#the base itself was traced lol

[thathorriblebitch]

Grians starter base!! Imma be 100% honest with yall, I love Joel's starter base over anyoneelse's, but grians is easiest to draw lol (maybe the mothball is easier but anywayyy.)

[ginnsbaker]

In Silent Screams (3/3)

Chapter word count: 11.8k+ Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Vision (past) Warnings in this part: Smut (F/F), Angst, Gaslighting, Blackmail, Mild attempted sexual assault

A/N: This is probably the most uncomfortable fic I've written after In Flames (for good reason lol), so I'm nothing short of amazed if you were able to go through every line in this three-parter. P.S. For some reason, third part was the hardest to write for me, I guess it's because a lot of the scenes now are the same ones from In Flames after R found out and switching perspectives was a lot harder than I anticipated :P

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

-

It all feels like a dream, starting from the moment she opens her eyes and a few rays of light have filtered through the slats of the blinds. For a few moments Wanda pretends she’s back to that day—to that first morning she woke up next to you as your wife.  She can still vividly recall the setting: your old bedroom in Montauk. Less than a year out of college, both you and Wanda were being frugal about the whole marriage thing, opting out of checking into a hotel after the festivities the night before.

Wanda smiles to herself at the fond memory. She glances to the side, and the alarm clock reads 5:30. It's too early to be waking you up, or anyone in this sleepy town. Nevertheless, she has to talk herself into extricating herself from your arms if she wants to pull off a very special breakfast-in-bed. A hesitant decision, a quiet sigh, and Wanda's slowly pulling herself from the warmth of the bed. The wood floor feels cool against her bare feet, prompting her to reach for one of your used polo shirts hanging over the back of the desk chair.

She enters the kitchen, her hands immediately getting to work. The spinach and mushroom are her first go-to, swiftly layered with day-old bread, and custard mix, forming the base for her strata. Next come the eggs, which she sets to poach, anticipating the smooth burst of yolk that'll cascade over the muffin once all is said and done. And then finally, bacon—your favorite. 

Sparky trots into the kitchen, inevitably drawn by the wafting aroma, his tail wagging in tandem with his eagerness. He settles by her feet, watching with those pleading puppy eyes, occasionally letting out a quiet whine that speaks of his impatience and hope. Wanda chuckles, bending down to ruffle his fur. “You think this will get you a piece, huh?” she teases. But, she already knows that she'll give in, sneaking him a piece or two. He's your and Wanda's baby after all.

After she’s finished plating the meal, she sets them on a tray and carefully carries it back to the bedroom. The morning sun presents itself more boldly, almost spotlighting you in bed. Your face is tucked beneath a pillow, the sheets haphazardly pooled around your waist, revealing the bare expanse of your back, without a care in the world. Warmth floods Wanda's chest. She places the tray on a nearby desk.

Breakfast can wait.

Slipping into bed behind you, she becomes a shadow to your form. Her fingers gently trace the curve of your shoulder, lightly skimming over your skin. A shiver runs through her, and she lowers her lips to your nape. The temptation is too great, and soon, her tongue joins the fray, drawing a wet path down your spine. And then, unable to stop herself, she begins to rub herself against you, a soft moan escaping her lips. The sheer fabric of the polo shirt she's wearing, infused with your scent, rubs tantalizingly against her sensitized skin, heightening her need. 

She can't stop thinking about last night, and the times before. She can't stop thinking about you—having you, being had by you. However, as your muscles start to tense, indicating the micro movements of your awakening body, a soft “fuck” slips from Wanda's lips, distracting her rhythm. She waits, a small smile tugging at her lips, silently asking if you're ready to greet the day—together.

You lazily roll onto your back, causing Wanda to reposition herself, now straddling your abdomen. With a drowsy smirk, your eyes half-lidded, you murmur, “Good morning,” squinting at the enthusiastic goddess—my wife, you think possessively to yourself— hovering above you.

Her face lights up, her morning energy nearly palpable. “Morning,” she chirps back, leaning down to capture your lips in a short but sweet kiss. Breaking away only slightly, she gives you a playful eskimo kiss, her nose rubbing affectionately against yours. A giggle escapes you, and she continues until you feel her nose scrunch up from how hard she’s smiling, all the while relishing the sound of her laughter. 

When she's done teasing you, she buries her face in your neck. Drawn to the soft, milky expanse of her thighs, your hands begin to wander. As your fingers brush the curve where her thigh meets her hip, the subtle absence of fabric gives you pause. She's without a stitch beneath your polo. Your thumb ventures further south, discovering the dampness tangled in her soft curls. Heat surges to your cheeks, and you bite your lip, stifling a moan.

Wanda notices the slight change in your expression and a devilish smirk forms on her lips. “Seems like you found a little surprise,” she teases.

“Did I?” you smirk, tracing  the V-line leading to her hidden treasure, teasing her a little. Wanda's breath catches, her pupils blown. But just as she readies herself for whatever comes next, you suddenly shift upwards, unbalancing her slightly. Reflexively, her legs wrap around your waist, anchoring herself to you. Her hands fly to your shoulders, gripping them for support. With a swift move, you part the front of the polo she’s wearing, exposing the smooth curve of her breast to the cool morning air.

The sudden exposure makes her gasp, but before she can utter a word, you close the distance, taking a hardened nipple into your mouth. Her face contorts in unabashed pleasure, her world spinning as you draw her deeper and deeper into your mouth. It's messy and primal, yet at the same time, it's reverent and sacred—something she has only ever experienced with you. She can't help but squirm, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you closer, urging you on. 

Keeping an arm firmly around her waist to ensure she stays secure, your free hand travels down her belly, fingers tracing a sultry path to her soaked center. You leisurely trace her slick folds, gathering her arousal, playing with it. 

“Please, baby,” she arches and bucks, grinding her hips, “more...I need more.”

Your lips twist into a devious smirk, reveling in her desperation. Drawing back slightly, you gaze at the flushed, vulnerable state of her, taking a moment to commit the image to memory. “I love it when you’re this needy…” you rasp, the tease evident in your tone. 

Oh, but she is. She needs you to claim her, time and time again. She never wants to be anything else other than yours once more.

You lean back in, trailing a path of searing kisses from her collarbone, down to the valley between her breasts. Without warning, you nip at her tender flesh, causing her to let out a surprised gasp. Marking her further, you suck and bite gently, leaving a trail of reddened spots, declaring your claim on her. With every purple bruise you leave, Wanda's moans grow more desperate, more wanton.

When you finally lift your head, her chest is littered with bites, then with a wicked grin, you dip your finger into her wetness once more, circling her entrance but never dipping inside.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I... I want you,” she admits breathlessly, biting her lower lip, eyes pleading. “Please, I need you inside.”

Not wanting to make her wait any longer, you slide two fingers into her, curling them expertly. Wanda's body arches off the bed, her inner walls instantly tightening around your digits, pulling them deeper. Every sound that spills from her lips, the way her body arches, trying to get closer, to feel more of you, tells you just how good you’re making her feel. 

Your thumb finds her clit, rubbing it in tight circles, while your fingers continue to piston in and out of her. The room is filled with the sound of Wanda's ragged breaths and the wet, slick noises of your fingers moving within her. As you feel her body tense further, you take a chance and slide a third finger into her, stretching her, filling her completely. The sensation of being so full sends Wanda over the edge.

“Oh, God!” she gasps, her back arching, eyes squeezed shut. Her hands grip your shoulders tightly, knuckles white from the intensity of her climax. Her inner walls spasm around your fingers, coating them with her release, her entire body trembling in the throes of ecstasy.

You keep up the pace, not wanting to stop until she's wrung out from pleasure. Each stroke of your fingers sends aftershocks rippling through her. When it finally becomes too much, Wanda grabs your wrist.

“Enough,” she breathes out, a sated smile curling her lips. 

You can't resist the allure of the taste she's left on your fingers. You raise them to your lips, deliberately and slowly, letting her watch as you savor her taste. The move earns a flustered gasp from her.

“You taste so good,” you murmur, your voice low and husky.

Wanda's cheeks redden, but her eyes darken once more, filled with a burning intensity. “Your turn,” she whispers, reaching for you.

-

Thirty minutes before she can call it a day, the sound of a knock on her office door sends a ripple of tension through Wanda. 

She knows that knock all too well.

Taking a deep breath, she calls out, “Yes?” even as she mentally braces herself for who might be on the other side. 

The person almost immediately steps in, and—unfortunately, she's correct about who she thinks it might be. Before she can utter a word, he says, “You know, I can't just come in without an appointment, right?”

“Exactly, Vision. You shouldn't be here without—” she starts to say, but he interrupts her by triumphantly holding up an appointment slip.

His cheeky grin widens. “Got one right here.”

Wanda eyes the slip, pursing her lips as she thinks of a retort, keeping her guard up. The game has changed, but Vision's audacity, it seems, remains the same.

“Alright, what do you want? And I wouldn’t entertain anything that doesn’t have to do with the course.”

“Just some clarification about our last lecture,” he says as he closes the door behind him, audibly locking it. Wanda maintains her composure, not letting it show that the small act alarms her in the slightest.

“Go on,” Wanda prompts, leaning back slightly against her desk, arms crossed defensively.

But Vision, without missing a beat, launches into something entirely different. “I miss you,” he starts, and Wanda's posture stiffens, her fingernails reactively digging into her arms rather painfully. “I realize I messed up, Wanda. I do. But I can change.”

“Vis—” she warns, trying to interrupt him, but he barrels on, his voice filled with desperation.

“And if, by any chance, you're pregnant, I'll step up. I promise. I'll be responsible,” he continues, his voice quivering slightly. “You have no idea how happy I’ll be if you are.”

“I'm not pregnant,” Wanda whispers, struggling to keep her emotions in check. It's one thing for him to disregard her boundaries and be reckless with his words, but to assume that she would continue a pregnancy, knowing he's the father? Even the thought of it is sickening. 

“And I would still choose not to be even if you were successful in your plans,” she adds, just to spite him.

Vision looks as if he might be sick, his complexion turning pallid, and a faint sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. Wanda has never seen him struck by her words this hard, and she realizes she doesn't have any idea what he might do next.

“I just... I thought…” he stammers, eyes glistening, “I just wanted to matter to you, b-by—”

“By what, Vision?” She cuts him off, her tone icy. “Hoping you'd lock me down by trying to knock me up?”

Vision’s face crumples further, tears spilling over. For all his stature—tall, lanky yet broad-shouldered—in this moment, he's stripped of that facade. His body shake as he tries to hold back sobs. “I didn't... I didn't think it through,” he manages to say between choked breaths.

Wanda almost pities him, but she shakes her head. “If you’re not here for school, you need to leave.” Her voice is cold, but inside, she's fighting a storm of guilt for the hurt she sees in him.

Just then, the shrill ring of Wanda's phone startles them both simultaneously. Vision's eyes dart to the screen as her caller ID lights up, displaying your name. In a split second, desperation and panic take hold of him. He lunges for the phone, but Wanda is quicker. She swiftly grabs it from her desk, tucking it safely into her purse.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, her back pressing against the desk.

Vision's eyes burn with an intensity that chills her. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he looms over her, his presence imposing in the small confines of her office. “That’s her, isn’t it?” he demands with barely suppressed jealousy. “She's coming to get you now?”

Wanda backs away slightly, her breathing erratic. “Vision, you need to think—”

“I am thinking.” His voice drops to a low, menacing growl. He tilts his head, eyes never leaving hers. “And maybe I'm thinking of doing something you won't like.”

“No!” Wanda pleads. “Look, Vision—okay, okay, let’s talk. Just not here. We can go to your place.”

His gaze narrows, considering her offer. “When?”

“Soon.”

Vision shakes his head. Not good enough. 

“Tomorrow,” he states without room for argument, his eyes drilling into hers. “Same time. Like we used to.” The allusion to their previous meetings isn't lost on her.

Wanda's throat constricts, “Fine,” she whispers, barely audible, a clear note of dread in her voice. She hates the familiarity of this situation. Most of all, she hates that she's put herself in this position to begin with.

Suddenly, Vision reaches out, his fingers nearly brushing the side of her face. Wanda instinctively shrinks back, but the space between the desk and Vision offers her little room to escape. Her back is to the wall, both literally and figuratively. She can feel the cold press of the desk behind her, contrasting with the heat emanating from Vision's body. It’s obvious what he's thinking, what he's restraining himself from doing.

Horrified and trapped, Wanda closes her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. But instead of the touch she anticipates, she hears Vision's harsh intake of breath. The realization that she's retreated from him seems to strike a nerve.

Without another word, Vision pulls away sharply, as if burnt. He turns on his heel, storming out of her office. As soon as he’s gone, her legs give out from under her and she slides down to the cold floor, clutching her chest as she struggles for air. The walls of her office seem to close in on her, trapping her in her own spiraling thoughts. 

As the room begins to blur, the sharp buzz of her phone breaks through her spiraling thoughts. Instinctively, she reaches into her purse, pulling out the phone. Your name illuminates the screen, and with it comes a flood of emotions—relief, safety, love. 

The mere thought of you—so close, just beyond these walls—stops a panic attack from consuming her.

-

“Would you like to go bowling?” Wanda asks you as soon as she fastens her seat belt.

The randomness of the suggestion takes you aback, and a hearty laugh escapes your lips. But as you glance over to see Wanda's reaction, expecting to see her sharing in the moment's levity, you're met with a pained expression.

Your smile fades immediately, replaced by concern. “Hey, are you okay?”

Wanda mentally curses herself, realizing just how easily you can read her, see past her defenses. Needing to come up with something plausible, she quickly blurts out, “I had something super spicy when you called earlier. Didn't handle it too well, it seems.”

The corners of her mouth quirk up in a weak attempt at a reassuring smile, hoping you'd buy the lie, or at least not press further.

You don’t. “Hmm… how about we take Sparky out for a stroll today?” you suggest.

“A walk sounds great,” Wanda replies, her voice softening.

“Good,” you say, starting the car. “Let's head to the park. A bit of nature might do us both some good.”

The engine rumbles softly as you shift the gears, transitioning smoothly from one to the next. And then, almost instinctively, you reach out to take Wanda's hand, your fingers lacing with hers in a gentle yet firm grip. You hold her hand throughout the entire ride home, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze whenever you feel them tremble between yours.

That night, while you sleep soundly beside her, she finds herself unable to sleep. She spends the empty hours simply studying your peaceful face. There's a childlike innocence in the way your lips part slightly, a soft snore escaping occasionally. It's endearing, and it makes Wanda smile, even through her turmoil. She imagines traces of age on your face—the lines that will mark years of laughter, the silver that will streak through your hair. She tries to picture herself beside you, her own face carrying the weight of the years, both of you holding on to each other until the last breath. Her smile is teary as she hopes and hopes that this is where she's headed—to this future.

Because tomorrow, she will have to see Vision, and if everything goes well, she'll never have to see him again. Then she will finally express how she needs you to take her back to Manhattan or anywhere far from here, so she'll never have to relive this nightmare she’s created.

The next day comes like any regular day of the week. She kisses you goodbye as you head off to work, and she feeds Sparky to his heart's content before getting into a pinstripe blue blazer set. She fails to notice just how good she looks in this well-fitted ensemble, the fabric hugging her waist perfectly. Her focus is solely on feeling powerful, as she knows she'll need all the strength to finally put an end to things with Vision.

-

Wanda takes a deep breath, then another, and then two more, before she finally gathers enough courage to knock on the door. Vision answers almost immediately, as though he had been anticipating her knock down to the very second. 

The man before her now looks wholly different from the one she had encountered just yesterday. His blue eyes are bright and clear, his face clean shaven. The scent of a cologne she doesn't recognize wafts to her. New, she thinks. It's heady and distinctly masculine, unsettling her slightly.

“Wanda,” he greets with a charming smile, one that reaches his eyes, but doesn’t quite touch the soul behind them. For a moment, she's transported to the countless afternoons she spent here, entangled with him with nothing—not even air—separating their sweating, writhing bodies. His lips quirk into a sly, familiar smile, as if he too remembers those days and expects this visit to be a similar occasion. 

“Vision.” Gripping her shoulder bag tighter, almost using it as a shield, she quickly sidesteps him. “May I?” she asks, though it sounds more like a statement as she makes her way into his apartment.

He chuckles softly behind her, the sound dripping with memories she would rather forget. “Of course. After all, you've always felt at home here.”

Wanda's stride falters for a fraction of a second at his words, the implication threatening to pull her under. But she needed to keep her wits about her. If she wants this conversation to go her way.

“Let’s just get to the point, Vision,” she says curtly.

“I intend to,” he replies, closing the door behind them with an intentional finality. Wanda allows herself to glance around, seeking even a brief distraction from what's about to unfold. His apartment is in disarray, a stark contrast to his appearance. Her eyes are drawn to one particular piece amongst the chaos—the finished nude painting he had made of her. The realization catches in her throat. It appears he’s finished it.

Wanda shoots him an expectant look, urging him to speak first.

Vision clears his throat, attempting to sound casual but failing. “Wine? Or should we skip the formalities?”

Her eyes narrow, her patience waning. “We skip.”

“Alright.” 

