keep a bit of what I boost, so anything you do to me won’t last long,” A secondary benefit to skin to skin contact with me. I got to taste the powers that others had. I hadn’t used it on too many mutants in my life. Most mutants didn’t really have powers that benefited from boosting all that much. But Logan and his healing factor? It was useful. Even if it made him extra feisty for a day or so.

It also made him horny usually but that was hardly a complaint from me.

“Fine, but only for a minute,” He finally gave in. I smiled at him and stepped behind him.

“Want me to take my bra off too?” I smirked over his shoulder at him and he shivered, shaking his head no. Too bad I was a bad listener. I shucked my bra and made a big show of dropping it to the floor next to us. Logan let out a shaky breath, knowing what was coming.

We’d been here before.

I pulled his beater out of his pants and slid my hands slowly up his ribs. He grunted as my hands slid over bruises and broken things. I hummed softly as I let my powers unfurl into his skin while I slid his shirt up. I’d learned pretty early on that the more skin that touched skin, the better my boosting worked.

I pressed myself along Logan’s back as I helped ease his shirt over his shoulders and arms. He groaned when the shirt finally came free over his head and joined mine on the floor. 

My arms closed around him, one moving up towards his chest, one circling around his middle. Skin searching skin as he caught my eyes in the mirror. 

“How does it feel?” I whispered against his shoulder. I had aimed for his neck but he avoided me.

“Warm,” He murmured. “Always does,” I pressed a soft kiss to his skin and he shivered again.

Instead of teasing him anymore, I focused on the task at hand, closing my eyes and leaning against him. I could feel my powers seeping into his skin, like sunshine that time we took a bunch of the kids to the beach the summer it was so hot the AC kept going out. I wondered if he ever let himself remember the good times or if he only ever lingered on the bad ones.

Logan let out a shaky breath followed by a deep groan as a bullet pushed free of his flesh. It landed with a metallic thud in the sink, closely followed by a second and a third. 

“Do you know how many there are?” I asked. 

“More,” Was all Logan got out from between his clenched teeth. I adjusted my hold and focused back on my breathing. Healing and boosting were both somehow tied to breath. 

My powers were not a magic fix though either. It still took time. I still remembered the days when he didn’t need me to boost him, but he’d ask just so I’d touch him a little. Back then I’d been shy, always holding his hand, or maybe his arm. I was shy a lot until the day he kissed me the first time.

Then all the cards were on the table…all the clothes on the floor.

A metallic thud on the floor brought me back to the task at hand. I moved my arms to touch different skin and Logan covered my hands with his, holding me so I didn’t pull away. I smiled against his shoulder and playfully nipped him with my teeth.

“And you didn’t want me to touch you a second ago,” I teased him. He growled, low in his throat. The animal was coming up in his chest and I knew what that meant for me. Logan was scared he’d hurt me again, but I knew the risk, and I was eager to face him. 

“That’s enough,” Logan panted, but he didn’t pull my hands away. I waited to see what he’d do, pull away or pull me closer. 

He brought one of my hands up to his mouth and kissed each finger tip. I hummed in pleasure, not so subtly rubbing my suddenly erect nipples along his spine. Another growl and my fingers were suddenly in his mouth.

“Logan!” I chuckled as he nibbled on my fingers. “I know that’s technically skin, but my arm isn’t helping if you hold it up like that,” I tried to pull my hand back and he just grumbled at me. 

“How do you still taste so good?” Logan mused, not expecting an answer. “It’s been years and you still taste just as sweet,” 

“You’re a romantic is why,” I hid my blush from his hungry eyes by dipping behind his shoulder again. Logan pulled me in front of him, caging me between his chest, his arms, and the bathroom sink.

“You should leave now, before it’s too late,” His eyes were hungry in the same way they had always been for me. I reached up and took his face in my hands again, tracing the crows feet around his eyes with my thumbs.

“And miss all the fun?” I mused. He rolled his eyes at me. “And you’re still bleeding,” I pointed out, tracing the one wound on his arm that hadn’t quite healed yet. It must have been the nastiest one because it appeared to be the last one to go.

“Y/N,” he warned. 

“I’ll stop touching you when this one heals,” I told him. “Promise,” it was a baldfaced lie. I wouldn’t leave him unless he bodily threw me out the window. And not only would I not fit out the closest window, he would never dare.

“I don’t know if I can hold out that long,” Logan’s pupils were blown and his smirk was hazy. I knew exactly what he was craving and I was pretty impressed he’d managed to hold himself back as long as he had.

“I can take you, big boy,” I smirked. “Always could and always will,” I pulled myself on his shoulders so that I could press my lips to his. It was just a quick peck, testing the waters. Logan stared at me for a long time, neither of us noticing that the last bullet hole had finally closed. 

But there was still pain in him, still things to heal, so I held onto him, hoping to fix everything I could before he made me leave him again.

Logan finally got himself together enough to push me away from him. I swallowed hard, wondering if he’d be mad that I clung to him as long as I had, wondering if this time I’d sassed my way into making him actually hate me.

His eyes drifted from my flushed cheeks, to my parted lips, down the curve of my neck and the valley between my breasts. I knew they’d seen better days, having drooped with the years, but from the hunger in Logan’s eyes, you’d think he didn’t notice.

His hands moved from my shoulders to my chest and I gasped at the sudden sensation of him pawing me.

“I shouldn’t,” Logan complained into my throat as he dragged his teeth along my pulse.

“I can take it,” I assured him.

“What if I hurt you?” 

“I can take it,” I told him again.

“Fuck,” Logan’s growl tickled my neck as he moved to lift me onto the nearest surface, a sad excuse for a bathroom cabinet that gave way with a crack as soon as he set me on it.

“I’ll fix that,” I told him but he didn’t care, his mouth was on mine before I could come out with another apology. Logan pulled me flush with his chest, off the now broken surface to my feet, and walked backwards with me until he ran into the door frame. 

I giggled a little as he cursed, unclear why this was so difficult. I got us through the door, smiling and pulling on his hands, making sure to keep my skin touching his somewhere. Anywhere.

Everywhere I could reach. 

Logan licked his way into my mouth as we stumbled through the living room, bouncing off the wayward furniture as we made our way to his bed. Finally, something soft to land on.

I was on my back looking up at him. I’d seen him in his prime, when his hair wasn’t graying, when he didn’t keep a beard. I’d seen him when nothing could stop him. And looking at him now, I felt exactly the same as I did back then. Hungry for the animal of him, for the things I knew he could do to me. Lust for the sensations he could cause. And love, still burning brightly after all these years.

Love for the man he was underneath it all.

When Logan didn’t join me right away, I reached up to him and whined, knowing he always liked how desperate I got for him. He shook his head at my shenanigans and I wiggled for him as his hands worked to undo his pants.

“Impatient as always,” Logan chuckled.

“It’s your fault for making me go away all the time,” I countered. His slacks hit the floor and he moved to kiss his way up my bare stomach as he worked on getting me out of mine.

He just grunted as his mouth ran along the skin he exposed when he pulled my pants and underwear down my thighs. I knew it wasn’t the time to bring it up, so I didn’t push him or ask him to ask me to stay.

Logan pressed his face into the soft spot behind my knee and I squirmed as his beard tickled the sensitive skin.

“God you smell amazing,” He mumbled, tracing the inside of my thigh with open mouth kisses. I let my hips relax and fall open for him and his eyes zeroed in on the place that, at the moment, needed him most. With a growl, Logan moved to bury his face in my folds, and I couldn’t help the surprised yelp I let out at his movements. 

There was a time he would devour me for hours if given the chance. A time when he’d want me in any place we were. Broom closets, empty classrooms, offices that we weren’t even supposed to be in. Every hotel and far too many bathrooms. Quickies and love making and slow fucks and even hate fucks now and then. We had everything, but now? 

“Fuck, Logan that tickles,” I wiggled against his face as he breathed me in.

“Shh,” He murmured. “Just let me have this,” 

“I’m trying to give it to you,” I groaned. Logan rolled his eyes at me, but adjusted so that he could pass a long lick of his tongue through me. I shivered at the sensation, a fire sparking along my nerves. I felt his self-satisfied smirk against my core before he moved his mouth against me again. 

“I don’t remember you being this desperate,” He mused, pulling two long fingers through the dampness he’s been lapping at.

“Logan, baby, please,” I begged him to do more than tease me.

“Please what, sweetheart?” Logan’s eyes caught mine as I huffed, annoyed that he wasn’t fucking me yet.

“I want more of you,” I told him. 

“Yeah well, ‘more of me’ ain’t exactly working at the moment,” He admitted. I knew finally growing old had caught up with him in a lot of ways, but my chest ached for him that it came for him this way too. He’d always prided himself on his virality.

“I want any of you I can get, baby,” I smiled at him, reaching down to pull him flush with my chest so I could kiss him again, my mouth opening easily for his tongue to explore. I let my powers unfurl into the kiss, into any skin of his that was touching mine. Trying desperately to let him feel like himself again.

“Hmm,” He mumbled, pulling back slightly. I kissed the side of his mouth, his jaw, as he tried to shake the feeling out of his head. “Warm,” His eyes were suddenly really far away, sleepy. I kissed him again, softer now. 

“It’s ok, baby, I’ve got you,” I told him. He made a grumbling noise in his chest as sleep zapped his strength.

“What did you…what did you do to me?” Logan tried to push himself off of me, but only managed to roll to one side. I held him close.

“Nothing, love,” I whispered, kissing his face again. “Healing is just, just a lot, remember?” 

“But I was gonna fuck you,” Logan mumbled, eyes closed now.

“I know baby,” I smiled gently at him. I had my arms around him still, trying to help him heal some of the damage that the bullets hadn’t caused. “You can fuck me tomorrow,” He tried to move away from me, but he was unable to untangle our limbs before his body told him it was nap time.

I sighed heavily, a bit bummed that neither of us had ended up getting our rocks off, but happy too, that I’d been able to help boost his healing. But I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that he was far worse off than I thought he was. 

When we were younger, he’d almost go into a rut after being Boosted. It was madness but it was always a good time. The last few years, with his body slowing down, the Boosting made him feral, but then he’d pass out for a long time while his body caught back up. The last time I’d been here, he’d fucked me through two orgasms and himself through one, before the sleepiness came for him. That time, he’d lashed out, thinking he’d been drugged. It was like the nights he’d wake up with nightmares, only he’d not gone fully to sleep yet.

Part of me was glad he didn’t try to gut me at least. But my heart clenched at the thought that maybe the end of him was closer than I wanted to believe.

To stave off the tears that were suddenly crowding my throat, I adjusted our bodies so that Logan could use my chest as a pillow. He mumbled something in his sleep, and his arm pulled me closer, holding me like maybe this time he wasn’t going to let me go. I circled his head with my arms, carding my fingers through his hair, happy to be able to comfort him, to allow him to sleep.

For just a moment, it could have been any other day. We could be young again. All of our friends, still alive. I closed my eyes and imagined the sounds of the school. Kids running down wooden hallways, calling after each other. Tears escaped me then, because most of those kids were gone now. And any kids like them, like I had been so long ago now, didn’t have a school to go to. They would be rounded up and killed now. Or taken away to some place horrible. And I knew there was nothing I could do.

Except maybe hold Logan just a little bit tighter, knowing that every fight ever fought for those kids, eventually made its way to him too.

[Another Logan Fic]

[topazy]

Teen spirit

Pairing: Carl Grimes × reader, Maggie Greene × sister reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence

Chapter: 6.06

Groaning, you start sitting up by yourself but struggle, feeling an ache in your side. As soon as Glenn sees you’re awake, he is immediately by your side, helping you sit up and adding an extra pillow behind you. On the other side of the bed, you notice Carl sleeping in a chair; he looks exhausted with heavy dark circles underneath his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Glenn asks.

“Like I’ve been stabbed.”

He shakes his head and smiles, “You had us worried; Maggie will be so relieved you’re awake. She’s gone home to change her clothes.”

Your community didn’t have a real hospital, so the doctors used one of the homes as a makeshift medical facility. It felt strange laying in one of the beds; the last person who slept in the one you were in was Carl when he lost his eye.

Quietly you ask, “Where’s Eugene?”

“The bullet only grazed him; he’s fine.”

“That’s good.” Sighing, you lean back into the pillow, “Did they bring Denise back?”

Glenn looks down at his feet, “Not at first, but Daryl and Rosita went back and got her. They brought her home.”

Tears of relief roll down your cheeks; the fear of her body being left outside for the elements, walkers, or animals to destroy was in the back of your mind. “Good. Those men... they came out of nowhere,” you muffle a sob with the back of your hand. “How bad is it?”

“The knife missed anything major, thank God. Carol was able to stitch up the wound, but you will have one hell of a scar.”

“It will be some story to tell my future niece or nephew.”

Glenn kisses your forehead. “I’m going to let Maggie know you’re awake.”

Once Glenn leaves, your eyes start to close over; despite just waking up, you were still exhausted. You hear the sound of a chair moving, then feel a warm hand against your own. Feeling yourself start to fall asleep, you link your fingers with Carl’s.

—

Carl was pissed, and you couldn’t blame him. His dad and Morgan had left Alexandria to go find Carol, who had decided to leave without saying goodbye to anyone in person. Daryl had left to look for Dwight and his men, and Glenn, Michonne, and Rosita had gone after him. Seven of the best fighters in your group had left base, leaving only Maggie, Abraham, Sasha, and Carl to defend your community if someone attacked.

Biting down on your lip, you sit down on Carl’s bed. He had moved the bed next to the window since the view looked out into the woods.

“I went to the armory and got you a few things.”

He places a black holdall on the floor, and your eyes widen when he zips the bag open. “Oh lord, those are more than a few things,” you say quietly. “It won’t take Aaron long to notice they are gone.”

“Then I’ll just tell him the truth; I took them.”

He pulls a flare out the bag and sits it on the window ledge. “If you see anything, use this, and I’ll come right back. I promise.”

“Thanks.”

“Y/N, it's okay to be afraid after what happened.”

“I'm not afraid,” you say defensively.

So much weight was landing on Carl’s shoulders; it wasn’t fair. Every kid had been forced to grow up too quickly since the world went to hell, but the burdens that fell on Carl always seemed to be extremely unfair.

“I just wish I could help more.”

“Keeping an eye out for those assholes is helpful.”

“Suppose,” you pick up the binoculars and look outside. “I can’t even pick Judith up; I’m just worried I’m going to be useless if they attack.”

“You won’t be,” Carl leans down and kisses you. “I’m gonna go get Judith from Olivia; I’ll be back soon.”

—

Maggie leans against the doorframe in the kitchen; her tone reminds you of the one your mom would use whenever she was frustrated. “You should be resting in bed.”

“I’m not doing anything strenuous; I’m just making lunch.”

“For how many people?”

Your shrug, “Whoever is hungry, I was falling asleep sitting by the window, and everyone needs to eat at some point.”

Sitting around was making you feel guilty; you just wanted to help. The sandwiches and plate of carrot sticks on offer were nothing in comparison compared to the meals Carol could make.

Maggie leans her arms against the counter. “How are you feeling anyway?”

“My side feels tight where the stitches are, but it should be me fussing over you. You look exhausted.”

“Thanks,” she snorts.

“You need to rest, Maggie, even for a couple of hours.”

“No can do. We are short of bodies as it is. We need all hands on deck.”

Enid knocks on the doorframe lightly and steps into the room. “I didn’t mean to listen in, but I can cover Maggie’s shift for a few hours.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Maggie raises her brows, “Who’s in charge here?”

“You need to rest.”

“I really don’t mind,” Enid says. “You should be putting your feet up and eating ice cream or whatever else you’re craving.”

“It’s sorted then.”

“Fine,” Maggie raises her hands in defeat before laughing and taking one of the sandwiches, “but only because the two of you are ganging up on me.”

—

“I could see myself living by the seaside.” Carl runs his fingers through your hair. “There would always be a good supply of food like fish, crabs, and frogs.”

“Frogs?” You chuckle, “I don’t imagine they would be easy to catch.”

The look on his face is solemn. “One person needs to go into the water and splash around, and the other catches them in a bucket when they try to get away.”

Rick returned not long ago, and you had hoped Carl would be less stressed, but he still seems upset, and you didn’t want to push him to talk until he was ready.

“I’d love to live on a farm again one day.”

Carl rests his head against your shoulder. The two of you were sitting in the living room while Enid cut your sister's hair. Enid had taken the ends off your hair already, and you were just waiting to clean up once she was done. It’s only when you look at the length Carl’s hair has got that you remember him saying the only person he let cut his hair was his mom.

Hearing a groaning sound coming from the kitchen, you jolt up, “Maggie? Maggie!”

When you don’t get a response, Carl rushes into the kitchen, with you close behind him. Enid is in shock watching as Maggie doubles over in pain, clutching at her stomach.

The baby.

“Oh my god, what happened?”

Frightens, Enid shakes her head. “I don’t know, she was fine one minute, and then the pain came out of nowhere.”

When Carl helps Maggie stand up, you go to the opposite side of her.

“Enid, go get Rick! We need to take Maggie to the doctor in Hilltop.”

[idontknowreallyidontcare]

Husband!König has many piercings, some he regrets some he admires himself from getting.

Getting in military after many years of bullying gave him lots of confidence, you can see it. From his lines in game you can understand how cocky and sure of himself he is. He’s a colonel now yes, but he was younger too. I believe he got to hookup more from his 19’s to his late 20’s, this gave him a possibility to discover himself, what he liked and to actually explore himself as a young adult. I believe he has had a brow piercing, the hole almost totally closed because he decided it was too risky keeping one on the field (image he actually rips it off because it gets stuck in something;-; ewwww) He just took it off and never really thought about putting it back in.

Classic but I do image him having a tongue piercing. Like listen, we know König eats pussy for pleasure, he would be okay with only feasting on your pussy for the rest of his life if he could choose to. So ofc, when he started to watch porn and noticed many actors having piercings, and how hot il looked while they ate pussy, he just went with it and got one. The fact that he actually went to a piercer instead of just asking Nikto for help by sticking a mf needle in his tongue and risking an infection, is actually pure luck, because our König is also a proud mf, he takes pride in being good at anything, And why wouldn’t he be able to stick a needle in his own tongue alone! (Thank god Nikto was the one to persuade him, he would’ve gotten an infection).

NOW, König has a big cock, we all know it, he knows it, everyone knows it. And how can his big attributes be highlighted if not by some downstairs piercings??? He’s got one on his tip, unfortunately removed due to the discomfort it gave him by constantly rubbing against his TOO TIGHT pants (whore). BUT DONT BE SAD! He once stumbled across a stack of porn magazines, they were old fashioned ones, probably from late 90’s, depicting naked man and women on each and every page (lol ofc they were porn magazine.)

A model in particular captured his attention, his soft dick resting on the side of a thigh, he could see the small piercings along the under part. Thank god König is also a tech genius, he works with advanced technology every day, so a silly and fast google search brings him to what he is looking for, that strange piercing’s name. Yes everyone, a Jacob’s ladder ;). He’s got one, his dick all hot and bothered form the moment he saw that model’s picture, because he was sure that it would feel SO GOOD to be inside a nice hot pussy, feeling how after each and every thrust the piercings would drag around the insides of a girl, making a moaning mess out of her.

Yes he got one, and he was very careful with it, König is a pretty clean lad, he may not have a skincare, may not use fancy lotions and shampoos, but he knows his routine, he keeps himself clean, even more now that he got the piercings. Well I think he got them in his 30’s, he was already mature enough to understand if he could or couldn’t take care of such an important body modification, and he went for it. He got it done when he knew he’d have the most time off from work, where he knew he could spent at least a few months outside the base and actually be able to care for the wound. Very sexy mature choice woof woof bark bark snarl gnawn

He has a failed lip piercing guys, if got ripped off when a bullet hit his face and scarred a bit of his lips, destiny wanted for the bullet to be deviated exactly by his lip piercing. He’s got a bit of a trauma now, refusing to get another one, but still grateful that the first one kinda saved his life and his face from the possibility of a fucking hole being planted inside of it. He was so sexy too, you have seen a pic (yes a pic, I never see anyone talking about how they actually have technology incorporated in their lives! They take pics guys! Like boomers probably, but they do!) you may try to convince him to get one again, and who knows, maybe he’ll actually consider, but only because YOU asked!! Image now the contrast of his tongue piercing and his lip one while he eats you out, woof woof bark, I’d faint.

[pinkanonwrites]

Just Within Your Reach

Stargazers, New and Old was so well received that I decided to make this into a trilogy. Hope you all enjoy part 2, and eagerly await the (most likely NSFW) third part! Check it out on AO3 here!

Vash/Reader, 3,300+ words, GN! Reader, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Minor Injuries, hes so in love with you and youre the only one who cant tell

“Almost there, Vash. Just, hfffhhh, a few more steps. I got you.”

“It’s-ghh, It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. So stop saying that!”

You tried your best not to jam Vash’s armored shoulder against the doorframe, but you couldn’t help but scrape past it a bit as you helped him stumble into the dark hotel room. A step from the bed he collapsed forward out of your grasp, slumping motionless into the creaky mattress with another pained huff. You tossed his bag, which had been slung over your shoulder, onto the floor by the bedside.

“Can you take your jacket off by yourself?”

“‘M fine…” He slurred, face smushed into the covers. “I patch up quick, it’s no big deal.”

“Vash. Coat.”