He sighs and drops onto the couch. “Look, I've said sorry over and over, but I’ll say it again. I'm sorry, Wanda. I'm sorry for being careless that night.” His voice lowers, “But I don't regret it.”

Wanda's eyes flash with disbelief. “You don't regret it?”

“No,” he murmurs. “What I regret is that it didn't result in... well, you know.”

The implication is clear, and Wanda feels bile rise in her throat. How could he say something so audacious?

She opens her mouth to retort but he continues, raising a hand as if to hold off her words, “I want to keep seeing you. I can’t stop. Because, believe it or not, I'm in love with you.”

Wanda feels as though the ground has been pulled from under her feet. Every instinct tells her to run, but she knows that this won’t have an ending if she does. Wanda swallows dryly and closes her eyes, trying to piece together a strategy, a way to get through him, a way to get out of this unscathed, a way to ensure he won’t tell anyone about this when she leaves.

“I-I believe you,” she starts. “I think I’ve always known, no—felt, that you l-love me.” Vision nods to her words, his lips curling into a hopeful smile.

“But I have to be honest with you, too,” she continues, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I took advantage of those feelings, Vision. I knew, deep down, that you felt this way and I still... I still let it happen. And for that, I'm deeply sorry.”

He stiffens at her words, a frown forming on his brow. “Wanda—”

She raises her hand, signaling for him to let her finish. “I don’t love you. It's Y/N. It's always been her. From the very start. What happened between us, it was a mistake, one that I haven't forgiven myself for. Especially because of what it means for Y/N.”

She takes a shaky breath, looking into his eyes earnestly, “You deserve someone who can return your feelings, who can love you wholeheartedly. You're a handsome, intelligent, passionate young man. There are many out there who would consider themselves lucky to be with you—”

But Vision vehemently shakes his head, unwilling to accept it, refusing to acknowledge their end. “I want to keep seeing you.”

“You can't,” Wanda insists, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. “It's over.”

Vision's eyes flash dangerously, the calm veneer shattering in an instant. He takes a step forward, trapping Wanda with a threatening look.

“You think you can just fuck me and then discard me like nothing?!” he hisses.

Wanda backs up, startled. She feels her control starting to slip away. “Of course not. I… you were my friend. I cared—I care about you. But I shouldn't have let it get this far.”

He scoffs, not a word of hers reaching his ears. “So, it's all a game to you? You get to decide when to play and when to stop?”

“No, it's not a game,” she replies, desperate for him to understand. “But I can't keep lying to myself or to you. I can't keep hurting Y/N or you.”

His gaze snaps back to hers, and there's a glint of something dark and foreboding in his eyes. “Maybe you should've considered the consequences of your actions, Wanda.”

She swallows hard, sensing the danger in his voice. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe Y/N should know the truth,” he surmises, his voice dripping with malice. “Maybe she should know exactly who she's been sharing her bed with.”

Wanda feels like she might faint anytime. Panic rises, threatening to choke her. “Vision, please,” she pleads, “you can't do that.”

His eyes remain steely. “Why not? She deserves to know, doesn't she?”

Wanda takes a shaky breath, grappling for words, trying to appeal to his sense of reason. “Yes, she does. But not like this. Not from you. If anyone should tell her, it's me.”

“But you'll never tell her,” Vision says, his voice laced with accusation. “I see it in your eyes, Wanda. You don't have the balls to be honest with her. Because you're afraid. You're afraid she'll walk away.”

Both are poised in this high-stakes game, each waiting, anticipating, guessing what card the other will play next. For a heartbeat, Wanda feels disarmed, Vision's threat too sharp and too real. But as the seconds tick by, something shifts in her. She straightens up, pulling herself to her full height, and when she speaks, there’s no fear or hesitation in her voice.

“You’re not going to tell her,” she declares.

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because you know I'll hate you,” she says. “And if there's even the slightest chance that I'll change my mind, then doing that wouldn't be it.”

Vision lets out a humorless laugh, but the look in his eyes betrays his indifference. “You think there's a chance you'll change your mind?” 

“No,” Wanda says firmly. “It's over.”

The defiant look that had been painted across Vision's face begins to crack. He looks smaller somehow, like he's shrinking back into himself. His shoulders slump, and the facade of control and confidence he'd donned earlier dissolves. The boy from yesterday, the one who seemed so heartbroken, returns in full force.

“Wanda,” his voice trembles, almost as if he's on the verge of tears. “Please, I’m all alone. I told you my life, I told you about my parents, nobody in this world cares about me! And I know I said I’m fine and I can survive without them, but why should I when I have you, Wanda—”

She can't help but pity him, his brokenness tugging at her heartstrings. But she knows that relenting now would mean drowning in the same cycle all over again.

“Vis, you will find someone. Someone who isn't me, someone better for you. Trust that.”

“How can I want someone else when I had you,” he insists with unwavering stubbornness, his eyes growing more frenzied, and Wanda shivers at the unsettling sight before her.

“Maybe you had me,” she says tearfully as she decides to finally drive a stake into his heart. “But not in every way like Y/N has me.”

Before she can register what's happening, Vision's hands are suddenly around her waist, pulling her forcefully against him. The initial shock and his assertiveness make her freeze for a split second. As he starts rubbing himself against her, she feels the unmistakable hardness growing between them.

“Vision, stop!” she protests, trying to wriggle free.

“Can you feel that?” he whispers hoarsely, clearly misinterpreting her struggle, mistaking it for their first time together and all the other times she eventually gave in to his advances. “That's how much I want you. Need you.”

Tears of frustration and fear spill from her eyes. “This isn't right, Vision. Let go,” she pleads, placing her hands against his chest and pushing with all her might.

“Wanda, just—maybe if we—you’ll see. You’ll see that you love me, just let me—”

Her fist connects with his cheek, causing him to stumble a few steps away. For a while, they both freeze in horror, the gravity of the situation sinking in. In his moment of delirium, Vision comprehends what he was about to do to the woman he claims to love, and guilt claws at his guts, wrenching his insides. 

On the other end, Wanda's chest heaves with shock and distress. She stands there momentarily paralyzed, the aftershocks of the ordeal still rippling through her. Tears blur her vision, but she refuses to let them fall, not now, not when she needs all her strength. Her gaze meets Vision's only briefly before she pulls herself together. She wraps her arms around herself, and then rushes to the front door.

He yells, “No, Wanda! I…please let’s just—”

But his pleas fall on deaf ears.

-

Wanda goes straight home after the whole fiasco with Vision. She locks herself in the bedroom, crying for hours, paying no attention to Sparky's worried barks from outside the door. She tells herself that it could be worse, trying to talk herself out of going to the police. If she goes to the authorities, she'll have to give a statement. This would inevitably lead to an investigation into their past, revealing things she doesn't want you to know.

Drained from crying, Wanda's eyelids grow heavy. As sleep overtakes her, vivid dreams flood her mind, each presenting an alternate reality. In one dream she’s back in Vision’s apartment, his arms wrapped around her like a chain, and every time she tries to pull away, the chains grow tighter, pulling her back into his prison. A cold dread settles in her heart, as she struggles and fights, desperate to wrench herself free from his grasp.

The next scenario places her in a world without Vision. It's a life untouched by his influence, where she walks unfamiliar streets and meets faces that do not recognize her. Then, in a sudden shift, she's back at her office on that fateful evening, but the events unfurl differently. The temptation of Vision never materializes. She leaves, unburdened by the weight of a choice she didn't make.

But the relief is short-lived. These dreams meld into a harrowing nightmare, saturated in hues of red and black, where you discover her secret. She tries to call out, to explain, to mend, but her voice is swallowed by the deafening silence of the dreamscape. 

In her seemingly endless silent screams, Wanda wakes up. The remnants of her haunting dreams still clutching at her, making her jolt upright. The fabric of the sheets sticks to her body, drenched in a cold sweat. Each breath comes in ragged gasps, as if she's been submerged underwater and has just broken the surface.

The bedside clock reads half past six and panic sets anew. You could be home in an hour, given that you haven't been extending your hours at the office lately. The realization pushes her into a frenzied urgency. Throwing off the sheets, Wanda rushes to the ensuite bathroom. The cold stream from the shower brings a semblance of clarity, washing away the residues of her nightmares. 

Wrapped in a towel, with droplets still cascading down her skin, she dashes to the kitchen. She pulls out ingredients, her hands working methodically, albeit with a haste that speaks of her need to keep busy, to keep the demons of her subconscious at bay. She manages to prepare a simple but appetizing meal, but the mere thought of taking a bite threatens to turn her stomach inside out.

The dining table is set, and she seats herself, her gaze distant once again. And she stays there, lost in her own head. 

It’s how you find her when you get home at 9:15 in the evening.

-

You’re quiet tonight. Alarmingly so.

She asks you how your day was, and you respond tersely with a simple, “Good.” She attempts to get you to elaborate, maybe share an anecdote like you usually do, but you dismiss her efforts, attributing your lack of interest in conversation to fatigue.

But Wanda can’t stand the silence. When it’s quiet, the voices in her head are even louder. 

So she decides to tell you about her day instead. She swears to herself this is the last day she’ll ever lie to you with a straight face. She talks about the final projects her students have begun submitting. As she describes her favorites, your interest particularly sharpens when she mentions the portrait projects. You pepper her with questions, mostly about who made which, and Wanda offers names that probably wouldn't mean much to you.

After you finish eating, you thank her with a small smile. It's only then that Wanda feels she can breathe again. She leans in, pressing her lips to yours, her longing evident. However, just as she tries to deepen the kiss, you pull away, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Showered without me?” you tease, but it lacks the usual lilt in your voice. She simply nods in response. You playfully tap her nose, whispering, “Naughty girl.” Then, without another word, you're on your feet and heading up the stairs to the bedroom.

She proceeds to clear the table and wash the dishes, all while the sound of the shower fills her ears. She allows herself a small smile, chiding herself for being overly affected by her dream.

By the time she makes her way up to join you, she discovers you've already drifted off, turned away from the vacant space beside you that's meant for her.

-

She’s positively shaking as she takes the short walk from the parking lot to the classroom, the dread building up inside her like a swelling storm. The thought of facing her class, and especially Vision, sends shivers down her spine. The recent events—the horrifically inappropriate advances and Vision's glaring sense of entitlement—play over and over in her mind.

Her feet eventually take her to her destination, but she remains outside for a full minute. The thought of facing Vision again is almost enough to turn her around. But another, stronger, voice reminds her of her duty, her commitment to her other students, and her own integrity. Moreover, she doesn't want to be alone today, here the haunting events with Vision could replay in her mind without any distractions. 

She pushes open the door. It appears to be a typical day, with her students clustered in small groups, engrossed in conversation and seemingly oblivious to her arrival. She swiftly surveys the room and, to her relief, doesn't spot the familiar blue eyes that usually fixate on her by this time.

When she starts her lecture on the final topic of the semester, it flows seamlessly. Still, the end of the course can't come soon enough; continuing here is untenable. She can’t keep teaching here, when these hallways keep reminding her of the mistake that almost cost her everything.

-

You've been leaving the side of your bed cold for almost two weeks now. Sometimes, your careful movements stir her awake, and she watches you, bleary-eyed, as you go through the motions of prepping for a run, a habit you've picked up quite recently. At first, Wanda would always ask where you’re headed and if she can accompany you. But you'd consistently dismiss her offer, always seeming in a rush to hit the pavement.

She thinks it’s good for you—the exercise. The only aspect of your new hobby that she dislikes is that you typically go before sunrise, where everywhere is still too dark and eerily quiet, and her imagination runs wild of all the worst things that could happen to you while you’re out on your run. 

And Wanda wouldn’t admit it, but she can't help but internalize the consistent rejection of her offers to join you.  She wonders if there's a deeper reason behind it. When you're out and she's left alone with her thoughts, Wanda can't help but let the guilt seep in. Has she become too transparent? Has something given her secret away? Did you find out about her affair? How would she even begin to explain?

But then you return after your run, with a sense of tranquility, as though the exercise had been a cathartic release of some pent-up tension. However, something still feels amiss. Perhaps it's because she hasn't slept with you since the night she discovered she wasn't pregnant with Vision's child, and all that has passed between you are brief, perfunctory kisses here and there. She wants to discuss it with you, but she doesn't want to appear too eager or guilty. Instead, she remains committed to being a good wife. And even though being a good wife was never about housework, Wanda ensures that every corner of the house sparkles and shines.

Meanwhile, you go about fulfilling your own household responsibilities seamlessly. From tending to minor repairs to ensuring that bills are paid on time, you continue with the routines that have always defined the dynamic of your relationship. There's no sign of resentment or dissatisfaction in your actions. It's almost as if everything is back to normal. This confounds Wanda even more. She starts to question her own memory, wondering if perhaps this distance, this new version of you, has always been present and she just never realized it. It's possible that you've become this way while she was preoccupied with her affair, and she didn't notice how you slowly adjusted to her unavailability. 

Of course, she only has herself to blame. She's determined, however, to rectify it and make it up to you.

Which is when the idea strikes her. The dream vacation to Hawaii that both of you often fantasized about but never took due to financial constraints and a tight schedule. With the money from her teaching job, she now has the means to turn that dream into a reality. A surprise trip might be the perfect remedy to rekindle the connection that has worn out due to your busy lives and... her unfaithfulness. 

She knows it doesn't atone for her sins, but it's a step in the right direction.

-

It should have been the perfect day for her surprises. She has two of them—the surprise trip and the news of her resignation from the university. She had just handed you the box with all the Hawaii trip details, and you were about to dive in, when there was a knock at the door. 

Two men in dark suits have arrived at the house, looking for her. Detectives—Rogers and Barnes. Wanda uncovers the real reason behind Vision's absence from school, and it wasn't due to personal family matters or a decision to pursue education elsewhere.

He's been in an accident, and they suspect foul play.

Their questions start off simple, touching on the basics. But soon, they feel like piercing arrows as they delve into the phone calls between them, how close they were, and if she ever set foot in his apartment. Throughout the interrogation, Wanda manages to keep a straight face, though deep down she knows she probably can't fool detectives of their caliber. Yet, she silently prays that you don't see past her mask.

“That’s enough,” you interject firmly. “My wife has answered your questions. Unless there’s anything else directly related to your investigation, I believe we’ve covered everything.”

Your intervention when their questions grow more intrusive suggests she's managed to keep you in the dark. The realization that you're still on her side floods her with immense relief.

“Very well. Thank you both for your time,” Rogers says.

But Wanda isn’t done. She has her own questions. She needs to know if Vision's involvement with her is the reason they're here, probing. She wonders if he might have informed the authorities about their inappropriate relationship, and if that somehow relates to his current situation.

“Wait!” Wanda exclaims, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She contemplates asking her burning questions, but with you observing from the side, she suppresses her urge to do so. Instead, she conveys her worry—she is, after all, his teacher.

“Is he… is he okay?”

Wanda's complexion turns ashen upon catching the look on Barnes' face, instantly realizing he's fully aware of her and Vision's relationship. She can barely hear Roger's response, her blood rushing in her ears.

“…that he’s stable. However, he remains in a coma. It’s uncertain when or if he’ll wake up, but let's hold onto hope.”

Oh.

Her secret's safe—for now. But she... she has to be certain. She needs to tie up any loose ends, if there are any.

-

It's reckless to visit Vision's apartment in daylight, especially right after a visit from the police.

Exiting her car, Wanda's sandals softly scrape against the ground. She pauses to scan her surroundings, her gaze flitting from one building to another. The neighboring houses and apartment complexes stand silent, their stillness almost eerie, as if they've been forsaken. She knows that not many reside in this part of the town, a fact that had made Vision's apartment an ideal hideaway for their secret meetings. 

She cautiously approaches Vision's unit, her hand shaking slightly as it reaches for the door knob: locked. A memory surges—Vision handing her a spare key during one of their early encounters. Retrieving it from her bag, she hesitantly fits it into the lock, preparing herself for what she might find beyond the door.

It opens with a muted creak, and a blanket of darkness envelops her. Hesitating at the threshold, she fumbles for a light switch, her fingers brushing against the cool wall before finding it. She'd half-expected Vision's belongings to be packed up, perhaps by a landlord who wanted to move on from the situation. But everything appears untouched, as if frozen in time; dust hasn't settled, and the items scattered about give no indication that the place has been vacant for weeks. It occurs to her that the ongoing investigation might be the reason the apartment remains untouched.

Wanda moves quickly, knowing she shouldn’t linger. Heading straight to the bathroom, she swiftly gathers her toothbrush and a few other personal items she had left behind. As she emerges, her gaze is drawn to the corner where Vision's easel stands. It used to hold a portrait of her, a work he'd wanted to submit for his final project, capturing her in a light she had never seen herself. But now, it’s empty.

A cold rush of panic seizes her. She clutches the edge of a table, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Had Vision decided to move the painting for some reason? Or worse, had the detectives seen it and taken it as evidence? The painting wasn’t just art; it was tangible evidence of their affair. 

But then, in the midst of her mounting fear, a memory jolts her—there was another painting, the one Vision had purchased from the gallery where she used to work. With a newfound urgency, she hurries to his bedroom. The scene is disarrayed, with sheets and pillows strewn about. Ignoring the mess, Wanda goes directly to the cabinet where she remembered he last stored it. She yanks open the doors, and her eyes dart around, searching, but the painting is nowhere to be found.