As he rolled over he failed to stifle a pained hiss, and you saw the blood that had once been smeared across his forehead was now stained into the quilt top. Knowing Vash for as long as you had, you knew that ‘lucky’ was quite possibly the worst way he could ever be described. And yet, regardless of what sort of predicament he would find himself in, he seemed to be able to get out of it with no more than a few scrapes and bumps, no worse for wear.

Not this time.

You at least had the mercy of knowing none of the bullets that had been shot at him had fully connected, but you knew at least one of them grazed his shoulder far too close for your comfort. That, combined with the blunt force trauma when he went through the saloon wall and the way he’d had to lean the majority of his body weight on you as he limped up the stairs of the hotel, you knew that he needed to get patched up and quick.

“Please Vash, I just need you to sit up for a second, okay? Just for a minute. I need to take off your coat.”

“...You really don’t want to see that.” He rasped, and as you flicked the bedside lamp on you could see the way his face had screwed up in apprehension, smeared blood behind his glasses only making his unease more disconcerting. It made your own stomach twist in a way you certainly didn’t like.

“Let me be the judge of that, at least.” You countered. After a long, silent moment, Vash sighed, crawling into a pained sitting position and letting his signature coat slump off of his still-flesh shoulder. Beneath the coat he wore a high-necked, black tank top that left you easy access to the open wound. You tugged away the blood-sticky fabric around his upper arm to reveal a deep, jagged gash oozing blood down the length of his bicep. It almost looked singed around the edges, brackish and sooty and red amidst a field of pale skin and faded, puckered scar tissue.

Vash only pulled off the one sleeve, so you circled the bed and wrestled with the other, his expression guarded and distant as you did. The pauldron that guarded his shoulder clattered noisily to the floor as you tugged the jacket away to reveal his other shoulder. No new injuries that you could see on the surface, but it was equally scarred and pocked, especially around the junction where his prosthetic met skin.

There were so many scars. Long, thin gashes from knives and blades, small round starbursts from bullet holes, patches of eternally reddened skin, textured and misshapen in the way only a burn could manifest. And that was just on his arms…

“It’s… Not something I like many people to see. Or anyone, really.” You didn’t realize you were tracing your fingers across that junction until he’d spoken up, and you jerked your fingers away like you yourself had been burned.

“...Do they still hurt?”

“Sometimes. When it's too hot out. They can get kind of itchy.”

“Okay… Okay. You have a first aid kit, right?” You didn’t have time to unpack all of Vash’s scars, and by the way he’d curled in on himself and reduced to short, clipped sentences, you knew he really didn’t want to either. Instead you busied yourself in his travel bag, pushing past well-worn clothes and camping supplies and a slew of loose bullets until you found the small metal container. It rattled as you forced the latches open, and you knew the sparseness of it was something you’d have to talk to Vash about later, but not right now.

Vash had leaned back against the bed frame, head tipped back and eyelids fluttering dangerously close to fully closed. You snapped your fingers in front of his face and watched as his gaze shifted from bleary and distant to at least semi-focused on you.

‘Vash, please. Just stay awake until I’m done, okay? Then you can rest. Please.” You begged, hands shaking as you unrolled the spool of bandages. There had to be something in here you could use to disinfect the wound before you wrapped it, if you just… “Hold on. Don’t move.”

The bathroom was cramped and tight, a slim shower, toilet, and sink all crammed into a closet-sized space. But there was a stack of washcloths on the counter and you quickly wet one in the sink before bringing it back to the bedside. There you found Vash squinting in the cozy glow of the lamp, glasses abandoned on the nightstand as he struggled to wrap his wound with one hand.

“What did I say?” You snapped, ripping the bandages from his grasp. “Can’t you just sit still for a minute?”

He blinked at you, clearly shocked as his hand gently fell back to the bed. You’d never yelled at him like that before, not like you'd meant it. Not for as long as he’d known you. An immediate rush of guilt flooded your veins, but you stomped it down as you knelt on the bedside next to his arm.

“You have to clean it first… Idiot.”

“Ah… Sorry.” He watched in silence as you dabbed the wound, flinching every once and a while as you tried to wipe the excess blood away as gently as you could with these scratchy hotel towels. Once you found the wound to be suitably cleaned (or at least as well as you could for the meager supplies you had) you began winding bandages around his shoulder. He continued to watch you as you worked, eyes trained on the way your fingers shivered. “I made you mad.”

You huffed. “Cause you won’t let me help you. You’re basically concussed and you’re trying to brush me off like it’s nothing!”

“It’s really-”

“If you say ‘it’s not a big deal’ one more time I’m gonna hit you.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry either. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m just… Not good at letting people worry about me, I guess.”

“Well-” You stammered, taping the edge of the bandage in place. Now that the immediate danger had passed, the bravado seemed to rush out of you in a single, weary burst. You didn’t have the energy to be angry anymore, you were just relieved he was alright. “-Well get used to it.”

He laughed, small and tired, and slumped against the headboard again as soon as you were finished. Without his glasses and his oversized coat he looked so soft, so unlike the incredible bombast you were used to from him. He just looked like… Like a person. Not the world’s best gunman, certainly not the Humanoid Typhoon. Just like… Vash. Just the Vash that liked to pet the Thomases bridled up outside whatever town you'd blown into, the Vash who taught you how to balance a spoon on your nose one morning while waiting for breakfast, the Vash that leaned his body into yours every night now that he knew just how cold you would get, never asking for anything in return, constantly shouldering more and more with nothing but a smile on his face.

You sniffed, fighting back the stinging behind your eyes as you wiped your hands on the bloodstained washcloth. Moving down to the foot of the bed, you began undoing the knot of one of Vash's boots. He sat up a little straighter at that, reaching out instinctively with his injured arm only to flinch at the jolt of pain that shot up it.

"Ah, you don't…" Before he could finish his sentence you gave him a glare, daring him to try and stop you from helping a second time. He couldn't help but smile a little at your determination, despite himself. "...Okay. Thank you."

He didn't have to thank you, you'd do anything and more for him in a heartbeat if he'd just ask for once. But that wasn't the type of guy Vash was, and you weren't about to start picking an argument over this topic. Instead, as you worked, you quietly asked, "How often do you get hurt this bad… and just not tell me?"

By the way he stiffened you could tell you weren't going to like the answer. But you waited anyway, silently pulling off his unlaced left boot and letting it thunk to the floor before starting on the right.

"Just don't want you to worry about stuff like that." He finally responded.

"I'm gonna worry either way. What if I did the same thing, how would you feel?"

"It's not the same, though."

"To me it is!" You gripped his laces tight, staring him dead in the eyes. "I'm not asking you to tell me everything, you know. I just want you to trust me."

"I do!" He shot up suddenly, metal hand closing quickly but incredibly gently around one of your own. "I do trust you! So much…"

You turned your hand to lace your fingers with his, staring down at the blue-green metal as you drew your thumb back and forth over it. "Then please be more open with me. Or try at least. Like I said, you don't have to tell me everything. But I care, Vash. I care about you, I care when you're hurt, and I want you to know you can rely on me when you need it. I just need you to try."

Staring down at the back of his metal palm, you watched a single drop of water plink against its surface. Then a second, then a third. A sharp sniffle forced your gaze upwards, where you found Vash's face blotchy and dribbling tears around a big, toothy smile.

"Vash?!"

"Ah! Sorry, sorry…" He untangled his hand from yours to scrub at his face, wipe away excess tears. "...I told you, I'm not really used to this-oh…"

Cutting him off mid-explanation, you lurched forward and took Vash into your arms, pressing your face into the crook of his neck as you rubbed his back with both hands. His breath hitched softly again as you petted him.

"You're so nice to everyone but yourself…" You mumbled, voice muffled into soft, warm skin.

"Ah… I guess I am." He responded, for he didn't know what else to say.

You lost track of time sitting like that, Vash cradled in your arms, you clinging to him like you were afraid he was going to dissolve into sand between your fingertips. But eventually you could feel him yawn against you, a quiet little thing he failed to completely stifle. Slowly, reluctantly, you pulled back.

"Wanna get to bed?" You asked. Vash had an unfamiliar expression on his face, something longing, almost disappointed? You didn't want to get your hopes up, as he quickly covered it with another soft smile.

"Yeah, I'm pretty beat. I'll change real quick, then the bathroom's all yours."

He stood up carefully, testing the waters. Taking a few unsteady steps to his bag, he knelt to fish out your pajamas to pass to you before grabbing his own. For a moment his hand hovered where it was outstretched to you, even after you'd taken your clothes. Then he seemed to find himself again, give you a small nod, and make his way over into the small bathroom. The door slid shut with a small click, and you were left alone.

You did your best to busy yourself, packing the first-aid kit, setting his boots by the door, hanging his jacket on the spindly coat rack. Your fingers caught the new tear in the fabric, wet and dark with blood. He'd probably patch it himself in the morning, if he was able to, so you dabbed at the stain as best you could with the washcloth and left it hanging to dry in the corner.

When the bathroom door opened again you found Vash looking slightly hazy behind the eyes, but no worse for wear. His long shirt and pants draped over his frame once again hid any hint of a scar or wound from you as he made his way carefully back to the bed, collapsing into it with a loud squealing of springs.

"All yours…" He mumbled, shifting his head to the side to watch you as you made your way towards the bathroom. You could feel his soft, aqua gaze upon you until the minute you shut the door and closed yourself into the tiny space. All at once reality seemed to hit you, a hundred spiraling emotions threatening to drown where you stood. Vash could have died but he didn't and you helped him and he thanked you and you yelled at him and patched him up and hugged him and he hugged you back. It was certainly a lot to take in, and you slumped to a seat on the closed toilet and put your head down into your hands as you tried to steady your breathing.

But if you stayed in here for too long he'd get worried. So you only allowed yourself a small crisis of emotions before standing up again, wrestling into your pajamas as your day clothes dropped to the floor, thick with sweat and desert dust and a little bit of Vash's blood on the sleeve of your shirt. You scrubbed your face with a clean washcloth and rinsed the metallic tang of gunpowder and blood from your mouth in the sink, hunched over it like a dying animal as you took every possible last second you could to pull yourself back together. You were okay. Vash was okay.

His eyes were still on you when you finally opened the door again, his expression so soft it almost made you turn straight back around and slam it shut. Did he even know the effect he had on you? It wasn't like you were trying to make it obvious, but…

"You look tired." He murmured.

"Long day." You replied, pulling a sleepy chuckle from Vash's mouth. The scramble into the hotel was less of a "pick a room" event and more of a "give us the first room available" one, and the distinct lack of a second bed had not escaped your notice. But you weren’t going to demand Vash sleep on the floor, not after what he’d been through today. You wrestled out yours and Vash’s sleeping bags from the rucksack, bundling up your own into a makeshift pillow. “My back’s gonna hate me in the morning though.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“Um… Sleeping? This is a single room, Vash. It’s all they had.”

"No no no, hold on a minute. I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. You're taking the-gh!" He tried to prop himself back up into a seated position, wincing when he put pressure on his bad arm.

"And that's why I'm sleeping down here." You responded. He frowned at you as you continued to situate yourself. "Besides, our only other option is to share the bed."

"Then let's do that!"

You froze, your shocked gaze flying up to meet his own. He seemed to need a second to process how what he'd said had actually sounded, because you could watch in real time as his face got redder and redder. He stammered, metal hand scratching the back of his neck as his gaze flitted around the room, landing anywhere but on you.

"I-I mean, we've shared a sleeping bag before and that's no big deal! How is this different? And it's the least I can do after you patched me up, isn't it? It's only fair."

You hoped you didn't look as shellshocked, or as eager, as you were actually feeling. Seeing Vash get flustered like this was a rare treat in and of itself, but that fluster being directed at you? That was something new.

'Don't get your hopes up.' A little voice in the back of your head prodded. 'You know how Vash is. He doesn't want to get attached.'

But you wanted. Oh, how you wanted.

"If… if it's okay with you, then I guess it's alright."

Getting to your feet, suddenly you were the one feeling shaky as you clicked off the bedside lamp once more and plunged the small room into crisp, white moonlight.

"Yeah." He responded, and for a moment, just one moment, you let yourself wonder; Did he find you as beautiful silhouetted by the pale moon's glow as you found him? "C'mere."

Vash shifted back and lifted the blankets as you put a knee up on the bed, then the other, slipping in along his right side. You did your best to keep a comfortable distance as he pulled the sheets back over you both, leaving a bit of breathing space for your continued sanity. He smiled at you, not the big, goofy grin he usually gave, but that much rarer, softer little thing that made you feel like your heart was going to twist its way straight up from your ribcage and out your mouth. He watched you as you cozied yourself in, shifting a bit to get comfortable, pulling the blankets up to your chin as if they would help hide your emotions.

"You probably shouldn't lay on your bad arm." You finally murmured.

"But if I lay on my other arm then I can't look at you!" There was a touch of that familiar teasing in his tone, but the implication alone was enough to give you goosebumps. So you just stuck your tongue out at him and thumped him on the chest with a loose fist.

"Roll over, dummy. I don't want you to fuck up your arm any more than it already is."

"Ahh, so mean to me! I'm injured, you know!" But he relented and rolled over despite his whines. With his face now turned away you couldn't tell if the touch of disappointment in his tone was further teasing or something more genuine, though you had the feeling you'd struggle to tell the difference either way. But even a few inches away you could feel the warmth radiating off of Vash, that familiar sunny heat.

You wanted. You wanted. And in your heart you knew you could not have him, not forever. But for this moment, for this night, for this single bubble of peace in between moments of chaos, you just let yourself have. Inching forward, you rested your forehead in the valley of his shoulder blades, your arm draping loosely around his middle.

Vash's breath hitched hard; you could feel it ripple through his back.

"You're really warm." You just murmured. He nodded, and said nothing. For a moment you debated drawing back again, removing yourself from his space before you did or said something that would permanently fracture the careful balance you'd spent all this time building with him, the pinpoints of trust, of touch, reaching for just enough but never pushing too far. Had you pushed too far?

But instead you heard a soft, metallic creak, and felt cool, inorganic fingers slip into your own. He laced them with yours lightly, just enough to keep you from pulling away. Through his shoulder blades you could swear his heart was thundering in time with your own.

"You too." He murmured. "You're warm too."

And together, you fell asleep.

[jesterwriting]

(for that timeloop post,, uhm this relates to the whole body horror thing ((not too much just a brief mention)) so if rn u don't wanna see that SCROLL AWAY!!! OR DELETE ME!! OK disclaimer ends here)

oh man but what if Law did say room anyway and there were impossible scars on your insides... like littered everywhere, they're not fresh but old, almost phantoms that make no sense, because if they were real you would've died. how would he react to that? maybe not when he noticed them crying but after weeks or months, dunno, where they keep skipping his more thorough check-ups (where he uses his devil fruit) since they're anxious about the pains? and think that somehow there are signs of their previous deaths and the mention of them makes it hurt more and more and they just can't do it. but they can't bring themselves to say it because who could possibly believe them? if Law doesn't, it would just feel even worse, won't it? even if they understand his point of view. maybe they even die in front of him and it gets harder to just hold all of that in,,, oh boy. if you think about continuing your oneshot i'll eat it like a starving animal!

pairing: law x gn!reader

contents: slight body horror, slight gore, timeloops, suicide done to restart the loop, hurt/comfort, happy ending,

word count: 1.6k words

note: OHHHHH I LOVED THIS IDEA OH MY GOD. absolutely so smart. anon your mind is huge and i had so much fun doing this request. <33 i really hope you enjoy :33

playlist: caribou - tanya tagaq

a sister fic to this

This had never happened before. You had experienced hundreds of loops, maybe even thousands, and this was the first time Law saw fit to scan you with his Devil Fruit.

Maybe you were getting sloppy. You had a strong immune system so you never got sick, and the first time Law scanned you for your general checkup upon joining the crew, there was nothing of note. You wondered what changed, as if you hadn’t died more times since you joined his crew than you had in your entire life. Maybe it was because the more you suffered, the more reckless you became, throwing yourself into the fray with little regard for yourself. You could take a bullet for your crewmates, so you would. It was as simple as that.

There was a first time for everything, you supposed. A first death, a first breath, a first kill; there were uncountable firsts that one could experience, and you had experienced most of them.

Not this one, though.

You had tried to avoid it for as long as possible. Your captain was a man who carried burdens, ones almost as heavy as the ones on your shoulders. If he knew how many times he failed you — or how many times you failed him — you knew he would take all the blame for himself. As if you hadn’t been the one lying, and fighting, and dying over the course of countless lifetimes.

Law blinked a few times before his brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed. You fidgeted under his stare. If his reaction was anything to go by, he found something horribly wrong with you. While you had experienced slow deaths before, you had never experienced what it felt like to waste away from disease. Maybe you’d find out this loop, you thought, trying to feel nonchalant about the idea and not like you were about to throw up.

“Um. What’s wrong,” You tried.

Law shushed you, the blue glow from his room still surrounding you. You bit your tongue, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt to try and take your mind off of whatever he could have found.

“This can’t be right,” He muttered, one hand cradling his chin. He pointed to your chest. “There’s a scar inside of you, it looks like a puncture wound through your lungs. When did that happen?”

Three loops ago when you fell off a building and onto some rebar. That was a particularly awful death. The last thing you remembered before everything went black was Law’s panicked expression as he tried to put you back together again. There was terror in his eyes. You tried not to think about that part.

“And here,” Law continued, pointing to your abdomen. “There’s a scar running across the length of your stomach. It almost looks as if you were previously disemboweled.”

You had been. Multiple times. It was a common and very disturbing loop ender that you tried to avoid if you could. Watching your organs fall out of you in a steaming heap was never something you liked to experience, but for some reason, your opponents kept aiming for the gut. You wished they’d aim for the heart or the head more often. At least then it’d be quick.

He didn’t stop there, jaw falling open when he stared directly where your heart was. “When were you stabbed, Y/N-ya, this looks recent.” Law blinked a few times before realization dawned on his features. His eyes shot to your face, expression going from open to unreadable in seconds. “How did you survive without my intervention?”

Your mouth was dry. How were you supposed to respond? There was no way you could tell him that you had died on his watch more times than you could count. Law didn’t deserve that. Your captain was a good man, one you loved admired far too much to allow this to weigh him down. He would take your failures to heart, completely discounting the amount of times that he had saved you from having to start anew.

You must have been quiet for too long because Law was speaking again. “Answer me.”

“It’s from a long time ago,” You said.

That was a lie. It was from the previous loop. A quick death by your own hand over the cold corpse of your captain. If Law didn’t survive, there was no point in continuing, and if there was one thing you had grown accustomed to, it was taking your own life after one loss too many. You knew how to make it quick, no suffering. So with a precise hand, you drove your knife into your chest and let the timeline begin anew.

When you saw Law again, whole and alive, you vomited. You were under the impression that he believed that you simply ate some bad seafood, but from the concern that was slowly etching its way onto his features, you weren’t so sure of that now.

“Don’t lie to me.” Law’s eyes flashed, barely contained frustration needling at the corners of him. “None of this makes any sense, half of these injuries should have killed you. The other half would have needed to be treated.”

The truth sat on the tip of your tongue. You felt selfish and needlessly cruel for your desire to tell Law what was really happening. Your eyes burned, and their glassy sheen didn’t go unnoticed. Law handed you a tissue, expression softening.

“I- um.” You hated how your voice cracked. It had been a long time since you told someone about your Devil Fruit. You always died, and they always forgot. For a long time, you thought it was better that way, carrying this weight on your own. The way Law looked at you, though, it made you want to pour your soul out to him. Every pain, every loss, every death lain at his feet, and for once, you could stand unburdened. “It’d be wrong of me to tell you.”

Law’s eyebrows knit together. “Now you’re being stupid.”

“No, I’m not. You’ll regret asking once you know. Don’t pretend like you don’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, you don’t deserve my troubles on top of that. It’s better for both of us if you just forget what you saw.”

With that, you stood and made to brush past Law and out of the room. He grabbed you by the shoulder, not allowing you to go any farther. Though his grip was firm, it didn’t hurt. If you really wanted to, you could wrench yourself away from him.

“You’re trembling.”

Your lower lip wobbled, your resolve ebbing away by the second. “It’s complicated.”

“So tell me.” Law’s lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. “Doctor’s orders.”

You let out a small huff. He didn’t deserve this, but there would always be another loop. This current one hadn’t been going so well, and by your estimation, it would take at least three more before you managed to reach your next checkpoint. It wouldn’t hurt to tell Law what he inevitably wouldn’t remember. You steadied yourself with a deep breath and turned to face him, his eyes met yours with a mix of concern and exasperation.

“It’s my Devil Fruit,” You started. Law leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, attention solely on you. Your heart thundered in your chest. “I’ve died so many times.” Without your permission, your breath hitched. Law’s hand encircled your own with a small squeeze, encouraging you to continue. “It, um, brings me back, I guess. I’ll die, and then wake up in the bunkhouse days earlier, and I’ll be the only one who remembers what happened. All those scars you saw were what killed me in a previous loop.”

He was silent while he chewed on his words.

“How many times have you died since you joined my crew,” Law finally asked.

Your hand was still in his and you gave it a squeeze. “That’s not fair. I know what you’re doing and I won’t let you do it.”

Law’s shoulders slumped as he brought his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I believe you. It explains a lot. I noticed you cry in your sleep sometimes.”

“You watch me sleep?” The tips of Law’s ears were tinged pink while you laughed.

“I was worried so I checked on you.” With a sigh, he began to lead you out of the clinic to his office. “Come on, you’re telling me everything you can remember. We’re going to come up with a plan.”