Desperation grips her. If the detectives come across either painting, they'd have more reasons to scrutinize her further than she's comfortable with. Such involvement would be near-impossible to hide from you. Wanda proceeds with caution, scanning the apartment for any lingering items that could connect her to Vision. Unexpectedly, she finds a piece of her lingerie nestled within his sock drawer. Swiftly, she snatches it up. Before departing, she meticulously wipes away any fingerprints from the surfaces she's touched, then dashes to her car. 

Once inside, she pauses to draw several deep, steadying breaths. It's overwhelming to think that this is now her reality, teetering on the brink of exposure.

-

She eventually finds herself falling off the edge when she discovers Natasha’s email on your laptop, mere moments after the crushing realization that you hadn’t bothered to open her gift.

Her instinct is to craft a lie. She searches her mind rapidly, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for the intimate handhold. Maybe she could say it was an old friend from the past, or perhaps a distressed student she was comforting. But one glance at the photo and she knows, deep down, that any excuse would fall flat. The way Vision looks at her, with such unmistakable affection and wonder, betrays any innocence she might claim. Trying to explain this to you or anyone else would be an exercise in futility. 

Wanda had played out various scenarios in her mind about how you might discover the truth, but she never imagined it would be through seeking the expertise of your best friend. It was perhaps naive, but she had hoped you wouldn’t notice anything or, if you did, that you'd confront her about it.

But why would you come to her? She's been pushing you away for months, and the only time she truly showed you how much you mean to her was when she was so relieved that she wouldn't be carrying the consequences of her indiscretions in her womb.

In case you need them, the subject of the email says. Need them for what? Wanda wonders. From the way Natasha worded the message accompanying the photos, it doesn't appear you're just discovering the truth now.

No, it seems that you’ve known for a while. Which means—

The pieces fall into place, a chilling realization creeping over her. Wanda's breath catches as she pushes the laptop away, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. The way you had carried yourself, especially around the police—it was far too serene, too measured. When they mentioned Vision's name, you didn't so much as flinch or even show a flicker of surprise.

Her heart beats painfully against her ribs. The calm demeanor, the calculated way you’d been moving about—it wasn't out of ignorance. You knew. And for how long? The thought terrifies her. How many days or weeks has she been living this lie while you watched, silently knowing everything?

Your silence, amplifying her betrayal, eats away at her conscience. The quiet before the storm, she thinks. And she's right in the middle of it.

-

“Wanda?”

She’s hiding in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, practicing a smile and a thousand more expressions even though she's barely holding it together.

“Wanda.”

She couldn't shake the thought of you knowing. Did you have any involvement in Vision's accident? You've never intentionally hurt even the smallest creature, let alone another human being, right?

“Wanda!” 

She nearly leaps out of her skin as the bathroom door slams open, and you stare back at her, looking just as startled and taken aback.

“Hey,” she says, forcing a smile.

You narrow your eyes at her, and she shivers under your intense scrutiny.

“Are you okay? You’ve been in here for almost an hour.”

Wanda nods quickly. “I'm fine.”

You continue to watch her for a moment, before saying, “Alright.”

Just as you're about to step away, Wanda remembers the plans for later. “About the dinner tonight,” she starts hesitantly, “with your colleagues from the bank... should we cancel?”

She's desperately hoping you'd say yes. She can't bear not knowing what's going on in your mind. The way you act as if everything's normal is suffocating her. Does she even still know the real you? Every moment you're not cursing her out or confronting her betrayal feels like an eternity.

But you shake your head. “No, let's do it. We already promised them.”

Wanda's heart sinks a little, but she nods in understanding.

“I'll go grab some wine real quick,” you say before leaving the bathroom, leaving Wanda alone once again with her thoughts.

-

Later, as the last of the guests leave, she's certain you've picked up on her distress, noticing how you kept glancing at your watch and drifting out of conversations. She senses your gaze on her as she escorts Scott and his wife to the car, acutely aware you're observing her every move from the bedroom window. 

Though they're older than both you and Wanda, they've only been hitched for two years. Wanda can't help but wonder if maybe things are smoother for them because they waited to get married. But then a familiar warmth washes over her. The memory of how deeply in love she was with you surfaces. Even if you had waited six years to propose, she’s sure that had you suggested it within the first few months of dating, she would've said yes in a heartbeat. 

Truth be told, she doesn't regret it now, the timing of it, and everything in between.

All she's uncertain of is how tonight will unfold.

-

The house lies shrouded in an inky stillness, almost like it’s holding its breath. She carefully climbs the stairs to the bedroom you both share, one uncertain step at a time. The door is slightly open, and you're standing by the window, your silhouette thin and brittle. 

“What happened, Y/N?” she asks as she stops a few feet from you. Your eyes are closed, and your body trembles. Though she should be consumed by fear, her only desire is for you to open your eyes, hoping to find the person she fell in love with over a decade ago still there. 

“What did you do? Did you cause his ‘accident’?” she continues. But you remain silent, unmoving.  “Y/N?”

Still, nothing. Wanda is slowly but surely losing her sanity.

“Did you hurt him? You did, didn’t you? Jesus, Y/N. Talk to me,” Wanda pleads, and then out of desperation she screams, “Tell me what you did!”

“No!” You roar with a primal intensity, reminiscent of a wounded animal in the wild, and the sheer force of it makes Wanda recoil. But she doesn't move away from you. Not at this crucial moment, when she senses how close she is to losing you. “You tell me what you did!”

You stalk towards her menacingly, until you're mere breaths away, and Wanda wants to reach out and touch you, but she knows she'll be burned.

“How you fucked him over and over and over! How you lied to me… over and over and over,” you tell her brokenly.

“Y/N, please–” 

“Don’t. You don’t get to talk to me now,” you say, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “You didn’t think I’d know? I wouldn’t feel it? I knew from the very first night. Because I know you, Wanda. Every thought. Every look. Every fiber of your being. I know you and I fucking hate you! I didn’t want to hurt him, I wanted to hurt you!”

The confirmation she's been dreading, along with the murderous glint in your eyes, saps the color from Wanda’s face. “Oh my god,” she chokes out, hand clamping over her mouth in horror. “Y/N…”

You try to walk away, but your legs give out, and you crumple to the ground, knees first, like a puppet with its strings cut. The tears flow freely now, unburdened by pride or anger. A raw, guttural sob escapes your lips, echoing the pain in your chest. Wanda, too, collapses, a mirror reflection of your despair, her body shaking as sobs rack her frame.

How could she have ever been afraid of you, especially knowing what you've been through? Beneath it all, she sees the woman she deeply loves, now appearing so fragile and torn apart, all because of her own mistakes. “I'm so sorry...” she whispers, her apology a mere drop in the ocean of hurt between you.

“Was there anyone else aside from him?” you ask suddenly, looking at the carpeted floor before you.

“No,” Wanda answers earnestly.

You offer a wry smile. “He must be really special then.”

She frantically shakes her head. He's not. No one is. It's always been—

“Do you love him?”

“No,” Wanda responds hastily, almost too hastily for your taste. And by the look on your face, she's crushed by the realization that no matter what she says next, your trust in her words may be irrevocably broken. “I thought I did, but no,” she admits. She can't bear the thought of deceiving you further and aims to leave no question unanswered.

“Did you…” you start, staring intently at the ceiling, and Wanda knows exactly what you’re asking even before it comes out of your mouth. The fact that you have to ask leaves her utterly heartbroken. 

“...ever love me?”

This was her doing. The very second she acted on impulse and succumbed to temptation was when she truly lost you.

“I love you,” Wanda murmurs, her tear-filled eyes meeting yours, stubborn for her words to reach you. “I know how fucked up that sounds to you right now. But I do, I love you, Y/N.”

“You love me?” your voice falters, making you wince. “You have a truly unique way of showing it.”

How does she prove it? How can she make you believe? Wanda scrambles for tactics, for miracles, for a do-over.

“After all this,” you continue, “you might as well have killed me. Being dead might be painless compared to this.”

“Baby, please don't say that,” Wanda's voice breaks, choked by tears she can't hold back. She feels the urge to reach out, her fingers itching to touch you. 

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. Even hearing you say my name makes me sick.” Your voice is steady, each word dripping with cold resentment.

“You can stay,” you say after a while. Wanda senses a fragile hint of hope blossoming within her. But it's quickly crushed when you add, “Stay in this house, for as long as you need. But I'm leaving.”

And it’s here where the panic sets in. The realization that she's on the brink of losing you entirely, not just emotionally but physically as well, hits Wanda like a freight train. The walls of the room seem to close in on her, and the weight of her decisions and mistakes press heavily on her shoulders, making her feel as if she's sinking.

“No,” she whispers. “Please, don't go.”

You start to slide your wedding ring off, and that’s when Wanda loses it. She launches herself at you, capturing your lips into a heated kiss. In the split-second it takes for the golden loop to slip off your finger, a flood of memories rushes over Wanda—the scent of rain as it patters on the roof of the reception, the song playing in the background as you and Wanda sway to your first dance as a married couple, the warmth of your hand intertwined with hers. Those fragments play in a demented, rapid slideshow, and time stretches and contracts, maddeningly so.

For Wanda, it feels like someone's drilled a hole in the base of her skull, letting all the sorrow rush in like a merciless flood. Everything else is white noise. For that brief instant when her lips slot against yours, you don’t push her away. Wanda pours everything she has into this kiss, hoping you'll feel her truth in it. But then, before she even has the chance to deepen it, you’re pulling away and it’s—

It’s over.

Stubborn as always, Wanda tries to hide in your neck, and you feel her tears sliding down your throat. She clings to you with all her might, holding on for as long as she can. But when she feels you gently place your wedding ring into her palm, her face crumples with a pain so profound, she knows she may never recover from it. And then you begin to rise, lifting yourself from the floor. As she instinctively clings to your leg, you take another step, causing Wanda to stumble forward from the sudden loss of support.

“This can't be the end. It just can't,” Wanda murmurs to herself like a mantra, as if repeating it will change the course of reality. She's almost certain you hear her, but it doesn't change your stride; you just keep walking away.

The ring burns in her palm, a searing reminder that her promise of loving and cherishing you always means nothing to you now.

-

Wanda can't quite figure out how, but you've chosen to remain in the guest bedroom for the evening. She'd heard the engine of your car roar to life, but then it fell silent after just a few moments. Peering out, she’d seen you stepping out of the car, phone pressed to your ear.

Who had you been talking to? An intense curiosity had consumed Wanda, making her wonder who had been on the other end of that call. In the short window they'd been estranged—no, just temporarily separated, because Wanda refused to believe that you'd entirely lost your affection for her—could there have been someone else? Someone waiting in line for their turn?

Now, she stands hesitantly in front of the guest bedroom door, hands clenched in her sides,  torn between giving you space and continuing to fight for her marriage. She's torn, but not clueless. It's not just about barging in or holding back; it's about the aftermath. She stands there, frozen, trying to figure out which move won't blow everything to smithereens. Because the time she has with you is running out and there might not be a tomorrow. 

Or a you and her. Ever again.

Wanda finally sinks to the floor, her back flush against the cold, indifferent wood of the door. Sparky, pads over, his little claws making almost no sound against the floor. He nestles himself on her lap, making his bed there for the night. She wraps her fingers around his soft fur, his warmth seeping into her, but his presence is a double-edged sword. As much as she adores him, he's going to be the only thing of you she gets to keep, and it's going to be a painful reminder from here on out.

In an act of despair, she presses an ear flat against the door, searching for the tiniest murmur, the faintest shuffle. Anything to tell her what's happening on the other side of this barrier. A barrier that was never there before. She's on the outside, and the thought that you're moving on, building a life sans her, is terrifying.

It's a cruel irony, she realizes.  Here she is, just a few inches from you, yet completely and utterly in the dark. And so, she sits, hoping against hope, that at some point during the night, she'd hear the door creak open, and you’d scoop her in your arms and take her back.

She waits, because that's what love does—it waits, even in the darkest of times.

-

The next morning, Wanda wakes up, surprised to find herself in a bed instead of on the hard, cold floor. She doesn't recall making the trip, but the idea that you cared enough to ensure she slept on something warm and comfortable almost makes her heart leap out of her chest. 

However, her happiness is short-lived as she opens the closet and discovers that some of your things are missing. To a stranger, the differences wouldn't be obvious, but she knows which shirt and trousers you chose, and she understands the implication. It means you won't be returning tonight, and perhaps not tomorrow either. When she goes to the bathroom, she finds only one toothbrush, and that's enough to make tears well up in her swollen eyes once more.

-

“Thanks for picking up,” Wanda says, her fingers gripping the phone tight, holding onto it like she’s drowning and it’s her only lifeline.

“Well, you've called enough times. Figured I'd give you a break,” Natasha's voice, though distant, is biting, as frigid as the coldness that Wanda has been feeling in her bones these past days.

“I need to know where she is. Please.”

A sigh on the other end, followed by a chilling silence. “You think after everything, you still have the right to know her whereabouts?”

“She's still my wife,” Wanda counters, but it’s weak.

“She was your wife,” Natasha fires back, unrelenting. “The last I checked, people who love their partners don't sleep with college kids.”

The words hit Wanda harder than any physical blow could. She's taken aback, gasping for air as if she's been sucker-punched.

“I—”

“She loved you,” Natasha continues ruthlessly, “more than you ever deserved. And you threw it away, for what? Some fleeting thrill?”

Loved? Past tense? Had Natasha just assumed—

Or was that word coming directly from you?

Pushing down the slightest twinge of sympathy that threatens to surface, Natasha picks up on Wanda's faint, broken breaths on the other end. She can tell Wanda's on the verge, and it's familiar, too familiar.  It's almost exactly the sound she caught when she was on the phone with you the other night.

“I never meant for this to happen,” Wanda barely manages to say.

“Well, it did,” Natasha snaps, her voice cold. “Intentions don’t change actions. And actions have consequences.”

Wanda’s voice comes off a little strong this time, thick with conviction. “Maybe I deserve this, Natasha. Maybe it’s my time to pay for all the wrongs I’ve done.”

“You think?” Natasha scoffs.

“But you... you’ll never get it. You’ll never understand why I can’t just let go, why I can’t give up on her,” Wanda says.

“And why’s that?”

Wanda's voice trembles with the knowledge that what she's about to say is a cheap blow.  “Because you've never been married. You've never committed yourself to someone in the way I have with her.”

That stings, and Natasha can feel her own anger rising.

“Don’t think for a second that just because I’m not married, I don’t understand commitment, pain, or betrayal,” she says, voice low and measured.

Wanda swallows hard. “I didn't mean to—”

“Of course you didn't. But here we are, yet again,” Natasha cuts her off. She sighs, leaning back in her chair, “I’m not telling you where she is. She needs time, Wanda. Time away from you. If she wants to talk, she’ll find you.”

That's the last thing Wanda wants. She worries that distance will solidify your resolve, turning her from an immediate regret to a distant afterthought.

“I need to see her, Natasha,” Wanda pleads, “Just tell me where she is.”

“Why? So you can make things even worse?”

After a tense pause, Wanda plays her last card, “Remember that night after we all went out? The night you and Bruce...” she trails off, not needing to complete the sentence.

Natasha stiffens, instantly knowing where this is headed. “Don’t you dare, Wanda.”

Wanda forges on, “I never told anyone, never used it against you. I kept your secret. You owe me, Natasha.”

The feeling of Bruce's hand against her cheek, the humiliation, the denial—all of it comes rushing back. She never thought Wanda would throw that night back in her face.

“You're really going there?” Natasha laughs hollowly. 

“I’m desperate, Natasha. I love her. I can’t lose her,” Wanda’s voice breaks.

The line goes quiet, stretching seconds into what seems like hours. Finally, Natasha exhales heavily, the weight of the decision clear in her tone. “I'll give you an address. Show up, try to talk to her, but if she asks you to leave, you respect her wishes. Understand?”

Wanda swallows dryly. She knows Natasha can enforce her terms if she wants, which means she has no other choice but to comply. “Understood.”

Natasha's parting words would later linger in her mind for hours.

“This doesn't mean I've forgiven you or that she ever will. But you get your shot. Make it count.”

-

Wanda’s been standing outside the diner for what feels like a long time. She hopes her outfit—a parka over a crisp white v-neck and high-waisted jeans—makes a good impression. A glance in the reflection of the diner’s window confirms her red hair looks glossy and radiant, cascading in waves down her back.

Time and time again, Wanda had turned over every conceivable strategy to win you back. But in the end, they all hinged on the one thing she feared most: agreeing to a divorce. The very thought threatened to break her from the inside, but her desperation to make things right, to show you that she's changed, made this painful decision a necessary one. Wanda had taken so much from you, taken everything you had to offer and discarded it carelessly. Now, it was her turn to give something back, even if it meant letting you go, legally.

She tells herself, repeatedly, that their love story isn't defined by a marriage certificate. They won't end just because their marriage does.  She had to believe this; it was the only way she could find the strength to move forward. 

Steeling herself, Wanda takes one step forward. Another. Until finally, she’s there.