Humoring him, you followed close on his heels. It didn’t matter how long or how hard you planned, there was no accounting for the unpredictability of the universe. This comfort wouldn’t last long. Soon, you would be dead again and the cycle would start anew. That didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy sharing a space with your captain, listening to him meticulously craft tactics to keep you, and everyone else, alive.

It wasn’t until four days later you found yourself breathing, though covered head to toe in blood, with the rest of the crew. Everyone was safe and sound, and Law wouldn’t stop looking at you with a smirk on his face. When you found yourself next to him, he bumped his shoulder against yours.

“I told you my plan would work.”

Just like that, for the first time in your life, you were no longer alone.

[ananxiousgenz]

hey guys how are we feeling about more cowboy au??? it's 4am and this is the last thing i'm posting before i go to sleep lmaooo

@percymawce-arts (along with @ellamenop and @izel-reblogs bc i saw your tags before and figured y'all would want more lol)

When he opened his eyes again, constellations were twinkling like fireflies in the navy blue sky above him, and the last blue-gray remnants of sunlight lingered on the western horizon. He could see the faint traces of firelight blossoming up past his feet, several yards away from where he was laid out on the ground and smell some sort of food cooking over it. His side was still in a dull, throbbing pain, blood slowly weeping out of it and into the ground. He could die here. Such a beautiful place to leave behind, John thought through the mist clouding his mind. 

Then the mist turned into a prairie fire as something poked into his injured side.

He screamed through his teeth . There was something in his mouth keeping his teeth from grinding together, something tough and leathery. He slowly realized it was a belt, folded and wedged into his mouth to keep him from cracking his teeth open.

“Ah, shit, sorry, sorry, sorry!” a distant voice said. It sounded vaguely familiar, a foreign accent he was almost sure he knew. He couldn’t tell from where.

John spit out the belt, pushed himself up, and tried to scramble away, but found weight on top of his hips, pressing him down to the ground. He collapsed again, moaning in pain from the effort.

“Jesus fucking Christ, would you stop moving? I have to take the bullet out of your stomach, and I can’t do that if you keep squirming.”

“It hurts,” John said thickly. “It hurts so much…”

“I know, I know. It’s going to be alright. Just let me get the bullet out, then I can cauterize the wound and bandage it up, okay?”

Through the tears blurring his eyes, John saw the man pinning him down was none other than the Sheriff whose partner he had killed hours earlier. Confusion settled over his mind like a blanket. Why was he here? Why was he helping him?

The Sheriff was a sharp, thin man, with a pointed nose and angular jaw but kind dark eyes, and wavy auburn hair that was slightly disheveled. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a chest coated with scars, and the corner of a bandage over his left shoulder, a red stained hole in his shirt over the same spot. From where you shot him. John blinked a few times to clear his sight and tried to fit the pieces of this strange puzzle together.

“But I- you… you’re helping me?” he asked, voice soft and far more vulnerable than he wanted it to be.

The Sheriff nodded. “I’m trying to. But you need to work with me, okay? I need you to stay still while I get the bullet out.”

John hated that he felt so weak, that he had to entrust his safety and his life to that of a stranger who, for all he knew, wanted him dead. But what other options did he have? He was too weak to fight, and in even less condition to run. He needed help, for the time being. So he nodded his head, and tried to stay as still as possible as this man wedged the belt back between his teeth.

The Sheriff placed a pair of sharp metal tweezers back into the wound. Tears began to stream from John’s eyes the moment they made contact. He couldn’t help the pained whimper that escaped his throat.

“Shhhhh, sh sh sh,” the Sheriff murmured. “I know, I know it hurts. I’m so sorry. Just a second longer…”

John nodded and gritted his teeth against the leather belt. The tweezers tapped against the bullet, lodged deep in his guts, and he let out a small yelp in anticipation of the pain.

“Ah, okay, there it is. Give me a second.”

The tweezers closed around the bullet. And it was agonizing. It was fucking agonizing. Despite his will, another scream was building in his throat as the Sheriff slowly, gently pulled the bullet out of John's wound.

“Almost… almost… there! Got it!”

There was a small plink of metal bouncing off metal as the bullet made contact with a tray at the man’s side. John let out a small whimper as his body went limp. His breathing was hoarse and ragged now, the stress and tension melting away as a new wave of dull pain washed over him.

“Okay. Alright. Shit. Fuck. How am I supposed to clean this out? Mine wasn’t bad, but yours has been through the dirt,” the Sheriff muttered to himself.

“Chew-pon-iv…” John said between ragged breaths.

“What?”

“Lizard tail. A decoction. In my saddlebag. On… on the left side. The corked bottle. It… it'll smell peppery. Strong.”

The Sheriff nodded, stood from where he had been straddling John, and walked over in Akke’s direction, spurs gently clinking as he moved. John was suddenly conscious of the lack of weight on his body, and he realized he could move again. Even with the waves of pain wracking his body, his mind snapped into clear focus.

The Shoshone camp. The Sheriff’s purpose here. Larson’s mission. 

John realized, with a hard swallow, that he had failed. His aim had been to injure the Sheriff enough that he could take him to Larson without a fight. But now here he was, barely strong enough to ride Akke, completely at the mercy of a man he barely knew. At this rate, he would be dragged back to town to be left with some stupid doctor while the Shoshone camp was decimated. He couldn't take the Sheriff prisoner in this state.

But maybe he could kill him.

His shotgun and revolver were too far away. The Sheriff had made the smart choice to disarm him before attempting to treat his wounds. But… he wiggled his right ankle, knocking it against the inside of his boot. Yes! It was still there! A small, bone-handled knife tucked away in the side of his boot. Not big enough to appear as any serious threat, but certainly sharp enough to cause some damage. And if placed correctly- temple, throat, lungs, heart- then John could kill him in one strike.

John breathed in and out shakily.

By the time the Sheriff had retrieved the small bottle of chew-pon-iv from Akke’s saddlebag, John had stumbled to his feet despite the shooting pains in his side, knife in a death grip in his left hand. The Sheriff looked… bewildered. John wasn’t sure what emotions he was expecting to cross his face, but confusion and concern were not one of them.

“Might I ask what you’re doing?”

“I,” John said, trying to breathe through the pain, “am going to kill you.”

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Well, you certainly did an excellent job of that before.”

“That was a mistake. A mistake I intend to correct.”

“Mmm. I’m sure. I look forward to seeing you try.”

John coughed, then hissed through his teeth at the jolt it brought. He could feel his temper rising up through his chest and face. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough. I know you’re a fairly good shot, and that you were hired to kill myself and my Deputy. I know you were only successful in one of those murders. I also know that you’re in a bit too much pain to try anything right now, so why don’t you lie back down and tell me how I can clean out your wound with this?” the Sheriff asked, holding up the bottle and shaking it lightly.

John didn’t respond, just glared daggers at the man standing across the campfire from him, who in turn, sighed, walked up to him, and pushed him back onto the ground. John was furious. He was about to try standing again, but dizziness hit him like a stampede, and he stayed put. The Sheriff sat down on the ground beside him, moving his shirt out of the way to pour the decoction over the bullet wound.  John hissed.

The Sheriff sighed. “Look, I’m trying to help, alright? Despite the fact that you clearly want me dead. Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s just start over again. My name is Lester. Arthur Lester. I’m the Sheriff of Mountain City.”

“I know that,” John spat, fire and venom burning behind every word. “I know all about you and your kind. That’s why I need to kill you.”

The Sheriff- Arthur- looked confused again. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“The Shoshone camp.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly. “The what?”

John let out a frustrated huff.  “Jesus fucking Christ, the Shoshone camp! The one a few days from here? The one you and your precious Deputy were sent to destroy?”

There was a silence in the conversation, interrupted only by the chirping of distant crickets and the crackle-pops of the fire. Arthur simply stared, but John could see wheels beginning to click into place behind his eyes.

“Wait. You mean- oh. Oh! You think we were going to destroy an Indian encampment? Is that what you were told?”

“Yes, god-fucking-dammit!”

“I see.” Arthur stared in the direction of the fire for a moment, before throwing some metal coins into the hot coals at its edges. There were more gears turning behind those dark eyes, but the nature of them was something John couldn’t say. He began to get the sense that for all his tricks and cleverness, Arthur could still run laps around him.

"It's not true. Parker and I were heading to investigate a stagecoach that was due in Mountain City several days ago that never showed up. It had a large amount of money with it, and some women and children from what we understood. I never even knew there was a Shoshone encampment in this direction."

John was silent as he processed this information. There was a war happening in his mind now, one side saying that Larson lied about his assignments and one saying that this man was lying to spare his rotten, murdering neck. John didn't know which to believe.

After a long moment, Arthur raised his head again and stared out across the plains. “Can I ask who told you that? Or are you not permitted to tell me?”

“I don’t-” John sighed, finally letting his head hit the ground as he stared at the sky overhead. “I don’t know his real name. All I know is that he calls himself ‘The King’.”

“You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

“How do you know I’m lying?”

“I can hear it in your voice. It caught in your throat when you said the word ‘don’t’.”

John rolled his eyes. “I didn’t realize this had turned into a fucking interrogation.”

“I’m a sheriff. It’s my job to know when people aren’t telling the truth.”

“And you can decipher that from voice alone?”

“Well, I can’t exactly decipher it any other way, now that you killed my partner!”

“What do you-” John’s pain-addled mind finally put the pieces together. The lack of focus in Arthur’s eyes, his panic at losing his Deputy, the lack of eye contact during their conversation, his shock when John said he’d been shot…

Arthur Lester, Sheriff of Mountain City, was blind.

“Oh fucking hell,” John breathed, eyes wide in shock.

“Finally caught on, did you?” Arthur said softly, mouth twisted into a sour shape.

“I’m so-”

“If you say you’re sorry, I promise you, I will shoot you here and now and leave your body behind for the vultures. I don’t need pity.”

John bobbed his head. He had felt the same way when Yellow tried to ask about his past at the boarding school, the first time they met. The only difference between that conversation and this was that one had ended with Yellow getting a black eye.

“How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It, um. An eye infection. When I was a teenager. Doctors discovered it too late, and by the time they started giving me medication to treat it, my eyesight was already…” Arthur gently moved his hand through the air and whistled, mimicking a leaf being blown by the wind. 

“Damn.”

“Yeah. But that’s besides the point. What’s your story? I don’t even know your name,” Arthur said with a sheepish smile. “Not to mention, you’ve still got an open bullet wound in your side I need to close up.”

Almost in response to Arthur’s words, John’s side spasmed with pain. “Yeah, that’s true,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he sat up and turned to face the man next to him. “You can call me John. John Doe.”

“John Doe. That’s a curious name,” Arthur said, holding his hand out for a shake, which John returned swiftly and firmly.

“I didn’t have any say in the matter, unfortunately. The boarding school chose it for me. I don’t… I can’t remember what my name was before.”

“Ah. I see,” Arthur replied, in a way that made John suspect he had just received confirmation for something he had been thinking about for a while. He waited for John to continue.

John was silent for a moment. He still didn't know who to trust. Larson or the law? Regardless of sides, this strange man had showed him compassion when he was vulnerable and shared an important piece of his story. John decided it was only fair that he shared a little of his own in return.

"About my... employer." John cleared his throat and looked at the sky again. "His real name is Larson. He runs a sort of gang of people like me. Native kids who got shipped off to boarding school and are now too white to go back to our tribes but still too Native to exist in white society.

"He.... offered us a purpose. Something we could do to help our peoples, even if we couldn't go home to them. All we had to do was kill who he asked, rob when he asked, and we would be saving their lives. I guess we thought we were heroes or something."

Arthur's brow was furrowed in thought. "Not Wallace Larson? He's a wanted man, John! Parker and I were trying to track him down for years."

"I don't know his first name. Only the last."

A thoughtful pause stretched between them until a particularly loud pop from the fire seemed to startle Arthur out of his reverie.

“Oh, I think the coins should be hot enough now. Could you, uh…”

“Of course.” John craned his neck to see into the coals. “There’s one resting near the edge of your boot. Slightly to the left. Yes, right there. You’ve got it in the tweezers now.”

“Right. You might want to put the belt back in your mouth, John. This is going to hurt.”

[gojoed]

I SEE THE SAME. | vash x reader. | 1.9k words.

“Did you really think letting them shoot you was a good idea.”

A wince was let loose in the otherwise quiet room. The only noise was the bustle from the town outside, even if it was night, and the static voices of the small radio that Vash always carried. Dim lights made it a little hard but not impossible to see his fresh wound.

Thankfully the bullet only grazed his waist, not getting lodged or going straight through him like other unfortunate instances. But it was still bleeding and if it were up to Vash, he’d let it continue so. But thankfully you were here, so that wasn’t happening tonight.

Sighing, you set down the first aid supplies down on the desk that was positioned near the bed and set yourself down on the chair, wheeling your way over to where Vash was. Seated on the bed, with his head held low and eyes that were shielded by his sunset tinted glasses. His blood seemed to seep through his black turtleneck more, he wasn’t applying any pressure to the wound whatsoever. 

Being a plant yourself, you understood that you both healed quicker than a human, but still it seemed unwise to just leave it like that.

Waving your hand in an upwards motion, you silently told Vash to lift his shirt. He obeyed, lifting it on the side that the wound presided. Vash leaned himself back slightly against the heel of his mechanical hand, while his flesh one held onto the fabric.

Unscrewing the cap from its bottle, you tilted it against a clean rag, letting the water soak it slightly before moving the bottle upright and setting it down on the desk. You moved your hand with the rag over to his exposed waist, but let it hover as you looked up at Vash, asking for permission. 

The glare of the desk light reflected against his glasses in a way that blocked his eyes from view. But he offered a smile, one that felt empty, as if saying “yes.” 

You didn’t need his glasses to be off to know that his eyes would give him away. Guilt. It was one of the most frequent emotions you always could see swimming within him. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and by God, Vash’s was drowning. 

Brushing those thoughts away, you bent forward, slouching a bit to dab at the bullet wound. The bleeding had stopped on its own, that’s good. Vash twitched a little when your free hand placed itself on the skin of his stomach, moving his shirt up. He lifted his arm a bit more.

There he goes again, helping others before himself.

“You know, you didn’t answer my question.”

He stiffened up a bit, but then relaxed as a small chuckle escaped his lips. 

“Well.. it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Your brows furrowed. Vash has had that “good idea” plenty of times during these hundred years or so. The evidence being the canvas of scars that was his body. Just how many more times would he allow himself to be hurt like this, you wondered. Knowing him, he wouldn’t stop, not with the insane amount of guilt that he always seemed to have. 

Once you were satisfied with your work, you tossed the rag onto the bed beside him and grabbed the bandages that were on the table. Ripping the package open with your fingers you placed a bit of medical tape to the free end. Leaving that on the bed for a moment, you placed a piece of gauze on the bullet wound before reaching for the bandages again when you saw that Vash had already gotten it. 

You whispered a small “thank you” for which you got a soft “anytime” from him as you placed the tape on his skin, beginning to wrap the bandages around him. 

Straightening your back you leaned closer to fit the bandages snuggly around his waist; which Vash then prompted to open his legs wider, moving the chair with one of them to move you along with it. Placing you directly in front of him in between his legs. 

Thankfully the wound wasn’t too severe, so you didn’t have to worry about using too much bandage. You had just bought it too, having restocked in town an hour prior to crashing in a pretty decent hotel. The townsfolk didn’t seem to recognize Vash from the wanted paper floating around, so you considered Lady Luck to be on your side. 

Finished with the bandages you cut it off, placing another piece of tape on it to then press it down lightly. You blew out a bit of air through your nose, looking at your handiwork. 

“Ok, all done Vash.”

“Thank you.” 

Looking up you saw him staring at you, glasses gone. He must have taken them off while you were fixated on wrapping him up. 

“Anytime.” You parroted his words back to him.

Light blue eyes made contact with yours before they didn’t, his eyes closing to give you another smile. It seemed a little empty this time. But he still must be thinking about the events that happened in the town before this one. Quite a bit of collateral damage was done to the town, as a result of bounty hunters having spotted you both and decided to see if they could get that sixty billion double dollar prize on their dirty hands. 

There weren’t any casualties to add to the mountain of guilt and shame Vash carried, but there were still injuries. Not to mention that the town’s plant was almost damaged thanks to the recklessness of those bounty hunters. And one of the townspeople who did harbor resentment towards Vash, caused him to have yet another scar. One that you had just cleaned up.

Did Vash really think letting people take their anger out on him would solve anything?

Leaning back onto the chair, it squeaked under the weight of your back. You crossed your arms and sat there, patiently. 

“You’re still thinking about them, huh?”

Vash makes a little noise akin to a squeak. He knows you caught him, and he doesn’t deny it. Opening his eyes you could tell they were a little watery, tears threatening to spill. But he just sniffled and laughed softly. Running a hand through his mop of hair he looked at you.

“Yeah, I am.” 

You were waiting for it.

“But.. I don’t deserve to cry.”

Ah, there it is.

Those same words that you’ve heard countless times as well as the countless times you’ve seen him worry over others than himself. He wanted to cry, but he felt like he didn’t deserve to. To him, it was his inability to act that denied him of such rights. Funny, how he also thinks the actions of his brother are also his fault. 

Uncrossing your arms, you reached for both his hands. You would think that his prosthetic arm would be cold to the touch, being made of Lost Technology. But no, it was warm, just like his hand made of flesh. 

Your actions were unexpected for Vash, and it made him even more confused (but curious) as to why you not only grabbed his hands, but when you followed that with holding yours against his. Palm to palm, each of your hands held in the middle of you both. You lined your fingers up with his, his being a little larger than yours but you didn’t mind. In fact it was one of his traits that you loved about him. The same hands that could hold a gun and pull a trigger were the same ones that held onto your own when traveling in the dunes of the desert.

“What do you see?”

Vash blinked. Once, then again. His tears had subsided slightly so he could see clearer. Looking down at where you two were making contact, he said:

“Well, I see our hands.”

The tone in which his voice was laced with made you laugh, almost snorting.

“Okay, that’s a little obvious. So, what do you notice about them?”

He cocked an eyebrow upwards slightly, biting his bottom lip a little bit. Vash’s hair bounced a bit, as he also moved his head a bit to the side.

“They’re.. They’re like mine.”

“Bingo! If I had some, I might have given you a golden star, y’know.”

That made Vash laugh, his usual cheerful self peeking out a bit now. 

“Okay, what else do you notice about them?” You swayed your hands together, as if doing so would make the answer come easier to him.

“We each have the same amount of fingers?”

“Right on, we both have ten to be exact!”

It was your turn to give him a smile, looking him right in the eyes. But he didn’t meet them, he knew if he looked at them he would break down in an instant. So he kept his eyes on his hands that were connected to yours, he liked the way it felt.

“What else do we have that are the same?”

The comfort he felt was disturbed just a pinch when you intertwined your fingers with his and swayed them side to side, moving both your arms in the process.

“We have two arms!” Vash straightened his back a bit more, your zeal seeming to be infectious and he was your victim. 

It only wavered a little bit when your hands left him too soon, now pointing a finger rather delicately at his face.

“What do we have here that’s the same?”

Vash continued to list off whatever he found that he shared with you. If he said eyes, your fingers would touch right under them. When he said a nose, he chuckled when you booped him, letting your finger stay on the tip. He mirrors your actions, touching wherever you touch him except on you. He let his hands cup your cheeks like you did to him, he let his fingers gently graze your lips just as you did to his.

Vash felt his shoulders relax, the tension slowly releasing. But he felt them quiver when you leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes.

“See, we’re not so different from everyone else right? So if they can cry, if I can cry, then that means you can too.”

Biting his lip he resisted the urge to let the tears fall, but he broke when your hands returned to his and squeezed. Only then did he let a broken sound come out of his equally broken soul. His eyebrows scrunched while he sobbed, the pain in his ribs came and went as his own cries racked within them. Vash wished he could stop, but how could he? When you were the one who pried him open and let the damn fall. 

You switched positions, pulling him into a hug so he could bury his face into the crook of your neck. It was a little awkward on your end thanks to the chair but you didn’t mind, didn’t care. All that mattered to you was that Vash let the pain leak out just like the tears did. 

It took him a few minutes to stop, his chest jumping thanks to the surprising force his sobs contained. He sniffled as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Vash broke the hug first, but returned to placing his forehead against yours and having your hands hold his. 

“So.. I’m thinking pizza and donuts, what do ya say?”

Vash’s laugh broke the nonexistent tension, it sounded a little broken but he smiled. Really smiled.

“I like the way you think.”

© boo-kugo on tumblr. please don’t copy or post my work on other accounts, websites, or platforms.

[salstray]

Keegan P. Russ x fem!Reader - Guardian Angel - part 2 3rd person pov warnings: lil bit of angst betwen Merrick and Keegs at the end 1.1K words

---

part 1

---

They didn’t make fires in No Man’s Land. Any and all rest they got was sparse and dreamless, taken in dark corners of crumbling ruins, with their guns close by and one or two trusted sets of eyes pinned to the entry points around them. 

Keegan couldn’t sleep that night. So he took up the mantle of the watch, his sharp blues tacked onto the single doorway in front of them, his back to the wall opposite it. Merrick had spent five minutes staring at him before exhaustion finally pulled him under and he’d felt the flickering glances from both Hesh and Logan.  His fellow Ghosts knew something was wrong. 