“Hey,” Wanda greets, doing her best to sound casual as she slides into the booth opposite you.

You give a nonchalant nod, mouth full of your Reuben sandwich. “Hi, Wanda.”

The scent of your cologne is the first thing that hits her, and it’s... different. This one's sharper, crisper, with a hint of citrus, perhaps. It's as if you're purposely shedding parts of yourself that she's grown accustomed to, distancing yourself in the most elemental ways. There's a new watch on your wrist, sleeker than the one she gifted you on your last anniversary. Even the way you hold yourself seems altered, shoulders squared and posture more rigid. Every detail screams of a transformation, a conscious effort to morph into someone she wouldn't recognize. 

But why? To hurt her? To move on? To forget? All of the above? It's been just a week, yet the differences are already evident. Wanda dreads to think how much more will change if she goes months without seeing you.

This isn’t going to be easy, and that’s putting it mildly. “Sorry for cornering you like this. You rarely return my calls and it’s been almost impossible to match our schedules,” Wanda admits.

You concentrate on chewing your food, trying to appear perfectly disinterested in what she’s saying. As you take another bite of your sandwich, Wanda studies her intently, looking for any fleeting sign of emotion, but there’s nothing there but a chilling detachment.

“Natasha told me you’re already talking to divorce lawyers,” she continues. She's woken up next to you for more than a decade; she’s not easily deterred by the display of indifference. “If you’re decided that it’s what you really want, then I’ll give it to you. I’ll cooperate.”

“Okay.” 

Wanda notices the fleeting moment your eyes dart to her left ring finger before you quickly look away.

“I, uh, got something for you,” she says. 

“No, thanks.” 

Wanda’s heart sinks as you dismiss her before even knowing what it is. Determined, she pulls out the small ring box and places it on the table, feeling a pang in her chest. “But it belongs to you,” she murmurs.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your wedding ring,” she says, pointing out what you already know. Your expression darkens, frustrated that she misses the underlying meaning of your question—not about the ring itself, but rather its significance right now.

For a split second, Wanda harbored a fragile hope that seeing the ring might stir something within you. 

But then you're shaking your head, beginning to say, “I don’t want—”

“I understand,” she says, her shoulders sagging as she leans back into the booth. “But I'm returning it to you, and I’m keeping mine. What you decide to do with it is up to you. However, holding onto it on your behalf isn't something I can do.”

The ring she slipped onto your finger five years ago held all her promises, all her devotion to you. So it hurt that you no longer accepted that, no longer recognized it as yours. And she didn't want to be the guardian of that pain anymore.

“Fine,” you say, reaching for the tiny box and Wanda releases a heavy sigh of relief.

“So, you've got your ring back, and I'll sign the divorce papers once they're drawn up,” she says, mustering all her courage for what she's going to say next. “And then, I'll come for you.”

She watches in surprise as you nearly spit out your coffee, a few droplets escaping past your lips. As you hurriedly reach for a napkin, Wanda can't help but offer a gentle smile, always finding your occasional clumsiness endearing even in the middle of breaking her heart.

Your wide-eyed stare meets hers, speechless.

Her smile fades slightly, replaced by a melancholic self-awareness. “I didn’t want to believe you when you told me that night that you hated me. But I guess that’s better than indifference.” 

“I don't hate you, Wanda,” you say. She can tell you're telling the truth, and she smiles a little at that.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” she laments. “Thank you.”

She takes a deep breath, knowing she needs to be clear, to lay everything on the table. “I’m not going to give up on you, Y/N. On us. What we have, and I’ve thought a lot about it, is something I’ll never find in another.”

“I’m not telling you this to get a reaction out of you,” she continues, “I know you’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of me pursuing you, but,” she falters, the first sign of her vulnerability. “This time, I want you to know everything. I don’t want you to be blindsided by my intentions, so I’m giving you a heads-up.” 

“Wands,” you say, the nickname slipping effortlessly from your lips, and she has to fight the instinctual urge to reach for your hand across the table. “You can’t torture yourself like this.” 

“I’m not,” she assures you. “I just refuse to give up on my dream.” She senses the skepticism in your eyes, and she can't blame you, not after everything that happened in the recent weeks. You’re my dream, Wanda had confidently and lovingly written in her vows. The memory of that day, with the weight of those words, is as vivid in your mind as it is in hers.

She's always been the type to hold onto what she loves, never letting go without a fight. But seeing the dark circles under your eyes, the sunken weight of your cheeks, she knows the very sight of her is taking a toll on you. And so, she’s leaving, for your sake. 

“I'll see you soon,” Wanda says, getting up to leave. She hesitates for a moment, considering whether to go for your cheek, if you'll allow her. However, the lack of response from you pushes her to take small, shaky steps toward the door and out of the restaurant.

It isn’t over. Wanda’s made up her mind: she won't give up on you. Maybe she's the villain in this story; and hell, there's probably someone out there, all primed and polished, perfectly poised to love you without the scars and rough edges. Except, she doesn’t care, even if she knows she’ll be diving headfirst into the storm. 

She swears that someday she'll be on her knees, asking you to marry her again.

[moondirti]

genesis

But the white light highlights the captain’s silhouette; grown-in mutton chops, broad shoulders that double your own. He’s wearing a beanie, pulled to his brow, melting into the shadow that conceals his eyes from you. It’s the first time you truly see him – this much of him, anyway. And he’s startlingly younger than you would’ve thought, hair still packed a uniform brown, the occasional wisp of grey speckled in the midst.

pairing: Captain John Price x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 8k summary: the progression of a spite-fuelled relationship warnings: enemies to lovers, literally 4k words of unfettered smut, virginity loss, reader is given a backstory, light corruption kink, tummy bulge, choking, mentions of death, mentions of torture, kidnapping, alcohol, alluded misogyny notes: this became something else entirely and i apologise. credit for the 'choking with an arm' thing goes to @sprout-fics and, by extension, @yeyinde 's anons lol

The first time you meet the captain, his edges blend in with the wet asphalt and gunmetal downpour. Midnight adrenaline, vision bleary with disrupted sleep; you’re only able to make out the flickering end of a fat cigar, tucked between his lips and smouldering orange, somehow still alight despite the weather.

You suppose it’s that ironclad conviction, the one you’ve heard of in passing on base. Smelted to every bullet, carved to fit the crows feet that frame his eyes. You see it now, tainted with a conscience rebellion – non discrete, as they’d called it, enough to bend nature itself to suit his tobacco fix. 

You still, pausing for him to give you the rundown. He doesn’t approach you, not yet, caught in a hissed argument with one of his men. Their voices drift in the howling wind; his, like smoke, curling with a rough aggression. 

Hair plastered to your forehead, water gathering on the tip of your nose; you quietly thank your hasty decision to throw on a lab coat before coming. It proves to be the only barrier between the rain and your dishevelled self – loose pyjama bottoms coming to your calf, knitted socks that start to soak through your army-grade boots. Not a state you commonly adapt for first impressions, though it’s not like you’d had much of a choice. 

Paramedics swarm the helicopter Price had emerged from, pulling out a limp body, blood splattering on the landing pad to be washed away without a trace. It’s nothing you weren’t expecting as the medic on call tonight – the shrill beeps of your pager were enough of an indication that something had gone wrong. Yet your mind reels to pinpoint the face that lulls onto the stretcher. Wrinkled nose, quivering lips – they’re alive, but only just. 

You don’t recognise them. The cooling relief is stupidly selfish. 

A minute later; two soldiers hop off the craft, trooping off with their guns tucked near their chests, entirely dutiful. You note the direction they take, heading towards Laswell’s office – assigned report duty, no doubt. 

Five minutes pass, and the pilot disengages as well. The chopper powers down from a loud roar to a disruptive quiet. The storm still boils overhead, thunder a cracking whip to what had been a peaceful night. You resist the urge to wipe the drops that weigh your eyelashes. You’re soaked to the bone, now. 

Ten. The patient would have reached the hospital bay. An irking sort of impatience begins gnawing on your gut, dangerously fiery for the situation at hand. You cough, despite knowing the captain won’t hear you, and square your shoulders as you take him in again. He hasn’t so much as looked in your direction, locked into a series of gruff nods and whispered commands with the sergeant.

Is his comrade’s life really of that little urgency to him?

The thought leads you down a path you do not want to take. It’s decidedly destructive, a match to the rush of fuming petrol that courses through you. Breathe through it, a clipped voice echoes back to you, reverberating on starched walls and a cold leather couch. Rationalise. Your psychiatrist’s office, post reassignment. I’d wager you didn’t take that time to think before the incident in Bulgaria, hm? 

Pompous bitch. 

You draw in a long inhale, holding it until your chest aches with blurring hypoxia. Black dots your vision, spurring a pounding alarm at your temples. Your fists clench, unclench, then clench again, nails digging crescent moons into the pruned skin of your palms. You wait, and wait, and think you puncture yourself, a new warmth pooling into your cuticles. 

Then, when Price’s conversation dwindles, the flame tempers, mental barricade forming in its stead. A necessary precaution; you steel yourself and prepare for the likely gruesome incident debrief as he breaks off and starts to approach. 

Only, he marches right past you. 

You’re stuck staring ahead, frozen in paralytic shock. Heart lurching, your body thumps with it, disorienting when you turn to his shrinking form.

“Captain!” Your yell whips with the gale. He tosses you a brief look over his shoulder, pulls an especially large drag from his cigar, and keeps walking. 

You snap to your senses and jog to catch up.

“Bulle’ to the chest, punctured a lung. Concussion from tumblin’ rubble but not much else.” He keeps a quick pace ahead of you. It takes all you’ve got not to slip as you disentangle his words from an ashen irritation. 

“Was he given any medication that might interfere with the anaesthesia?” 

“Negative.” 

“Was the wound sealed to keep air from being sucked in?” 

“Affirmative.”

“Did he lose consciousness at any point in time?” You strain, legs screaming as you finally come side-to-side with him. 

“Doctor–” 

“I need to know these things for the procedure to run as smoothly as pos–” 

“Doctor.” He snaps, stomping to a sudden halt before facing you fully. You’ve come to the right wing’s entry, secured with a strict-access passcode your rank is not privy to. The most you know of it is what you can see through the doorway window; a fluorescent hall, illuminated despite the late hour. An office at the end of it. Shepherd, perhaps, engraved on a nameplate. 

But the white light highlights the captain’s silhouette; grown-in mutton chops, broad shoulders that double your own. He’s wearing a beanie, pulled to his brow, melting into the shadow that conceals his eyes from you. It’s the first time you truly see him – this much of him, anyway. And he’s startlingly younger than you would’ve thought, hair still packed a uniform brown, the occasional wisp of grey speckled in the midst. 

You shuffle in place. Your pyjamas cling to your skin, dewy disposition a reminder of how ridiculous you must look. Lip quivering, you tuck it underneath a sucking tooth and glare up at him. 

“Sir.” 

“You’re wastin’ your bloody time with this. One of my men is choking on his own blood,” His finger prods to the general direction the patient was taken in. “And you’re here, mm. Why is that?” 

“It’s procedure.” The statement escapes as more of a hiss than anything else, his hypocrisy clawing at the gummy lining of your lungs.

“Procedure can fuck off this once, that shit’s for the textbooks. Things differ on the field, Doc.”

It hits you, then, who he sounds like. The revelation bleeds into your tone. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused. Now go and make sure my sniper doesn’t die on me.”

The rain’s eased to a drizzle now. He leaves you molten, steaming with a sulphurous rage.

“Stop moving.” 

“Can’t exactly do that now, eh?” 

By the fifth time you cross paths with the captain, you’ve already decided you don’t like him. 

To the outside eye, your position does nothing to suggest it. Lewd at best – you sit, crouched between his legs, your elbows propped up on muscled thighs to stabilise the tremor in your hands. The floor beneath you rumbles, the humvee rolling over rocky terrain in its attempt to exfil. Price, stabbed; once in the left lumbar, twice in the umbilical region. 

Ichor soaks through your compress. Your fingers are tacky with dried gore. 

The car is stiflingly hot, a vessel for the trapped Uzbekistanian sun and high tensions. Large gulps of air prove insufficient; oxygen runs scarce, recycled through the systems of the several soldiers present. You’d given your seat to Garrick – who, currently, has no use for it, stuck halfway out a window to shoot at your pursuers.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. The sergeant driving has no goddamn idea how to do so without messing up your work and your clothes chafe over sweat in the most excruciating way possible. It took you fifteen tries to thread the suture through the needle. It’ll take ten times that to actually get his wound closed. 

And it’s not his fault. None of this can be pinned on him.

Yet–

“Can’t understand why you don’t take the time to reload your ballistic plates. This whole thing–” 

“Jus’ do your damn job, doctor.” 

You swallow the snarl that tears up your throat, burying it alongside a grave of acrid emotion you reserve for men just like him. This situation is profoundly familiar. Bulgaria; the crunch of your general’s nose under your fist. Betrayal sour on your tongue, a sting like you’d never before felt it. It took a whole team to hold you back as he spit upon your bruising temple. 

A cunt. That’s what you are, girl. 

Pray tell, then, what does that make you?

Your next seam is done with fervent hostility. 

It’s only when your penultimate knot is tied that you force yourself to reel in your wandering mind and focus on the task at hand. You’ve one more laceration to mend after this, the length of it throbbing underneath a wad of temporary gauze. It’s that, maybe – festering evidence of the raid you’d just survived – that flushes you in further warmth, a boiling panic still itching beneath the surface. Rip release grenades, the dust of unsettled gunpowder. Your calf twinges from where it was caught under a pile of debris. 

C’mon, doc. Up. Yeah… yeah, there we go. You broken? 

Fine.

Or. Perhaps–

Giving flesh. Not rock-hard with chiselled definition – his body doesn’t carve into pronounced sinew – but solid, all the same. Packed brawn underneath a stretch of ivory skin. His shirt, rucked up to his chest. A trail from beyond his waistband, curly hairs, stark against a crimson backdrop.

Your conviction warbles, so you say nothing when you move to pierce him again. 

It’s unfortunate timing, really. 

His hips jolt at the cold bite of the needle head. The car rocks over a pothole. Some greater destiny, a cackling trio of asshole fates, weave their inexplicable thread. You’re only able to pull your hand back in time – the threat of stabbing him yourself a looming prospect. 

Your face isn’t so lucky. 

It comes into full contact with the swell between his legs. 

His grip shoots to your hair, winding at the roots to hold you firm. It’s enough to steady you as you pull back almost immediately, but the phantom feel of his crotch shoved to your nose is slower to leave. 

For a painstaking moment, the two of you lock onto each other’s stares. Price’s brows buoy, hooding over florentine eyes that spark with an untapped choler. You pretend not to notice the way his lips twitch, how his hand – still on your head – clenches the slightest bit tighter. 

Ticking bomb, wedged in the divet between two floorboards. 

Click, click, click.

One. Two. Three. 

Three beats until you clamp your jaw shut, gathering your surely obscene expression to one of mortified irritability. It’s all you allow yourself. 

“I told you to sit still.” 

Despite the way your words slip between clenched teeth, they sound with whopping pliability. Like he could grind them down, pestle on mortar, and watch as they unfurl, syllable by syllable, to shape some semblance of truth. 

(Honesty; a notion tucked along with happier memories of staying up longer than you should, facing your bunkmate with a bottle of cheap tequila on your lap.

There’s gotta be something you can drink to. 

You’re just wild, Tess. 

Fair, fair. Hmm, alright. Never have I ever…

She cackles at the grimace you pull. 

–given head. Yeah! That’s easy, right?  

Hm.

Wait. Seriously?

Everyone’s intolerable.)

“You watch your tone.” The growl rips from him then, laden with the scratch of singed newspaper, tobacco clustering at the back of his throat. It’s not so much a command than it is a reminder, a recall to your second meeting where you’d found the captain pouring over your file. Swilling the last amount of amber liquid from a glencairn: you nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc. Not everyone is so forgiving. 

You’d only meant to collect a batch of vaccination records for his new recruits. You’d left as you seem to always do with him, rage burrowing into claggy marrow.

Forgiving. Right.

“Sorry, sir.” It’s the farthest thing from genuine.

You don’t know what you hate more. The husky chuckle that erupts at your hushed admonishment, or the fact that you miss them when his fingers leave your hair.

Something shifts between the sixth and the seventh time. 

It isn't forfeit, not by a long shot. The gods wrote you with a deathly stubbornness; acquiescent Sisyphus, bound to roll your boulder up an impossibly steep incline. Your back will ache, and your tendons could tear, and you’d continue pushing for the sheer fact alone. Palms sliced open on abrasive rock, you’ve long since stained your white flag with blood and the pink salt of lake atanasovsko. 

(You used to compliment Tess on her hair – ice blonde, almost white. Her face had matched that deathly pallor when you pulled her up on the grassy bank.)

No. It’s a lot more subtle.

As subtle as kidnapping can be.

A cramped safehouse, post-evacuation. You’d commandeered the one bathroom for a moment alone, crouched over a pail of tepid water functioning as a sink.

Sand clings to you like second skin, grime piled in impossible crevices you can’t clean no matter how hard you try. It’s Price’s gore that washes off first, tainting the murky pool for any who wishes to use it next. Rippling red; it doesn’t disgust you to cup it up and wash your face. 

Three raps strike on the rotted-wood door. 

“Yeah?” 

“There’s, uh… there’s a slight issue we need you for.” Gaz says.

Drawing a sharp inhale, you shrug on your coat and leave to find him standing by the hall. He quirks his head towards the main space, where various voices overlap one another in an effort to make themselves heard. You’re able to single out his amidst the mix, a clipped bark that’d hold more weight had he not been stabbed.

A kid, as it turns out, is the source of such contention. A local who’d seen the red cross on your armband and recognised the universal symbol. 

“What’s going on?” 

“We’re trying to figure that out. I speak a rough Uzbek. Think she mentioned something about her mother being sick,” A sergeant – the one driving earlier – briefs you. 

“Right.” You lick your lips, locating Price in your peripheral before crouching to meet the girl’s height. “Is she nearby, sweetheart?” Her feet curve towards one another, clad in flower-adorned sandals that have seen brighter days. You smooth down the flyaways at her temple, noting the way she searches for meaning in your gentle expression. Hindsight tells you she looked terrified. 

But before you can ask again, you’re met with a gruff command.

“You’re not goin’ to help, doctor.” 

Incredulity spikes, a ruthless parallel to his own dismissal. You slowly turn to catch his eye, piercing from the end of a table. He’s still in his tactical gear, his shirt darkened and sticky across the front. You hadn’t had time to wrap his wounds. 

“Come again?” 

“It’s not our mission.” 

You can’t miss the meaning camouflaged in his vague rejection. Current company dissipates into ash; tunnel-vision – all you see are pursed lips, bearers of an apathetic verdict. Not goin’ to help – like it isn’t your sole reason for being here. 

Temper flaring into a whistling fusillade, you shoot to your feet. Your tone is the first victim, piquing with violent emotion. “She’s just a girl!” 

“We don’ know that for sure–”

“Jesus fucking christ, captain. If you think the enemy’s got their talons this far out, then what are we even doing here?” 

“All I’m saying–” 

“I don’t want to bloody hear it! She’s come to me for help, so I’m the one who’ll make this decision. Should I be ambushed, or worse, you have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.” 

Usually, the bitter aftertaste of citrus rage scalds you. But when you had walked out into the dust-clogged afternoon, you felt nothing but grim satisfaction. 

It only lasted as long as it took for a bag to be placed over your head, a blunt force accompaniment, the butt of a gun to your cheek that sends you spiralling into a brutal goodnight.

The seventh (technically, eighth, as you come to learn) is at a bar in Belgium, two months later. 

Littered in novel scars, the largest one spanning your cheekbone, you swish a dram of soju and drum your fingers on a tacky bartop. The patrons that had originally crowded the space have long since filtered out – your original distraction funnelled to just the drink in your hands. 

So, you sit and think of nothing. 

(Everything, actually, but memories fizz like static. Your period as a hostage stands out as the sharpest of the bunch.) 

It’s been a week since you’d been dismissed from the hospital – though you can’t say the same for your stay there, days fused together to stretch over an undisclosed amount of time. You’re usually on top of things, but being the one in the clinical cot had thrown you off your element. For good now, you think. You prowl Belgian streets with little aim and direction, pardoned from duty until they figure out what to do with you. 

Which makes you wonder how exactly he finds you. 

It’s a hole-in-the-wall, seedy establishment. Swallowing light, artificial lanterns a mild buffer to vignette shadows, slithering up brick walls. 

Still, the captain gravitates to you in your lowest moment – as he evidently has a habit of doing – and takes the stool next to you like he belongs. 

“Nice to see a friendly face.” You chortle. 

Nice gives him all the updates he needs. A debrief on what changed since Uzbekistan; the new woman whittled by torture and the painful consequence to her own derision. 

“You look older.” He nods. 

“Wishful thinking?” 

“Maybe.” 

He urges the bartender for scotch with a water back, neat, and toasts the foot of a cigar. You hide your simper behind your bottle. Not everyone is different.

“How’s the damage?” You point to his gut. He looks confused for a second before remembering the circumstances of your next-to-last interaction. 

“How’s yours, mm?” 

“Healed.” 

“I can see that. Looks better than it did when you’d been extracted.” 

You skim over the fact that he was there for your rescue and breathe in the smoke that twines. Wood, burnt ochre that’s become synonymous with him. You suppose you’d missed it; that rendezvous point for when you were beaten within an inch of your life. It’d been a far warmer scent than rusted metal and sour mattresses.

The conversation dwindles to silence, then. Part of it is the ache that stones you, the revelation that you don’t hate him as much as you’d convinced yourself on. A nebulous inkling that you’d dreamt about him, more than once, curled in on yourself and sore with rue. 

You have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.

But it’s prickling, too. You don’t have it in you to revisit her; you – Doc – whoever emerged all those years ago with an ingenuous vengeance. You focus on the present for the first time in forever, content to relish in it.

So–

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, soaked in dim light, basking in an old dynamic that hasn’t quite found its footing yet. It isn’t until Price finishes his drink do you pinpoint the courage to interject again. 

“You were right.” 

He ponders your confession, turning it over while he takes you in anew. 

“I was.” It’s gruff, short.

And it could end there. A brusque exchange doubling as your apology, more than you ever thought you’d give. But something gnaws on your chest, cramming up in the space between your pounding heart and a rib; the need to spill, to make yourself known, so – if they decide to decommission you – you leave an honest crest in his impression. This might be the last time.

Pyjamas and waterlogged socks. Naivety that bites. You haven’t exactly been the best version of yourself.

You can’t speak the full truth of it, so you start on a tangent you hope will paint it for you. 

“I was a soldier before I was a medic, y’know. Fought in the Bulgarian spec-ops.” 

“Mm. I read your file.” Still, he takes another drag and settles an elbow on the table. Whether he’s curious or genuinely wants to hear you out, it gives you the go-ahead to continue. 

“We were cornered, once, out near the Black sea. Every single one of us was shot. By the end, two were killed, with four following in close footsteps.”

You knock back another swill of soju before continuing. 

“The general ordered an immediate exfil, but the chopper only had space for four bodies. They made the decision to pull every man out of the water, KIA included, while leaving the only other girl and I for dead.” 

Florentine eyes. They flicker with a concern you might have seen before, but were too busy spitting at to properly appreciate.

“Tess was my oldest friend. Couldn’t save her, so–” 

“You try to save everyone else.” 

Your lips pull in a thin line. 

“But you can’t.” 

“Yeah.” You chuckle. “I know that now.” 

“So where are you headed, doc?” 

“What–” 

“I mean. What are you goin’ to do with yourself, now that this noble mission’s been fried, eh? They’re discussing your discharge. Should that happen, you’d be a civilian.”

“I get that. There’s nothing for me out there, though.” 

“Start with what you haven’t allowed yourself this far, then.” 

And he places something on the table in front of you. A hotel keycard, Navarra Brugge printed in a decadent font across its length. The building two blocks away. You bite your lip, mind reeling with every connotation to what the gesture might mean. 

You settle on the most plausible. 

“How’d you know?” 

Looking up at him, your chest flutters when he grins. Handsome. How’ve you never noticed that? 

“Saw it on that pretty face the first time we met. I figured, a girl so far up her own ass. Probably never had the petulance fucked out of you.” 

You scoff with faux offence.

(Part shame).

So, something shifts between the sixth and seventh time you meet. 

Maybe it’s the way you seriously consider the four digits after he leaves – scrawled in black ink, the number to his room.

Hands like the blistering end of a cigar, searing skin as they keep you in place. Your jaw seized in one, the other curled firmly around your waist. You think he’s trying to savour it, the sight of you keening for him, glossy eyes that hang on to the last bits of defiance. Stupid, drunk – not from the sip of soju you’d taken earlier, but off the scent of suede and ash alone. 

You lean forward, searching for slightly chapped lips. He lets you get close enough that his moustache tickles your nose, imbued with tobacco, before pulling away. It’s hellsent, some tantalising choreography he’s undoubtedly danced before. But your consequential whine is short-lived, tempered under a severe look when his eyes meet yours. Fingers crushing together, squeezing, so your cheeks pucker up for him. A promise. A warning. 

“How do y’want this to go, mm?” He says, low enough for the words to reverberate through you. Punctuated – his voice is hoarser at this hour. 

In the dim lamplight, your brows knit together. He must read the confusion. 

“You want me to take it easy on you, dove?” His palm smooths down your waist, eye contact locked while it does, looking for something you wouldn’t be able to pinpoint in yourself. Price’s touch curves along your hip, catching the hem of your jeans, before circling back to cup your behind. It’s gentle at first, a barely-there graze, feeling you out. You puff into the shared air. 

But you can’t speak, not with the grip on your face. You resort to clenching your teeth, hoping he can feel the tick of it. 

“Mm. I see,” His breath fans over you. It’s hot with malt, smoke cloyed to the tongue. The hand on your ass tightens, cleaving between flesh, forcing you upwards. Your pants press taut over your cunt. “How ‘bout this… tell me if it sounds good, eh?” 

You nod. He pats your thigh in response. 

“I’m goin’ to fuck you how you need to be fucked. Can’ promise it won’t be rough, but if you ever need to tap out, just say the word. Got it?” 

Again, you nod, mouth parting once his clutch eases on you. The concession dangles for a moment, bobbing in the thick pause he takes. Two blinks later, still nothing. You take the opportunity to try and capture his lips, a little too eagerly.

He wrenches you back. 

“I need t’hear you say it.” 

Of course. A verbal affirmation. But for– what, exactly? Consent, all things considered, though he simmers with something else. Satisfaction teetering towards a precipice, a covered pot threatening to over boil. His fingers dig into you like they know your softest points, having stewed over them before. You shiver, fluttering with a familiar venom, and think to the humvee in Uzbekistan. Crouched between his legs, propelled onto his crotch. The swell that twitched under your cheek, throbbing, new blood. 

Say yes to yield. To give in to the command of someone new, who’ll know deeper parts of you than what you’d ever allowed. The clutch of your cunt, the sound of your moans. Vulnerability he could exploit, should he want to. 

Yet– 

He’s asking, leading you along and stopping at every hitch. There’s a lifebelt tied to the end of some rope, a thrown-out line; an act worth more than you could credit to anyone before him. 

I need to hear you say it.

It comes from some cavity within you – a rotten place, blackened with decades long neglect.

“I understand.” 

Obedience. Just this once. 

(Then, if the invite extends–)

“That’s a girl.” 

Lightning shoots through you at the praise, flaying you open to his steady presence. Warmth; he’s alive in the way that trees are, thickset, unwavering, rooted to your core as you bleed and breathe and choke on your own delirium. You don’t want it to be known, how reactive you can be. 

Though, you suppose, that’s printed in red ink, stapled to the front page of your file. 

You nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc.

Not here, not now. 

Flooded with the woes of golden pleasure, you don’t notice his subtle nudge upwards, tilting your chin. It’s only when he finally, finally, gives you what you want – the press of his mouth to yours, full force, rough like he said he’d be – that you touch back to reality. 

Maduro flavoured spit, he overwhelms you with an unrelenting magnetism. Teeth clashing, his hands on your neck, your hair. It hurts, borderline bruising. Should he give you a moment’s breath, your lips would swell blue, burst capillaries a service announcement to anyone who thinks they could measure up. But Price keeps you to him, his beard rubbing you raw when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. 

And it’s scorching, heavy. Folding to find the scars dotting the insides of your cheeks, bitten tissue in fits of rage. Sucking the mewls that stream from you as he meets them with his own, guttural groans. You collapse into pliability as he kisses – no, devours – you, losing that sparking centre, torrid effervescence blurring your senses. There’s no rhyme or reason, no connection to the person you’d hammered out of stone. Just drool, a dominating masculinity to melt into. Sticky like a fruit popsicle on some summer’s day. 

He manoeuvres your head, tilting to the right, so he can push further onto you. An expert in all things dizzying; you can hardly keep up with the targeted onslaught. It takes all that is in you to breathe, clinging desperately to the front of his shirt – for purchase, for plea – and relinquish control. 

Your back arches, front grinding onto him. He breaks away, saliva webbing between you, and tuts when you try to follow and bridge contact once more. “So eager, dove.”

Hovering near lightheaded rapture, you say the first thing that occurs to you. “Any slower and I might take charge.” 

Entirely untrue. You’re porcelain in the molten pool of his desire. Harder, and he’d break you. 

But his vicious snarl is enough to balance the lie. A scale tips in you, heavy stone of anticipation weighing on your gut. 

“Mm. Is that how you want to play then?” 

“Dunno what you mean.” 

“Oh, you maddening li’l minx,” Price rasps, backing you up against the edge of his bed. He keeps you from falling onto it with a hand around the base of your neck. “I’ll show you what I mean.” 

Reprimanding, he doesn’t choke you – not quite – though the grip on your throat is anything but gentle. Chafing calluses pressing into gooseflesh-prickled skin, you’re braced to his whims – locked into suspended animation as he takes you in. Your lashes, clumped with blissed tears. The constant, whistled whine, streaming from a punctured lung. Your sweat-flushed cheeks, honeyed sheen, tangy with iodine and still, sweeter than most that drips from you. 

You, stuttering with frenzied pants, and searching for nirvana in his gaze alone. 

His beard glistens with a concoction of both your saliva, and he smiles proudly under the varnish. You scramble on your tiptoes to meet him when he dips in again.

Price, captain. Spearhead of any team, bending rain to mould over a hefty cigar as he barks out rough commands. You’d seen it then, back on base, shivering under a debilitating monsoon. This fire, an unquestioned charge that threatened to batter you into place. One that does exactly that, right now. But you take it gladly when you're manhandled back onto a nest of cool cushions, crawling to your elbows to watch as he pulls his shirt off broad shoulders. Lift your hips for me. Putty, he peels your jeans off with one fell swoop.

“Fuck, look at you.” 

Sinking deeper into oblivion, you grasp onto conventional straws – acts calculated in well-lit showrooms. A babydoll smile, a virginal blush. Your knees tap together as you attempt to shut your soaked panties from his view. 

One well-placed, smarting slap thwarts the attempt. The delicate skin of your inner thigh blazes with a white-hot sting, carved to fit the shape of his palm. 

“Keep ‘em open for me, now. I feast with my eyes first, dove.” 

Fuck, indeed. 

“C-Captain…” 

The breathy murmur comes out broken, composed to the quick cadence of your heart. It slams for space, almost nauseating, squeezing your internal organs as it tries it’s best to just hang on. He’s sin, a transgression to whatever divine laws are sung in stain-glass lit halls. And maybe your body knows – maybe it’s adrenaline, the fight or flight that’s kept you safe all these years, coming back to blare it’s bad news. Red flashes, astigmatism. A cavern of fire ready to swallow you whole.

But if hell is anywhere near as glorious as the feel of his hands on you, then you’d plunge to the devil yourself. 

“Bloody christ. You beautiful thing,” His words, for contrast, are whispered with a reverence so quiet you wonder if he meant for you to hear. “It’s a fucking wonder no one’s tried their way with you.” Secret tenderness spilling to the lilt of it. 

(Not so secret is the lust with which he kneads your hips.)

“They have,” 

Shifting, he brings your legs to either side of him. “Is that right?” 

“None were worth my time.”

“Mm. And I am?” 

“We’ll see.” 

“Suppose we will. Update me when you’re tending to a sore cunt.” 

He doesn’t give you the time to respond, hands anchoring beneath your knees to press your thighs up to your chest. You’re snapped in half, miniscule beneath his body – an anvil with weight alone. Beyond fanned lashes and a feverish glow, you see his arm crook at the elbow, slotting between your thighs. 

But he only grazes over your panties, stretched thin over your drenched centre.

Your hips buck, seeking friction to sate the fattening pressure. Price only entertains your high-pitched whines with gentle hushes. And when they ebb to a varicoloured fog, found in teary eyes, he taps your bitten lips with two fingers. 

You take them in, suckling vacuum around the thick digits. Lapping at his knuckles, smoothing over the tang of saltpetre and binder leaves. He takes a moment to enjoy the balmy envelope of your mouth before reaching deeper, knocking molars and pinning down your tongue until your chest twinges with throbbing hypoxia. Spittle pools behind your teeth, dribbling from the seal of your lips to coat your chin. 

You have half a mind to doubt it, to curl in with the knowledge that all it took was a stern stare and some words of comfort for you to debase yourself. But Price meets your insecurity with a reinforced thrust of his pelvis, hard-on grinding into your ass. It’s enough to send you unquestioned lechery. 

A loud rip and the sudden rush of cold air on your pussy is what it takes for you to realise he’s stripped you bare, pocketing your torn underwear with a sly shift. Your jaw remains unhinged when he pulls away, tasting the stench of sex that clots sticky at the back of your throat. As such, there’s nothing to dampen your needy cry when he slips the slicked digits between velveteen folds. 

He touches you like his name is imprinted in bold letters across your navel, implanting blunt fingertips onto your electric centre – circling, harsh and rough and fast enough to spike fully-body tremors. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and somehow, simultaneously not enough; a defibrillator to your core, a deep dive into molasses waters. His thumb takes place on your clit when he finds you clenching around nothing, index and middle inching towards your sopping hole to plug you full. 