Well… not that something was wrong… but that something had happened. 

Something Keegan was keeping close to his chest. 

His hands were on his rifle, his left tight on the barrel and his right secure over the trigger. As they always were. As they would always be while his brothers trusted him with their lives. Yet his fingers itched to find that hole again. To tug at the strings that had already started to fray away from the spot where a bullet had almost taken him straight to hell. 

Keegan’s ears were tuned to every noise. Every rustle of a leaf, every whisper in the wind. His eyes were open and red-rimmed. Only blinking when absolutely necessary.

But his mind was still in that house on the mountain side. Still locked on those hands. Gentle, delicate digits curling over his own, soothing him as he tried his best to match his title. Bringing him back from the cold, dark well of eternity to rejoin the fight against the Federation. 

What had that been? Who had that been? Had he just finally lost it? Out there in the woods, all alone in the shade. Had he finally cracked? Maybe he’d never been shot in the first place. Maybe the barrel that had pressed against his stomach had slipped, sending the bullet into the wall behind him, the sound of it just shocking him so deeply that he thought he’d been hit. Maybe the blood hadn’t been real. Maybe the cold, the mystery voice… maybe he’d just finally broken up there.

The urge to feel for the hole in his shirt was almost painful to ignore, but he did ignore it. He couldn’t risk a single second off focus. 

That’s what had earned him this new problem in the first place.

---

It was rare for the Ghost’s to spend a night on-base. 

Well, it was rare for Keegan to spend a night on-base. Merrick used to make his visits as rare as him, but ever since Elias… he’d assumed the role as Command for most of their high end missions and nowadays found himself behind a screen then behind the trigger. Keegan was still more of a Ghost then the rest of them. 

Never seen. Never heard. Hardly even a shadow in the night. 

He had moments, though. Moments like this where he needed to rest. Where he needed to think. Somewhere secure where he could peel away his layers, scrub himself down under luke-warm water, and lay his head somewhere flat so he could just… think.

He’d lined up his jacket and shirt when he took them off. The holes were perfectly matched and round. One round, right through the front. No exit wound. 

…no entry wound, either. Not anymore.

So, at the very least, he wasn’t entirely insane. Something had torn through his shirt. It looked like it should have been that bullet, it had felt like a fucking bullet at the time, but now here he stood. Naked as the day he was born, his hands smoothing over the plains of his stomach over and over, poking and prodding for something that would explain where the fuck the shot had gone. 

No scar.

Not there. Not in the space just above his hips, right where his vest sat above his cargos. Not from a bullet. There were a few thin marks from stabbings, but no round, puckered ring of tissue that would have explained the holes in his clothes. 

He’d lost track of how many times he’d sighed to himself by the time his head hit his pillow. And if he had been counting he would’ve had to add at least two more before he finally succumbed to sleep. 

Keegan didn’t dream all that often. Mostly because he didn’t sleep all that often, but there was probably some other physiological reason that had something to do with it, too. There wasn’t a lot of time for those kinds of evaluations anymore, so if it didn’t affect him while he was awake, it didn’t matter. 

He’s pretty sure he dreamt that night, though. 

Keegan was pretty sure that, at some point, he dreamt of soft hands sliding along the edge of his jaw. Unmasked. Freshly shaven, thanks to his shower. He dreamt of warm thumb swiping along the apple of his cheek and a sweet, quiet voice calling out to him, just like it had on the mountain side.

“Don’t worry, Sergeant,” it whispered to him. “I’ve got you. No matter what happens. I’ll be there for you… I’ve got you.” The lightest brush of lips over his own, breath fanning down across his chin. 

Then he was jerking awake, sitting straight up, the knife usually hidden under his head now gripped by white knuckles, out in front of him with the blade at the ready. Threatening the dark, empty room around him. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice jagged and rough. He lowered his knife. Took a few deep breaths to get his flailing heart back under control. Then twisted his wrist to look at his watch. 

When was the last time he’d slept for ten fucking hours?

---

“The boys looked everything over,” Merrick stated, passing Keegan his vest by the left shoulder strap. “Said your radio is working just fine, now. Try not to let another sniper knock your shit loose, Russ.” Keegan grunted as he pulled it over his head and worked on securing the straps, tugging it tight against his chest and hooking his thumbs under the shoulders to make sure it wasn’t too snug. “And don’t scare me like that.” 

Keegan stopped.

Then turned, his blue eyes meeting Merrick’s brown ones. A few moments of silence passed before the other Ghost lifted his hand to pat him on the shoulder.

“Thought I lost you too, out there. Feds’ve already knocked enough years off my life,” his hand curled into a fist and it playfully bumped Keegan’s arm, making him huff in dry, haunted amusement. “Don’t need you goin’ and doin’ the same. Got it?” 

“Got it,” Keegan muttered. “Won’t happen again.” 

“Better not. Get yourself ready, we got places to be.” 

---

[lastwave]

aghj fuck everything ok. i say this as someone who enjoys analyzing jean! hes an interesting little guy. but so so many people refuuuuse to acknowledge just how much privilege jean has over harry as an ablebodied, never-addict, (comparatively) ableminded, and arguably straight dude.

SO LIKE. Harry's very chronically ill like. canonically. post polio syndrome, all the shit that comes with hep c (joint pain, organ damage, etc etc), and his use of speed implies chronic fatigue. AND when jean gets to him after the tribunal he has at LEAST one gunshot wound (in some playthroughs he gets shot twice), and we don't even know if Kim GOT the bullet(s) out. jean is ablebodied. he has facial scarring from when he had smallpox(?) but other than that he seems to have made a full recovery while harry never did- harry still has partial paralysis. and even IF jean was in some form chronically ill, still jean feels entitled to make some smarmy comment about disability pension even tho harry has more than earned that shit.

its very easy to see the subtext that jean thinks harry deserves this. he basically outright says it in the "you know what he told me?" line. he took that not as a sign that something was deeply fucking wrong and that harry needed help (which, btw, "i want to get worse" is almost always a cry for help and an indication that someone has completely given up), but jean took it as someone accepting whats coming to them and that harry needed to learn a lesson. which, depending on the playthrough, harry was a major ass, but during the midst of a mental breakdown is NOT the time to address that. and that isn't teaching a lesson.

its exacting revenge jean felt entitled to for "putting up" with him. he thinks hes some martyr- and not even for harry's assholery. to be clear. in the fascist and some moralist playthroughs jean expresses frustration at having to go to sensitivity training. not what harry actually said. which, while speaking volumes abt harry's character, also says a fuck ton about jean's. ALSO, there are several instances where he complains about conservative talking points- "falling marriage rates", "the liberals" (in context of the f slur, not economic liberalism). which leaves one thing for jean to be upset over- harry's addiction, mental illness and disability.

its very very simple! jean thinks that harry deserves bad things because he's an addict, and thinks that harry's a burden because he's both mentally and physically disabled. and its not frustration that comes from a place of love, because otherwise he would have fucking been there. he would have reintroduced himself when he realized harry did for real have total retrograde amnesia. the fact anyone even let harry continue the investigation after finding out abt that is pretty damn heinous.

he doesn't HAVE sympathy for harry and he doesn't care about his well being- jean cares about what harry's presence in his life makes him feel like. Jean likes to pity himself and Harry's existence lets him position himself as some long suffering angel that "so graciously keeps giving harry chances". this is especially apparent in the "sorry i didn't feel like buttering you up, i have clinical depression" line. (sorry WHAT about a man that tries to drown himself in his car by driving it over a roof implies not depressed?).

like. even ignoring all of harry's other shit he had before the bender, retrograde amnesia and functional clinical depression are not comparable. that AND harry probably has a dissociative disorder AND some form of mania its just ??????

jeans very very privileged over harry and exerts it often. hes an asshole. a very interesting asshole! but an asshole nonetheless

[aingeal98]

Cass or Tim for the ask game

Gonna do Cass because she gets favourite blorbo privileges

three facts about them from my personal headcanons

-The dip in the Lazarus Pit removed a few of her latest scars. She's still covered in scars, it's not enough that anyone would notice, most of them look at Cass and are horrified by the bullet exit wounds covering her skin. But Cass knows what each scar is from, and the loss of even a few of them hurts her afterwards for reasons she doesn't quite understand. She got stabbed through the chest by her brother and yet there is no evidence of it. Some nights she gets tempted to scratch at where the scar should be, digging into her skin until she catches herself and snaps herself out of it.

-Her favourite music genre is metal and rock. She doesn't care about the differences between the genres despite Stephanie as a fellow Metallica fan eagerly trying to explain it. Cass just likes "Mosh pit music."

-Due to being homeless as a kid she got used to sleeping anywhere and everywhere. Her favourite place to curl up and hide was inside a washing machine, normally ones that were old and abandoned. She stopped as she got older but the washing machines in the manor are huge so she started doing it again when she felt low. This has given Alfred several near heart attacks when he goes to put clothes in and finds his grandchild curled up fast asleep.

a reason they suck

Batgirl issue 37 is one of my favourite issues and highlights some of the reasons I find Cass a compelling character but it also does objectively show one of the ways she sucks. Projection can be helpful or it can make you too self absorbed so you end up making bad choices. In this case it was the latter.

a reason they are great

Literally everything that makes Batman cool and compelling but with none of the downsides. Her downsides are different from his due to not having the narrative protection of being the white male lead. Her downsides are also deliberately and competently written. For further information see my entire blog.

a reason I relate to them

Autistic, mentally ill, used to be suicidal, awkward socially but enjoys violence not for malicious reasons but purely for the fun of it (I like boxing and martial arts.) Just everything about how she expresses herself and thinks and interacts with other people it's like wow. For a character with such a ridiculously comic book fantasy backstory she sure is incredibly relatable in down to earth ways!

(what I consider to be) the top tier otp/ot3 for that character

Stephcass. Steph is the Lois to Cass's Clark, the MJ to Cass's Spiderman. But Steph is also a vigilante in her own right and that adds extra flavour. If DC would give me one of those six issue mini runs they're so fond of I could do so much with it.

five things that never happened to that character that I believe should have happened

-Her Batgirl run should have had a proper conclusion not pushing her towards character assassination evil turns

-She should have become Batman.

-She should have been a part of the family from the beginning of the New 52 era. An essential part, closer to everyone than Jason and with more years in the family than Damian.

-She should have gotten to kiss Steph by now but I'll accept it if DC makes it happen this year.

-She should have gotten one final confrontation with David Cain where he comes back to life for 24 hours to remind DC of why her original run hit so hard and center her more on those themes than on being random Batgirl number 2.

five people that character never fell in love with and why

-Kon El. He's a good friend but she's a lesbian.

-Tai'darshan. He was a valuable part of helping her understand what she liked and didn't like romance wise but unfortunately he fell on the "didn't like" side in the end. Also she's a lesbian.