And the stretch burns, squeezing into a space that’s only ever taken your smaller hand. It doesn’t hurt so much as it aches, your cunt rushing to accommodate the intrusion. You know, you know, it’s a fraction of what’s to come – he’s preparing you to take him, that hefty appendage that’s so big it can’t even slot in your ass, confined and all. Yet, you feel as though you should’ve been readied for this too. This scissoring – chock-full of competency, an expert hook that isolates the perfect spot off the get-go. A part of you you’d never been able to reach. 

His free hand cradles your neck, steadying it as he crouches over you to shove his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss, far from the lip smacking of before – no. Price bleeds his groaned compliments into your lungs, battling for what orifice of yours can make the lewdest sounds. Your moans, choked on scotch-spiked spit, or the battered, airtight clinch, gushing new slick with every quirk of his fingers. 

“Mm, you’re– fuck, love. So goddamn tight, you’re practically cutting off my blood flow.” He curses, voice damned with restraint. It settles in the back of your head, forced through the bromine-doused cotton that lines your skull. Nothing makes sense. Vowels form shapes that dance to an off-tune song, edges slicing you, severing synapses. Something about blood, something about love. You’d always prided yourself on deciphering the most complicated of inflections, but never were you given the handbook on empyrean pleasure. 

You can only guess based on what you see. Ivory skin, smudged at the edges, no hard lines to his form. Washed with contoured muscles, a peach blush, ripe enough to sink your teeth into if you can muster the energy. A bristly beard, carving you cell-by-cell, scraping the sensitive skin between your chin and lower lip until all that’s left is a bottomless chasm to drool your words into. You don’t dare roll your eyes back, can’t bear to shut them, even as your peripheral vision fuzzes out. 

“C-Ca–” 

“None of that. C’mon, love. John.”

“John! Sir–” 

“Say it again.” 

“J-John,” 

His thumb presses down with a vengeance, bearing down on a trillion little nerve endings that flare up, liquifying your guts into a viscous substance, heavy as it sloshes around in you. Your muscles tense, screwing into tight knots, your hips lifting off the mattress. Price’s nose taps yours while he peppers you with small pecks – your top lip, the corner of your mouth, your chin.

And it’s cataclysmic; both everything and nothing all at once. The bout of deathly quiet before a nuclear blast, where birds flock out of trees and you think you can hear the pitter patter of a pulse, erratic at your wrist. And when the ground rocks, trembling with an explosive magnitude, fire erupting in the distance. When you seize up in a ball of fear–

Your cunt clenches impossibly tighter, all but forcing his fingers from you. It’s terrifyingly strong; your orgasm wrecks you not in waves, but as one upturning tsunami, floodgates open to the duvet underneath you. 

–and do your best to embrace a quick death. 

He gives you a moment to find yourself. Boneless, you sink into the bed, teetering towards oblivion. 

“Tired already?” He teases, massaging your calves with subdued vigour. The fingers once knuckle-deep in you slide into his mouth, waitressing your spoils to his eager palate.

“Mmnn…” 

“Best snap out of it, precious. I’m not nearly done with you yet.” He draws away to tug down his pants, taking his briefs along with it. 

You don’t really… process it, right away. Expression dazed, you stare dumbly down at his leaking cock, reddened head angry at his prolonged control. Reality finds you in increments, foam lapping at a sun-soaked shore, carrying with it seagrass and brine. 

The first thought that occurs to you; he’s hairy. Not untamed – it’s clear he trims the curls at his groin – but, just like his face, Price exudes masculinity in even the smallest of aspects. You imagine swallowing the length of him, doing your best to take it all, and breathing in unadulterated musk as you’re crushed against coarse hair.

The second; he’s huge. It’s a fact that shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, but the longer you drink it in, the more inconceivable it seems. You’d known – had face-groped it in the car, felt it poke your ass – and still. It slaps the softer flesh of his stomach, swells under his touch when he wraps his fist around the base. 

Last (a final position you credit to your own humility); he’s practically throbbing. Life pulsing in the thick veins that branch up the frenulum, oozing copious amounts of prespend. You’re shaking your head before you have time to come up with an adequate response. 

“That’s not gonna fit.” 

Stupid. He’s got you cock dumb and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. 

For a moment, he backs away, kneeling at your ankles. Dread swarms you, buzzing doubt. Of course he’d lay off at your admission, he made it clear he prioritised your consent above his own gain. You can’t help but think it fitting; a slip up is what ended up costing you ecstasy.  

But then – ridiculously, blissfully – he bends over, so his face is level with your cunt. 

And spits. 

Squealing, you throw a leg over his neck, winding your hands in his ruffled hair. His jaw remains hidden behind your pubis, but the scrunch of his eyes tells you enough. He’s smiling. 

“Hey–” 

But Price doesn’t listen. He reaches up to rub his saliva over your folds, careful to especially do so over your tender entrance. As he does, his tongue – that expert, warm, wet tongue – smooths over your clit, sucking it back to a swollen floret. 

You keen, bucking into his ministrations. Watered boscage, you come alive with new life, a fresh vigour under a pink spring. 

(He threatens the delicacy; raging sun, eclipsed, now, by his role as captain – caregiver – but verging on a supernova. Ever the firestarter, you’ll abandon reinvigoration in a heartbeat for ruin instead.)

“We’ll make it fit.” 

Something you’d never admit so long as you’re bound to this underworld, cursed by Zeus and shackled to your boulder – you already feel another climax impending, with just the effort of his mouth alone. 

So you pull his hair until he’s made to detach from you, entertaining your command, crawling up your body for his lips to smash yours once more. 

“Just fuck me.” You whisper against him.

“Watch your tone.” He replies.

And it’s enough of a symphonious statement to truly emphasise it when he catches the divet of your cunt, sculpting you into a paradigm figure of devotion as you catch his eye. Florentine, glinting with an ardour you mirror in your own. Hooded under a heavy brow bone, blending into a perfect nose. Wrinkles and age lines and still so in tune with your much younger self. 

You bite your lip when he finally drives inside you. He cradles your head to the curve of his neck. 

“Fucking hell, dove.”

“Haah–”

Exclamations groaned simultaneously, unravelling ribbons curled with the sharp blade of a knife. It’s the same, flickering sting, a pressure less than pleasurable cramping in your lower gut. But they exist as subsidiary, fleeting points to acknowledge and move on. Nothing can trump the deluge that is his cock slotting into you, bursting through a dam that shifts to fit hard ridges – sucking him deeper, deeper. 

“Jesus– fuck. Nngh– you perfect… perfect little–” 

When he’s more than halfway through, you figure it’s safe enough to contract what you’d been trying to relax. You nuzzle your face further into his shoulder, nosing Maduro and suede, drinking the heady fragrance of his sweat-infused cologne. You wind your arms up around him, driving nails into rigid muscle, and search for purchase as he bottoms out with the aid of your squelching uptake. 

“So– Yersobig.” You slur into him, muffled. 

“I know. I know, precious. Breathe through it,” 

And his hand trails downwards to find your clit again, lubed under his efforts. He emphasises his reassurance with a precise rub, right over where you thrum fierce and hot, feeding the gluttonous depravity that begins crawling up your legs. It festers like a day-old wound, sticky and raw, delicate at the seams. 

In between croaked moans, you voice your voracity. “Jus’ move, old man.” 

Price’s chest rumbles. You flush with the thought of making him laugh. 

And promptly quiet down when he draws out of you in his first stroke. 

Because oh.

You don’t get used to the sensation, after all. 

Every thrust, you’re able to discern a new part of him. One, and it’s the veins that slide perfectly across your walls. Two, and it’s the way he thickens the further he pushes in, stretching your sensitive skin to its limits. Three, four, five; his mushroomed head wedges against the gummy wall of your cervix, pumping you full of leaden warmth.

You’re fucked. Literally and figuratively.

Propelled into a cosmic cavity that engulfs you with familiarity. Not some galaxy, beyond the exploration of man (though, you feel you can reach out and touch the stars). More so a fort, made of the quilt your mother had gifted you once. Nostalgic timelessness, hot chocolate glazing your gullet, resting rich in your tummy. You go out of your way to lick the dampness from his skin and place a purpling bite in its stead.

He ducks to graze his lip on the shell of your ear. You shudder under the gesture’s exposing simplicity. 

“You’re takin’ me so well, dove. Doin’ so good for me.” He groans, sap onto a crackling bonfire.

“Y-You– s’feels so–” 

“You can do it, c’mon,” As if to challenge you, he gains speed, pistoning at a brutaller pace. 

“John! Oh my god, oh my god. You can’t do that. I’m gonna…” 

“Cum for me, then. Make a mess of yourself.” 

And it’s the filth he utters over anything else. The string of obscene promises, sung for only you to hear, his balls slapping your ass and his prespend smearing milky white on sweltering walls. Captain – sir – who orders death in dire seconds, who depends on cigars and the quick-thinking action of his subordinates. Taking on that same pitch as he urges you to find release, a slow-creeping apocalypse waiting to happen at your core. 

So perhaps he still asks for calamity; perhaps he knows you’ll lose face the moment you’re milked for all you’re worth. 

You give it to him anyway, collapsing over a pressed-pedalboard longing. 

Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. You wrap your limbs around him and black out before you feel the full effects of it.

You resurface half a minute later and find yourself in a completely different position. Axis turtled, he’d flipped you over on your hands and knees to spear you from behind. 

“What was it I asked of you, eh?” 

His chest fits along your back, tree-trunk arms wrapped around your waist. You barely hear him under the pool you’d been thrust into, his words splintered like the tune on an old record player. You hang there for a perennial moment – not quite floating, not drowning – blinking as the world rocks by in a blur of creme and gold.

Your elbows buckle. He has you before you fall face first into a cushion, a forearm buttressing your collar. The action hauls you upright, until you can rest your head on his shoulder. Blood rushes to your head.

Ragdoll is the first thing that occurs to you. Wool lined with cotton, pilled stitching. 

“T’tell you…” You croak, parched.

“Mm?” 

“F’it was too much.” 

“Is it, dove?” He speaks against your cheek, placing a sloppy kiss on the upraised plane. You lean into it, nose bumping his. 

“No… no. Keep goin’, please.” 

Price needs nothing else.

You flop onto his full-bodied support, temple slick with moisture, itchy when it scuffs his beard. His cock plunges into new depths like this, pummeling your abdomen with a noticeable bulge, his fingers brushing affectionately over the extrusion. You’re somewhat cognizant to it – awake to what’s happening, aware of the loving nature – but say nothing. 

The arm spread across your chest rises to your throat, wrapping around the lean length. It constricts enough air to bring stars to your eyes, pulsing flashes of nirvana, speckling the freckled skin that fills your vision. 

“Gonna –  fucking… cum inside, precious.” He screws them shut, his face scrunching, a lined portrait in sybaritism. You weakly nod along. “You’ll be bursting with it. Will feel me for days, won’t you?” 

“Yhh– Hahh…” You struggle against his choking hold.

“Shhh. It’s okay, I know. I got you.” 

You grab onto his wrists, winding around the hair that dusts them, bouncing with the unrelenting roll of his hips. You’re so full, it’s too much–

And when he stutters – the smallest, most imperceptible amount – you tighten your core and brace against the torrent that stuffs you. 

“Fuck.”

Molten. Viscid. He wasn’t lying when he said you’d be brimming with milky-white, splattered across your insides. Your stomach overturns with the sheer volume of it; already, it oozes from you, slipping from the thick plug of him to paint your quivering thighs. 

And you think of the desert sun and heat-drunk resentment. Sand, scorching, scratching absurd crevices. You think of yourself, two months ago, holding out from everyone. Part of you is angry (her, maybe, still buried underneath this murky rapture) that it took this long, that you’d forgone fulfilment for fear that your poison would seep through. 

Another, newer part of you forgives the orchestration of your life thus far – Bulgaria, Tess, the general and the sick process that enabled him. If this is what it was all building up to, then you can find contentment, tucked somewhere in the scant space between you and your captain. 

(Stupidly selfish, you recognise, even now. Like looking at dead soldiers and exhaling when you realise they’re not someone you know.

Perhaps it’s the tip that catches your the divet of your cunt when he pulls out, designed to fuck those experiences out of you. 

Barely friends, hardly more.

But you could be.)

taglist: @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis @s-u-t @sweetybuzz25 @hypernovaxx @glassgulls @superbafango

[burntheedges]

Hi Kate!

I'm back with my Ask games again!

This time we have a spring based prompts theme. You get a spring prompt and a character and I'd like to know your head canon/immediate thoughts on the combination.

Character: Din Djarin

Prompt: lake

With love,

El

El! the way this immediately set my brain spinning!

anyway, here we go, I hope you enjoy this. I made myself laugh. lol

A day at the lake

Din Djarin x gn!reader | 1006 words | rating: gen | ao3 tags/warnings: make sure to do your research before going to strange planets, I guess, the Razor Crest is still with us, not betaed

or, Din tries (and fails) to relax on vacation

…

Din stepped out of the Razor Crest with his hands on his hips, sweeping his gaze over the view in front of him. He huffed a tiny disbelieving breath, too quiet to be picked up by his helmet’s modulator. He shifted his weight and shook his head.

It was, by any measure, idyllic. The sunlight reflected off the small ripples in the surface lake in dazzling patterns. A gentle breeze rustled the colorful flowers and grasses that lined the narrow shore, itself covered in pastel orange and pink pebbles. The mountains across the lake that formed this bowl-shaped valley had extremely picturesque snow glinting on their peaks. As he stood there, taking it all in, he heard the songs and trills of 4 different birds. A trio of small, colorful winged insects floated by the edge of the ramp of the ship, fluttering in the breeze. He watched a shiny fish jump out of the water and do a flip before smoothly slipping back into the lake.

He blinked.

When you’d said you wanted to take a vacation, just the three of you, he’d remembered hearing nice things about this planet. It had been nearby, barely a system over from their last destination. And it really had looked nice as he flew the Crest into land. But looking at it now, he realized it was too beautiful. Way too beautiful. 

He didn’t trust it.

Din thought back, trying to remember what he’d read about the fauna on this planet. Or maybe strange weather patterns? Was it extreme temperature fluctuations? Paradise couldn’t actually exist, not without people taking advantage of it. There had to be a catch.

He walked slowly down the ramp as he looked for a sign of you and his son. It didn’t take him long to spot you.

You were both sitting on the shore of the lake, about 35 meters to the right of the ship. Right as he turned towards you Grogu tossed a small pebble into the lake, and the sound it made when it hit the water – kerplunk – sent the child into a fit of giggles. Din watched as you joined him, letting his eyes trace the shape of your smile and the outline of your shoulders, relaxed and at ease. Hidden within the privacy of his helmet, he smiled.

He started to walk towards you, still carefully scanning your surroundings with every sensor and setting his helmet had to offer. 

Nothing.

Brow furrowed, he stepped onto the beach about 10 meters away from where you were sitting, and you and Grogu looked up and smiled at him. He smiled back in spite of his growing conviction that nowhere could be this perfect.

“Din!” You called out, grinning. “Look at this place!” 

I’ve been looking, he wanted to say, and I don’t trust it.

“Isn’t it almost too good to be true?” You continued, incredulous, as a frog-like amphibian hopped just out of Grogu’s reach into the lake and he squealed. 

Din nodded as he stepped up beside you. “There has to be something wrong with it.” He knew he sounded judgmental and wary, but he couldn’t help it.

You threw your head back and laughed. “I knew you’d say that.” You reached out to gently poke his leg. “Can’t just take the win, huh?”

He was certain you could tell he was smiling. He sank smoothly to sit next to you. “It’s too nice. Nothing is this nice, cyar’ika, not for free. Not without a catch.”

You shrugged. “Maybe it’s just too far out of the way of any of the main trade routes. Maybe there’s a season of ridiculous weather we’re lucky to be missing.”

Din tilted his head, amused, and reached out to tickle Grogu's side gently. “Maybe there are giant, man-eating frogs that are creeping up on us now, as we speak.” You laughed again at his words, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. Grogu made an offended noise and poked his father in the knee. 

“That’s right, Grogu, your father is being very silly right now.” 

Din huffed to hide a laugh but he knew you could feel it. “I set the ship to do a long-range scan. I’ll check it again before we decide whether to stay.”

You sighed but smiled up at him without removing your head from his shoulder. “I knew you would. But really, so far?” You lifted your right shoulder in a small, uneven shrug. “So good. No idea what kind of problem there could be.”

Din brought his right arm up and around your shoulders, tugging you in closer as Grogu climbed into his lap. He nodded, conceding. “We’ll see.”

…

Later, after a very pleasant afternoon by the lake, you could see how hard he was trying to hold in his “I told you so” as you jogged up the ship’s ramp to escape the huge, hissing, angry aquatic mammals that had emerged from the lake at sunset. Nocturnal, you'd guessed as you scrambled towards the ship. They had fangs.

On the bright side, they were pink, just like the many pebbles Grogu had stuffed in your pockets. And their legs were really short, so short they had no hope of catching you.

You looked at Din when the ramp closed, and his shoulders were shaking with his effort to hold in a laugh. You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You still owe me a real vacation, you know.”

He laughed outright, and the sound of it through the modulator made you grin. “I’ll do more research next time.”

“You’d better!” You called after him as he moved towards the ladder. “No more angry pink animals with fangs, please.”

Grogu squealed and held up a pink rock for your inspection. “Yeah, buddy. Pink, like that.” He made an insistent noise and waved it at you again.

And that’s when you noticed that it had legs. That one, and the 35 other members of Grogu’s collection that started squirming in your pocket at exactly the same time.

“DIN!”

...

a/n: lol no, I don't know where this came from

tag list: @katareyoudrilling @jeewrites @djarins-cyare if you're on the tag list for Maintenance Request and you want to be on my tag list for any/all fic, just let me know!

[josephquinnswhore]

At Her Mercy

Pairing: Simon “ghost” Riley x Fem! Reader

Summary: you’re needed to help guide the task force 141 group, when you meet ghost, it would tear open your wounds.

Word Count: 6.7k

Content Warning: mentions of murder, childhood abuse, physical violence, ghosting, heartless reader, typical cod violence, child death, bit of physicality between ghost and reader. Ptsd. No happy ending.

Note: I have a lot of requests and I’m sorry I just have so much Simon brain rot I need to get this out of my system. Sorry this is angsty. May be open for p2 idk lol.

You try not to linger around the grave too long after having sat here for 23 minutes, the longer you sat the longer it usually was harder for you to walk away. You couldn’t afford that attachment today; you had a plane to catch. Time didn’t stop for you, the world didn’t stop spinning and you knew you’d have to trudge through the metaphorical mud you often got stuck in again once you’d left; leaving was always the hardest part.

The clock on your wrist didn’t slow for you, the hands tick with each passing second you spent knelt into the unkempt overgrown grass at the cemetery. The headstone was old, in desperate need of a pressure wash to restore it’s original state. The arch shaped stone seemed to stand strong in the structure itself, your fingers had swiped the cobwebs off the top and base of the stone, clearing any critters that tried to make this memorial their home.

You knew you shouldn’t have purchased a whole bouquet of flowers, the bunch of red and orange flowers sat at the base where you’d carefully placed them upon your arrival, a mix of his favourite colours. You’d even purchased him a small gift, a hot wheels car, a red mustang with white stripes across the bonnet. He had always loved cars, playing with them and working on them; he mentioned a dozen times he’d wanted to be a mechanic, now along side him in his coffin; lie his dreams. A life unfulfilled and cut short at no fault of his own. It had been 10 years and 7 days; December 18th was the day your semi-normal but functioning life was stripped away; the day he was taken from you.

“Sorry I couldn’t come see you last week kid, I know I always make sure but things got-complicated. Hope you’ll forgive me.”

Things were definitely complicated. You were contacted by General Shepherd, you knew of him; being he was in charge of several units across the United States Military, including your section. He had a lot of contacts and if you worked for him; there was nothing about you he didn’t know. He directly had asked you to come and command the task force 141 team, alongside a man named Captain John Price.

-

“John Price is a good man and a damn good Captain.” Shephard stated, hanging off his last word on the laptop he’d called you on, his face could barely look at the camera.

“But?” You question impatiently.

“We fear he may’ve gone soft on the men here. We could use your..” he trails off, looking for the right word to use. “Resourcefulness and ruthlessness.”

“Do you think I’m ruthless, General?” You deadpan. His face pixilated as the wifi on your end fails to keep up.

“I’ve heard many a stories about you, Captain. Plane leaves in two days. John Price will meet you upon your arrival.”

“Copy that. I’ll be in touch General.” You shut your laptop screen, the call automatically ending as it meets the keypad.

-

You check your watch once more, the action becoming more frequent as the minutes passed, knowing you were cutting it close to missing the plan which left in half an hour to your new workplace.

“Sorry kid I better get going. I miss you everyday, still keep you near to my heart.” Your fingers trace the small ‘m’ letter necklace, the simple silver letter was attached to a small-link chain. Something that spent more time by your bedside table than around your neck these days-something you were ashamed to admit. The small trinket was one of the few items you owned of his, you tried to keep his memory alive as your brain often forgot what he looked like, the sound of his voice and laugh. The day you received this gift was one you’d remember until you died. You pull your mask up to cover the bottom half of your face, reaching underneath your eyes, closing yourself off and your vulnerability.

-

Christmas Day was always hectic in the household; spending time with your husbands family, his brother and wife, your nephew who was practically your own son.

“Hey, hey! I give up, put me down!” The boy giggled through his fit of laughter, short brown hair brushing the floor as you held him upside down.

“Gotta say the word otherwise you don’t tap out!” You manage through your own burst of laughter, his parents watching on with their own smiles, your husband watches you with a fondness and hope for your own children someday.

“Mercy! Mercy!” The boy squeals, finally. You set him down on the carpet gently, once he stands his cheeks are red and freckles are visible now more than normal.

He walks to the heavily decorated Christmas tree, bends down and precisely plucks a small, messily wrapped gift and hands it to you with a shy smile. The yellow Christmas lights shine in his blue eyes as he watches you expectantly, waiting for you to accept the gift. The first thing you notice is the outrageous amount of tape that secured the wrapping paper, the second was his messy hand writing that had scribbled your name, with a love heart next to his, you tear off the note and secure it in your pant pocket, too valuable not to keep.

“Do you think you can help me open it? I might need your big muscles to help unravel all this tape. Whaddya say?” He grins, nodding, helping you claw at the tape he had fervently taped last night after his parents had finally lent him some money he’d been begging for weeks.

Once the paper is gone, it’s exposed. The small white cardboard top that covered a black velvet box; the brand of a well known jeweller splayed in a cursive font on the box in silver. “This is so sweet!” You hum, completely delighted before you get the chance to even open the gift.

“Just wait till you open it! I think it’s neat.” He boasts proudly. You open the box, a small silver letter ‘m’ shines back at you, casting your reflection in the cursive letter. Before you can question him, he’s already starting to explain.

“It’s for Mercy, it’s something that reminds me of you when you’re not here. We always have so much fun playing together and I hope you like it.”

The tears in your eyes are fluent, your mouth is wet as you fill to the metaphorical brim of the cup with emotion, about to overflow. “Like it? Are you kidding, I love it. I promise we’ll come see you more often okay?”

“Yeah, that would be so neat!”

-

The memory replays as you’re sitting in the taxi to the Military airport, a junction that’s privately owned and used by few occupants that require urgent travel. The plane is being boarded with flight crew when you arrive; the army plane was one of many you’ve seen before; the dark grey would be a blip in the perfectly blue sky, like the little boy on your mind; his absence was your loss; your dark grey blip.

“Captain, please, let us take care of your luggage. Board the plane swiftly as we are on time and due to depart in 10 minutes.” You offload your giant luggage bag to a low ranking worker, his uniform clear indication he was what the higher ups call a shitkicker, or rookie. They were generally to stupid-or immature to be anything more than a servant, someone to fetch and do basic physical training until they were filtered out; booted or into the military as a low ranking soldier.

“Thanks kid.” You offer the younger man, kindness wouldn’t hurt with the rookies, you’ve been there and were there for two years-they were a necessity in the industry, without them there would be no new soldiers, no people to do the dirty work, like cleaning the toilets and washing the bedsheets.

The inside of the plane was nothing fancy, while it’s seats were mildly stiff and there was a lingering smell of cigarette smoke you didn’t complain, it was better than being seated where the low ranking soldiers were strapped, in the back of the aircraft with the luggage and whatever cargo they were shipping to the next location.

“Anything to drink, madam?” You look up to meet the eyes of a tired stuartess.

“Got any whiskey?” She nods politely and you pull the plastic tray down that’s attached to the seat in front.

“How would you like that made madam?” She’s pouring from a glass bottle, by the look of the honey coloured liquid, it was expensive.

“On the rocks, prepare me a second. Better make it a double.” You grab the drink, throwing it back and swallowing it in one go, the bitterness burned going down your throat, followed by tones of malt and honey.

You hand the glass back to the middle aged woman, she prepares you a double as you ask and you set the cup in front of you.

“If you need our assistance please don’t hesitate to ask, enjoy your flight.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Your voice is rough, the whiskey was harsh on your throat, despite the sweet after taste, it was harsher than you were used to, the ice adding a coolness that made your teeth sensitive with every sip of the liquid.

You pull out a small baggie from your top right pocket of your dark uniform, two small white rounded pills sit at the bottom of the small ziplock plastic bag. You fish out the pills, your fingers a decent size too big for it to be an effortless task. Getting disgruntled and sick of waiting another minute, you tip the baggie upward and crane your neck back into the seat, the two pills falling from the bag onto your tongue. The powdery residue on your tongue is bitter and unpleasant, you don’t take another second to pick up your glass and swallow the pills.

After a few years of using the sleeping pills, you’ve gained a small tolerance, it takes close to 15 before your eyelids start fluttering, the loudness of the aircraft starts to drown out, all the emotion from the gravesite seems to fade away as you fall out of consciousness, you would enjoy the peace as it came; no nightmares, no pain, just blissful ignorance.

You wake just as the plane lands on the runway, the loud screeching of the rubber tyres hitting the tar at great speed. To speed up the process of waking up, you gulp down the last of your whiskey, the beverage barely relieving the dry mouth the pills had caused you on a daily basis. You clear your throat and lick your lips, looking around at the view outside of the moving scenery as the plane circles around to its final stop, where two military grade unimogs full of soldiers await your arrival.

You adjust your black mask, the material clings tight to your chin as it drapes down your neck. A man approaches you as you walk down the giant ramp of the aircraft, the noise ceasing as the engines come to a halt, the blades rotating slowly as they realise their journey has ended. The man stands a few inches taller than you, his brown mutton chops frame his face, blue eyes piercing you with a friendly look that makes you uneasy, the crows feet around his eyes are a knowing sign of his stress. You don’t even want to get started on that stupid hat.

“John Price, Captain John Price. Nice to finally meet your acquaintance.” You shake his extended hand firmly. Believing all you need to know in a person is all in the handshake; take Price for example, he’s firm, friendly, a business man, his hand doesn’t linger for longer than it needs to.

“You can call me Mercy. Glad to finally meet you Captain Price. Shepherd hasn’t informed me much of your men, I hope they’re up to standard.” You begin to walk to the truck, Price has his men load your luggage into the back.

“I firmly believe they are, Captain.” He holds the door open for you to sit in the backseat, an unusually kind gesture for someone you just met.

“Guess we’ll see about that.” You deadpan bluntly. You had seen your fair share of failures in your time, leaders who weren’t harsh enough on their men, who didn’t correct their mistakes or claimed to be a family unit. You hated that dynamic, you weren’t here to build a family or make friends. You were placed here to help the men of this task force with their dedicated mission and get the fuck back to your own unit, you had your own men that relied on you.

“Hope you don’t mind the introductions will be made off base this evening.” You raise an eyebrow, turning to the man beside you.

“Is that so? Where exactly will this off base location be? Is the area secure, will you have men patrolling the area?” These are all necessary questions and this man had looked at you as if you had two heads, which answered your questions for you.

“We can have it arranged Ma’am.” You hum in distaste.

“It would want to be arranged, I don’t leave base unless I know myself and my men are safe. I’m sure you understand Captain.” You already showed no fondness to the man who was supposed to be leading a task force, how incompetent were the men he were in charge of if the Captain himself didn’t pre-organise this off base meeting.

The base was small, a dozen buildings, one awfully large one in which you would assume was medical. One in which you would hope is medical. The trucks come to a stop, you’re grateful for your mask that filters the dust in which stops you from inhaling the swirling storm of dust as you open the door. Your boots leave an indented footprint on the beige dust, the grass growing in patches and the buildings invaded with overgrown weeds that haven’t been touched in what you’d assume were years.

“If you’ll follow me ma’am, I’ll show you around base.” You pull out the small notepad and pen, scribbling down how someone needs to hire a damn maintenance man to clean the weeds and mow the grass.

You come to the largest building which is attached to the other smaller ones in a large D shape. As you walk in, the room is outdated and the stench makes your nose scrunch in disgust under your mask.

“Captain what the fuck is that obnoxious smell?” Price turns to you, slowing his pace to match your own as you look into the windows of the old, outdated rooms, trying to figure out where the smell is coming from.

“This is the mess hall, we used to have people cook for us but they were all fired when the government stopped extra curricula funding.” You frown, speeding your pace through the dirty halls of the building.

“Why hasn’t it been cleaned, or demolished?” You finally exit that part of the building. Price doesn’t have an answer for you. You write some notes in your notepad about the foul stench and lack of use for that building, writing demolish with question marks and drawing a big circle around it.

“This is where we sleep, we have a dozen men on base at the moment, myself and 3 others are the task force 141 team you’ll be working closely with, your room is this one right here.”

You come to a stop, room 5F. He hands you the key, putting a spare in his pocket. Your luggage is sitting outside the door already.

“Keeping the spare key for any particular reason?”

“For emergencies only, we’ve had an incident where someone had a heart attack and locked themselves in. He passed away before we could get to him. Just a precaution, that’s all.”

The room is stuffy when he opens the door, the single bed is topped with a 4 inch mattress and one old flimsy blanket and a flat pillow, you’re grateful you brought your own bedding.

“If you need anything give me a buzz, I’ll text you the address of the bar tonight.” He gestures to a small piece of paper on the wall, sticky taped on all four sides. Written Prices name and mobile number.

“Right. Thanks.” You drag your luggage in from outside the door, the wheels are loud on the floor as it squeaks. You begin to unpack your things, deciding to put up the image of your nephew on the bedside table, having cropped out your ex-husband from the image to show the two of you, an image from your last birthday you spent with him.

-

“I want a corner piece please, please!” The boy pleas, his love for the crispy par burnt edges of your birthday cake were his favourite. You slice him up a large piece, swiping your finger in the delicious yellow frosting that topped his oversized piece. You lean into him and wipe it on his face, earning a groan of protest from him as he retreats from you.

“I’m trying to eat it, not wear it!” You laugh, cutting your family each a slice of the cake your brother-in-laws wife had made. The sunflowers were handcrafted with such delicacy you were saddened to cut into them-let alone eat them.

“Alright, alright, I guess I can leave you unbothered. But just for the moment.” You push his arm with your own gently in a playful manner.

To your surprise, he pulls out a sunflower from beside the seat he sits on, you set the cake down and grasp the flourishing flower, inspecting the beauty and vibrancy of the perfectly bright yellow petals, it had been picked perfectly. Tears pricked your eyes as you held the flower.

“God kid, you know how to make me cry dontcha?” He grins, his mouth full of chocolate mud cake, “good tears, right?” You smiled at your nephew and he smiled back, “right.” Unbeknownst to you in that moment-your brother in law had snapped an image.

-

A picture you held dear to your heart, and now bedside. You manage to pull yourself away from the image-a painful memory in which all of him had become, yet you had to preserve as there was no one left that would do so. You refused to let his memory die.

You pull your mask down as you near the sink, a crusty mirror hangs above it, barely clear enough for you to see yourself as much more than a blur. You reapply the black paint to your face as some unwelcome tears had fallen and dropped down your cheeks, ruining the pigment of the paint. You brush your teeth, turning the tap on to see a musty brown coloured water before it turns clear, note to self, don’t drink the water unless it’s bottled.

You apply some deodorant before pulling your mask back upward, your hot breath is once again trapped in the confines of the mask as you close yourself off. Your phone vibrates on the bed and you check it’s a text from Price confirming the location of the ‘meeting’. More like a typical military piss up, these men will find any excuse to drink.

Price: “Bar at 112 West Highland Road. Neon green sign out front, be blind to miss it.”

You: “Got it. Be there soon.”

-

The bar was quieter than you expected, sure it had a few typical rowdy drinks, but nothing like any of the chaos you’d experienced in America. It doesn’t take long for you to spot Price, your eyes scanning every face in the room as if you’ve got facial recognition in your brain, just in case you need to remember. Price stands from his seat, 3 other men sit with him, one is significantly larger than the rest, he’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, the rest you don’t see as he’s turned towards the bar.

You stand tall as you approach them, people moving out of your way as you barge into their shoulders roughly.

“Glad you could join us tonight. This is the rest of the team, Gaz, Soap and Ghost.” He points to his men and you shake the hand of Gaz first, “nice meeting you Gaz.” He’s got a bright smile that you find hard not to reciprocate.

“I’m John McTavish but you can call me Soap, ma’am.” You raise an eyebrow, two johns? Seriously? You shake his hand, “I’ll keep that in mind, Soap.”

The last man you approach is large, he’s tall and a black baklava with a skull print covers his face. His hoodie is pulled up and a black substance covers his eyes, his blonde lashes untouched as they poke through, his blue eyes are piercing as they stare through you. “Ghost eh, interesting. I like the look.” He looks you up and down before nodding. “Appreciated Captain.” He sets his drink down on the bar and you take a seat in between him and Soap, there feels something familiar about his accent, those beaming blue eyes and blonde eyelashes, but you chalk it up to him being British. “Call me Mercy.”

“How’d ya come up that callsign?” Soap inquires. You exhale deeply, this was going to be a long night.