-Zero. He was her first fun civilian romance and while it wasn't serious it was nice while it lasted. It never would have been able to get serious though for multiple reasons. One of which being that she's a lesbian.

-Tim Drake. Shockingly being a lesbian is not the only main reason for once. Here it's also due to them being adopted siblings. While he loves Cass and was canonically mildly attracted to her at times during the early days, by the time they became adopted siblings they'd been through enough that any potential had fizzled out into pure platonic sibling menace energy.

-Harper Row. Being a lesbian is not an issue here at all actually. The issue is that in Harper's universe Cass killed her mom and in Cass's main universe she killed someone else and never met Harper until the world rebooted. Cass is not emotionally mature enough to wade through all that for a relationship. Especially when she can choose to wallow in guilt and stare awkwardly and painfully at Harper when Harper doesn't notice instead.

[steviewashere]

Words Like A Bullet, Wounding My Soul

(also on ao3)

This is Part Two, Part One is Posted Here!

CW: Implied/Referenced Sex, Safeword Use (No Smut, Though) Rating: Teen

WC: 1,370

Tags: Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Arguing, Eddie Being Mean, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Emotionally Hurt Steve Harrington, Insecure Eddie Munson, Insecure Steve Harrington, Safeword Use, NO SMUT, Using a Safeword While Arguing, Hard of Hearing Steve Harrington, Dialogue Heavy, Forgiveness, Making Up, Happy Ending

Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson

------------------ It takes time because of course it does.

A lot of it is Eddie reminding Steve how intelligent he is. Or him giving himself in one way or another—whether it be sexually or emotionally. Steve gets a hearing aid fitted by his own free will, not forced upon him. Eddie begins the climb of learning American Sign Language with both Robin and Steve. And he learns, overtime, when to bite his tongue.

There are still flares, though. Hot things, burning spots. Agitated growls and mournful groans and withering peace. It’s brought out in both of them.

They hurt. They scar. They recover.

It’s the only way for them to persevere with one another.

In the early hours of Christmas Eve, Steve and Eddie are huddled close on the Munson’s couch. Hot chocolate mugs in hands, a blanket strewn about their lap, feet tucked under legs, body coated by soft sweats and t-shirts. It was a nightmare night before they got out to the living room.

Eddie had been writhing against the sheets, fingers tangling in the comforter, heels digging at the mattress edge. He had awoken with a gurgled gasp on his lips, burning streaks of skin where tears had previously seared, and a hand in his hair. It pet along his scalp, pushed back loose strands that stuck to his sweaty forehead, cradled the crest of his skull. Another hand hesitantly tapped over his chest before landing with a firm, warm press—its thumb stroking along the threadbare t-shirt that was soaked on his glistening skin.

Before he could say anything, Steve murmured, “I’ve got you. It’s over.” Lips pressing anywhere they could reach on Eddie’s cheeks. 

So now they’re cuddled into each other like two yin-yang cats. The warm glow from the Christmas tree in the corner, washing and painting against their bare arms. TV on a low hum—a rerun of Family Ties. Eddie isn’t trembling anymore, but he’s steadily sagging against Steve’s side. He doesn’t know what all happens next, but he’s suddenly held by two strong arms and his hands are free from his precious Garfield mug. Looking down from the TV screen, he can see their mugs kissing each other on the coffee table.

Warm and comforted, he continues to ease his muscles, letting Steve take over for him.

They haven’t spoken since that nightmare pulled him out of his body. Not that they need to. Once again, Eddie has learned to bite his tongue; finding physical affection a better source of conveying his emotions.

His hair brushes against the side of Steve’s head. The bump where his hearing aid protrudes being very noticeable against Eddie’s scalp. Pulling himself away from the junction he’d been tucked into, Eddie runs a gentle finger over the shell of Steve’s ear. Leans in, close enough to puff air onto the ear drum. And he presses a barely wet, softly audible, but genuine all the same kiss against the lobe—and behind and on the hooked part inside of Steve’s ear.

When he pulls back again, Steve turns to look at him. Their eyes locking in place. Both soft, flooded with adoration.

Eddie signs, ‘WHISPER OKAY?’

Instead of signing back, Steve just nods his head.

“You’re beautiful,” is what Eddie says. He runs his left palm down the side of Steve’s face, cupping his jaw, and pressing another kiss at the corner of his mouth.

They’re quiet again. TV humming. One of the Christmas light strings flickers very briefly and Eddie leans over to unplug them, not wanting to upset Steve anymore than he previously has. Even if he hasn’t done anything, at least not anything to his knowledge.

When he’s repositioned in his cushion, no longer crushing Steve’s lap, a warm hand squeezes at his forearm. He looks up to catch eyes already on him.

“I forgive you,” Steve whispers. Albeit not all that quiet, his hearing device hasn’t been readjusted quite yet. (Eddie never mentions when Steve gets too loud. One, it would simply be rude. And two, would’t that just make him a hypocrite?)

Confused, Eddie tilts his head and asks, “For what?” He scrambles, however, a look of terror clouding his face. “I didn’t do anything to upset you, have I? Did I say something yesterday? Fuck, if I did, I’m so, so sor—“

Steve chuckles. Breathy and deep in his chest. “No, Eds. I forgive you for what you said to me during that messy argument we had.” He squeezes Eddie’s forearm again. “I just wanted to tell you that because sometimes you walk on eggshells around me and I don’t want you to do that anymore.”

“Oh,” Eddie drags. “Oh.” He stiffens slightly. “Are you sure? Because I would be fine if you held a grudge against me until the end of time itself. I said some really fucked up things, babe.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” His hand slowly scoots up to Eddie’s bicep, then his shoulder, and lastly his jaw. It cups and very gently soothes against the scar there. “Part of the reason you said that stuff to me was my fault, y’know?”

“Steve, no it isn’t. Not a single part of that was because of—“

“Well, I didn’t tell you the reason I had been ignoring you, right? And you had to find out in the middle of an argument. That’s not exactly fair,” Steve rushes to add. “Plus, I’ve done worse shit than any of what you said to me. Think it’s within my own right to forgive you.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t think I understand. I don’t deserve you to just brush by it and forgive me.”

“I’m not brushing by it,” Steve simply states. “It was entirely awful what you said to me. And I was hurt for an extremely long time. There were times I was worried to even try and engage with you, I guess because I thought maybe you were talking about something and I missed it?

“My point is, I’m never forgetting what you said to me. Maybe I should forgive and forget, but I don’t think that’s possible, y’know? But…”

“But?” Eddie quietly ventures.

“But you’ve proven yourself a lot. You’re learning a whole new language for me, you enunciate when I need you to, and I know you never tell me to quiet down.” He chuckles very briefly. “You’ve been here for me even after all that happened. Even though at any point I could’ve changed my mind and forced you away and told you to genuinely fuck off, you stayed. Showed me kindness and respected what I wanted to do. 

“I know it’s not easy to have changed a lot to assist me. To accommodate conversations so that I can be a part of them or learning a new way to wake me from nightmares because I can’t hear you. It’s just—I’m being taken care of and we both changed for the better and—In no way is it fair for me to let you think I don’t forgive you. To let you think that I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop or to let you think that I’m going to turn on you.” Steve shakes his head and sighs, swallows hard, and rapidly blinks. “You love me.”

Eddie tucks some of Steve’s hair, careful to not bump his hearing aid. “Well, of course I love you. And—I know at the time when I had said all that nasty shit that maybe I didn’t love you or couldn’t…But I genuinely do. And, sure, I was hurt in my own way. But my ache was minor to yours, you know? It was there, I know. And you’ve…You communicate to me if you miss something now or you ask me more questions…I know what it means. I know you’re listening and that you care.” He leans in and bumps his forehead against Steve. Their eyes boring into each other. Steve’s have a glossy sheen. “I love you and it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” He kisses him, soft and sweet, slow and precise, wet with no tongue. “Thank you for forgiving me.”

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” Steve whispers.

------------------ Part One is Here!

[callsign-bunnie]

Headcanons about physical appearances

TW: Kind of angsty, self harm/suicide mention. This will be for my four main boys but I’ll do the others if anyone wants em. Ships are Soapghost and Aledolfo, obvs.

Soap: 

Mostly tattooed on his chest

He has a tramp stamp, don’t fuck with me

Several scars from where he’s accidentally blown something up too close to himself

Fairly smooth skinned, save for his legs. The hair hides where the majority of his scarring is

Bullet wound scars

Ghost:

Glasgow smile

Venom scarring around his mouth

Snake bite piercings

So many tattoos, like most of his back is tattoos. Most of them mean something, too

Self harm scars on his arms, though they’re mostly faded from when he was a teen

Cigarette burns on his upper arms, and a few on his forearm when he went through an edgy phase (Who am I kidding, he is still in an edgy phase)

Vivisection Y scars

Stab wound scars just everywhere

Also random bullet wound scars, but that's a given

I really just believe his face is super scarred, which is part of the reason he keeps it covered

Suicide scars on his wrist, though he never confirms if they’re self inflicted or not

Rodolfo:

Burn scars, but they’re minimal. Mostly on his arms and legs

Rose tattoo on his shoulder that he got with Alejandro as a teenager because Alejandro said it would be cool

A matching tattoo with Alejandro, since they both keep losing their wedding rings, on his ring finger (it’s simple, just Alejandro’s initials)

Other small random tattoos that he’s gotten here and there

He has that weird IV imprint in his inner elbow and back of his right hand

Has a long scar on his left ribs from where he was slashed during a fight

A small patch of self harm scars on his shoulder, but it was a short lived problem. Claims he didn’t have time to keep up with it, really just snapped out of it and told himself he was being dumb

Several perpetual bruises on his forearms and shins

Small indent on his shin from walking into something hard and metal (it was a hook up on the back of a truck, he tried to play it off but it hurt)

Lots of stab scars

A bite scar on the junction of his shoulder and neck that may or may not have something to do with Alejandro

Alejandro:

So many tattoos, a lot of them from when he was a dumb teenager

One of these is his own name on his arm, Rodolfo laughed for a borderline mean amount of time

Almost full sleeve on his left arm that he randomly goes and gets filled in more

Has Rodolfo’s handwriting tattooed on the inside of his wrist (Was going to do a handprint on his chest, but Rodolfo yelled at him and said no. Rodolfo also said no to a bite mark tattoo and refused to bite him for the imprint. Rodolfo is his impulse control if you couldn’t tell.)

Rodolfo’s initials on his ring finger, the tattoos were his idea. Rodolfo had no problem with the pain, Alejandro complained for weeks

A lot of scars from when he was also a dumb teenager

Has a huge scar on his shoulder from when he got in a fight as a teenager and they stabbed him with a smashed beer bottle (Rodolfo was big stress)

Has an all the way through bullet wound in his other shoulder from getting shot at close range

Indent on the back of his skull from falling down the stairs as a kid

Lots of road rash scars on his elbows and back from being thrown in fights across concrete