“Before I answer any damn questions, I need a drink.” The bartender took your order, within the minute you had the drink sitting in front of you, pleading for you to drink it so it could take your pain away for you, deal with the guilt and memories you found to traumatic to continue to think about.

You take a sip and smack your lips. “It was an inside thing between my nephew and I, the name kinda just stuck.”

You finished off your drink and slid it back to the bartender who gave you a refill as you asked. “You got family back home then?” Gaz questions.

Thank god for the refill. “Negative. All deceased.” The men went quiet and you sip on the liquid, it warms you from the inside out, taking away the guilt and stripping you down to where you had no emotion on the topic. They murmur apologies and you feel ghosts gaze on you, his eyes felt dark and sinister, like he was distant from his physical body, he didn’t really feel there.

“You ever marry?” You grit your teeth, your jaw is clenching so hard you can almost feel your teeth grinding. The mention of your husband boils your blood, but also breaks your heart into a million shards.

“Still married, technically. Piece of shit ghosted me when things got hard, haven’t seen him since. First thing I’ll do if I ever see that sorry bastard is serve him the divorce papers I’ve been carrying for half a decade. Cant change my last name without the divorce being finalised.”

You throw your neck back as you finish off your second glass of whiskey. Your bladder feeling full from the beverage, your mind hazy and spinning already, the talk of your husband is making your head ache. You pull of your ID and card, throwing it onto the bench for the bartender, “excuse me a moment while I use the restroom, prepare another drink for when I get back would you?”

The bartender watches you hesitantly and mutters, “sure.”

-

The bartender tossed your cards back to the bench in front of you, attempting to sit them where you left them, seemingly throwing it too far as your ID rolls off the bar onto the floor beside your stool legs. Soap mutters, “fuckin idiot.” As he picks up your card, setting it back upright in front of your drink, noticing the last name, he does a double take. He thinks his eyes are deceiving him when he sees your last name- Riley. This surely is just a coincidence, right?

“Eh Lt, you seen this lass’ last name, might be a relation to you.” Ghost turns to soap, irritated by his shenanigans, but glances towards the card anyway and can’t take his eyes away from it. He sees you- her. His wife. It’s her face and her name, how did you get this? His wife hated the military, war and fighting, she would never join it, let alone become a Captain of her own army.

He felt his blood boiling, the alcohol in his blood seemed to fuel the fire swirling in his stomach. How wife was killed that night along with the rest of his family- it made him sick to his stomach having to think you could try and come into this talk force and betray him.

“You alright Simon?” Prices voice is unheard, the noise of the bar and the photo of his wife’s face brings back too many painful memories for him to focus on the reality. Memories that plagued his nightmares- of you and him.

-

“What do you think Si?” She twirls in the blue sundress for him as her hair falls over her shoulders, he can only smile at the sight of her, her beauty was immeasurable to him-incomparable. He had never felt this way before about anyone. In that moment, he remembers how perfect he thinks she would’ve looked swollen with his child.

His hands snaked their away around her waist, pulling her into his body. “You know I think you look fuckin’ perfect baby, always perfect.” She rolls her eyes at his compliment.

“This is a serious matter you know! It’s a wedding, people will be taking pictures that last many lifetimes, you look so handsome and I have to match it.” He remembers cradling her face, forcing her to look him in his eyes, “you look better than I ever could, baby.”

She smiled but shook her head, “no one could ever be more handsome than my husband.” She rubbed her hands up and down his white long sleeve button up shirt, smoothing out the collar which barely had a wrinkle in it post ironing.

“What’d I ever do to deserve you hm?” His voice was a quiet whisper, she’d worked through previous hardships, his struggles and scars she had kissed better and even attempted to stitch up when he’d come home because he blatantly refused to let anyone else touch his body. She had been there through the worst of it, helped him through his family troubles, stayed after he applied for the military and stayed up during the nights he had nightmares, his ptsd was severe for months on end when he first signed up.

“You deserve me Si, more than anything you deserve me.”

-

“Ghost?” Soaps hand was on his shoulder, shaking him out of his hazy memories of his old wife.

“Need a minute outside.”

As he pushes through the large crowd, he finds you already outside, smoking a cigarette that blows large clouds through the cool night air. You pull down the bottom of your mask, not wanting to be exposed to the larger man. He towers over you, something about his size and silence is both terrifying and has you feeling safe.

“Don’t like people seein’ your face?” You’re surprised when he asks, having not said much to you this evening.

“No one but myself has in a long time.” He leans up against the brick wall, standing too close for your liking beside you.

“You ever get sick of it?” You turn to him, squashing your cigarette underneath your boot, the red light fizzling out on the damp cement.

“Sick of what exactly?” You turn to him, an arm on your hip.

“Bein’ a snake, pretendin’ to be someone you’re not.” This makes you frown, your impatience coming in at an all time high, blood pressure rising as this man insults you.

“If you’ve got something to say, Ghost, I suggest you spit it out.” You snap accusingly, pointing at his chest as you stand tall, keeping eye contact and not intimidated by what he’s doing. You take a step closer and he comes off of the brick wall, standing a foot in front of you.

“You’re the enemy, have to be smarter than to use an ID of someone who is dead!” He snarls, his voice is booming as he swings at you, his fist connects with your stomach and it sends you sliding backwards on the wet cement. You exhale, steadying your breathing after the hit. You lunge towards him, ducking at the last second to avoid is hands trying to grab you, you kick as his knees and one falters, nearly bringing him to the ground, you had quickly figured out his weakness.

He levels himself on his leg, watching you with a look so furious in his eyes you want nothing more than to erase the look from your mind, if you had to accomplish that with violence-so be it.

He pulls out his knife from his boot, you scowl as he does so, “fucking coward, fight like a man!” You yell at him, he ignores you and charges like a raging bull, heavy footsteps slow in comparison to your nimble movements which allows you to narrowly avoid the knife he aimed to plunge into your ribs.

You pulled out your own knife, “wanna fucking okay dirty hm? Come on then you fucking prick! I’m not scared of you, I eat shitheads like you for fucking dinner.” You’re eyeing each other off, circling like predator and prey, although no one knows who is which yet. The rain makes it difficult to see, the drops falling onto your mask make it more difficult to breath through. Through the scuffle part of your hair had fallen out of its plait, the strand of hair irritating and blinding you as it sits in front of your eyes.

“Fuck it.” You growl lowly, tearing off your mask as you cut it with your knife, all while avoiding a blow from Ghosts forward attack, you pull your hair backwards and tuck it behind your ear.

The man freezes in place, his movements stop entirely, the knife falling from his hands, clattering onto the wet sidewalk. As he sees her-you, his wife. Your face is more matured, it’s grown into its features and you have a sternness he doesn’t recognise, eyes as cold as stone as you watch him fall apart before you. He notices a giant scar along your nose that has never been seen before.

“It can’t be, you’re dead, you died-“ he trails off, eyes wide as he watches you like a Hawk.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You growl, confused and still pent up from the fight.

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t mutter a single word, he barely finds the strength to lift his hands to the bottom of his baklava and pulls it off his face, revealing himself for the first time in over a decade. He felt himself crumbling, so vulnerable and exposed to the world, his world-you. His wife and the woman he loved so much-loves.

You stutter for a moment before your face hardens again, you storm forward and shove him, your fists hit his chest so many times you can’t count, he doesn’t react, he just stands like a punching bag for you to let out your Pent up anger. You pull away from him, the thought of touching him and him touching you, made you nauseous.

“You piece of shit! You left me! For better or worse my fucking ass!” You pace the sidewalk, kicking the trash can as a decades worth of emotions come crashing down on you. “You weren’t even there for the funeral Simon! Have you even visited them? Since they’ve died, have you? I see Joseph whenever I get the chance.”

Tears are falling down your face at the thought of him, your nephew Joseph.

“Don’t talk about him.” Simon growls, obviously still a soft spot for him. You roll your eyes, “I thought you were fucking dead with them! When I ran through that house and didn’t find you I thought they’d taken you to fucking get back at me! I chased every piece of intel for years on end trying to find you.” He steps towards you, his big chest heaving. The street lamp above you shines above him, his face looking more scarred and handsome as ever.

“I killed every damn one of those motherfuckers and you were still nowhere to be found. I dedicated the past decade of my life trying to find you and you’re in the fucking military, alive and fine.”

You slap him across the face at his accusation.

“If you think this is me fine Simon Riley, you’re stupidly fucking mistaken. Now get the fuck out of my face! I’m your Captain, you’re dismissed! Get the fuck out of my sight.”

You storm away from him, sheathing your knife into your leg harness. Once you were far away enough and sure he couldn’t see you, you slipped on your mask and sobbed, uncontrollably against the wall of a building in the street, forgetting about the bar, the team and the ID you’d left behind. Screw all that, in the morning you were going home. The rain poured on you, your uniform heavy on your skin as it sticks.

You mindlessly walk until you reach base, not realising how far you’d walked until you ended up standing out the front of your room door with the key in hand ready to unlock the door. You exhale and close the door, removing your mask and grabbing a fist full of wipes to clean the smudged black face paint that had dropped down your neck from the rain and probably your tears. Fuck Simon, you couldn’t stay here, not when he was a constant reminder of the pain, your past was too much to have to relive everyday. The death, blood, the screams, the way he abandoned you.

You sit on the chair beside your desk, grabbing the photograph of you and Joseph before your emotionally exhausted body begins to slump over the desk, eyes fluttering shut before you can remember to take your pills.

-

You’re preparing Joseph’s things for a bath, his clothes laid down on his bed, his green towel and toothbrush on the bed. You’re about to call him up when you hear the front door bust open.

“Kill every last one of them, I want no survivors. Riley has to pay.” It’s a foreign voice you don’t recognise, the fear of something happening to your family and realising this is the end as they fire the first gunshot. The screams of your brother in law shake the foundation of the house as gunfire rings through the walls, his wife begging through her sobs for these men to stop, “we’ll do anything, please!”

Her pleas are ignored and she too is gunned down, silence fills the house, you sneakily hide in the bedroom closet in Joseph’s room, the door thankfully making no noise as you close the door shut, the old hinges working a charm for the first time ever. You can barely see anything through the tiny cracks of the closet door, the moonlight coming through the window is the only thing you see.

You hear footsteps running down the hall to your direction and you try to even your ragged breathing, you hear more footsteps running up the stairs, the thundering noise beats in your ears. You hear him crying, sobbing as he calls for help, for you to help him. You’re frozen, trembling in place as the kid stands there alone with a gun pointed to him in his own bedroom.

“He’s just a kid, can’t we leave him?” One man says, the other sneers at him, “boss said all of them, especially the kid.”

“No please!” Joseph begs before he’s gunned down, his blood splatters into the closet cracks and onto your face, you flinch and your eyes are wide as your nephew is ruthlessly murdered in front of you. You were too much of a coward to help him, you are compliant in his death.

The man walks closer to the closet, hand rattling on the closet door knob like he’s going to open it, then the sound of police sirens can be heard coming down the street, they’re coming fast and the red and blue lights are seen through the window, illuminating the room and the dead body but feet away from you.

“Hurry up and let’s get out of here. I ain’t goin to prison!” The hand releases the doorknob and trips over Joseph’s body, running downstairs as they escape the consequences.

Your body is trembling, stuck in a back and forth rock of trying to self sooth but to no avail. Your brain replays the scene over and over, him begging for your help and being shot by a couple thugs in a targeted attack.

“M sorry joey.” Is your mantra, you’re repeating it over and over, what starts as a soft whisper becomes a chant that attracts the police.

“Hey, we got a survivor over here!” The officer calls to his colleagues, trying to pry you from the closet. “What’s your name?” His voice is drowned out by your ears ringing, your dissociated state accompanied by the incoherence nonsense that leaves your lips, “mercy.” You mumble, mercy. That’s what you wanted, hoping the muttered word would stop the pain, stop the cruelty and stop the joke.

But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

-

Your eyes shoot open as you’re gasping for air, the scream that leaves your lips is one of genuine terror, your arms are thrashing and shoving the weight you feel on your arm as someone’s hand.

“It’s me, it’s just me.” You recognise his voice, Simon. Your heart is thumping and you sit up from your spot on the chair, pacing the small area in the room that Simon didn’t occupy.

“You have em too?” Your neck snaps around to Simon, glaring at him through your tears and wet face. “Of course I have them, I hear their screams and see Joseph killed in my head over and over on reply, as if it happened yesterday.”

Simon stumbles backward, shocked by your confession. “You- you saw him..” you rubbed your hands over your eyes. “Yes.” Confirming what Simon would never want to hear from you. You watched your nephew die.

“I don’t want you or need you in here Simon, I need you to leave.” He shuffles on his feet, his eyes torn between you and the photograph of you and his nephew on the table you’d just been cradling.

“If you ever want to talk-“ you cut him off with a scoff, irritated by his presence.

“I don’t. Now get out, I’m fine. I’m not here to make amends with you and sure as hell not trying to be your wife again, Simon. You were a shit husband, now please, get out.” You sigh, sitting on your bed, completely exhausted.

Simons heart shatters at your words, every wall he’s built comes crumbling down at his feet, he’s now left truly alone. The hope of you had kept him going- now what does he have? He simply nods, wanting to respect your needs, when he reaches the door you call his name, he’s hopeful when he turns around to see you barely a foot away when you hand him an envelope.

“Sign the divorce papers Simon. Please.”

It feels like his heart has been stomped on the for third time tonight, you were trying to sever the last connection he had to you, his last name. The only proof he had that you were ever his, that his family existed at all; he holds the papers tight in his hand and walks out of your room, leaving you to take out your pills and swallow them dry, having a sleep that’s uninterrupted by those plaguing nightmares, those pills, your poison, you were at her mercy and Simon was at yours.

[bunniekittiee]

stranglehold- johnny slaughter x fem. reader

Yes, I know none of this is date accurate to Ted Nugent’s release of his album but ykw just go with it, just pretend it’s not something I changed. Based off my headcanon that Johnny would be a sucker for Ted Nugent. Also, you can't tell me that this song isn’t his theme song?!

Curtesy to my bf who showed me Ted Nugent when we first started dating. He is the man, the myth, the legend, my world (referring to my bf not old man Nugent lol). My dad is also a Ted Nugent fan, but I found this out way after I started dating my bf but yk shout out to my dad.

I lowkey suck at endings so I apologize if it isn’t the best. Also, I wanted to change this and give the reader more fight in her. I always write them submissive to Johnny, and I wanted this one to give him a fight.

I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for a couple of months and I knew I needed to finish it.

Content warning: Blood, gore, description of wounds, Johnny being a little sexual and pushy, and not proofread.

December 25th, 1963

The Slaughter boy was a fan of Ted Nugent the minute he unwrapped one of his last few gifts from Chop Top. Hazel eyes scanning the cover, they were caught by the man himself. Ted Nugent, standing there with his guitar and his hair a crazed mess. The outline of him was slightly hazy, but it was still him.

“Heard ’im playing on the radio in the shop.” Chop Top said as Johnny ran his fingers over the cover. “After finding out who it was, I got it for ya’. I have a feelin’ ya’ gonna’ like it.”

Antsy for the rest of unwrapping gifts, Johnny eyed the album that he held carefully in his lap. He was itching to play it, he wanted to hear what Mr. Nugent sounded like. The messy hair, the glistening of sweat on his skin, the blur of his body, this was extremely impressionable on the young Slaughter boy whom was only fifteen.

Presents were done being unwrapped and Johnny immediately dashed off to his room. Chop Top chuckled at the boy’s excitement and elbowed Nubbins. “I am the best gift giver to that kid.” And Johnny would agree with him, he truly was.

Johnny took the record out of its plastic covering and slid the disc itself out of the cardboard holder. Carefully, he placed it on his record player and let the needle drop.

The guitar started echoing in his room, Johnny watching with his mouth slightly agape at the record spinning. He started nodding his head to the drum beat when it came in.

“Here I come again now baby, like a dog in heat. You can tell it’s me by the clamor now baby, I like to tear up the streets.”

Listening intently to every sound that played back to his ears, he felt his blood rush and goosebumps raise on his flesh. Something in this song captivated him. Whether it was the vocals or the haunting howl of Ted Nugent’s guitar, Johnny knew one thing for sure. This song would follow him for the rest of his life.

August 12th, 1973

Nine years had passed, almost ten since that fateful day of Chop Top’s incredible gift. Johnny went from a shy, reserved young boy to a flirty, rough, man. He was not the kid he once was, his muscles and height being very physically telling of that. He once had grown his hair out long, but he chopped it off. A dire mistake had almost cost him his life, so it was not worth the risk anymore. However, he did not want it completely short, so he cut it to where it could not be tugged on or get caught on objects. He hated when his hair was touched, it enraged him.

Finishing his cigarette, he began to get into his truck when Sissy waved at him to stop. He sighed.

“What is it now that ya’ want?” he asked with annoyance traced within his words

She hummed. “When are ya’ gonna’ bring your little girlfriend around? I’ve been wantin’ a new friend.” She smiled and Johnny rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know. But ya’ ain’t comin’ around her.”

“Why not?” She pouted.

“I don’t trust ya.”

“That’s real funny comin’ from ya’. She shouldn’t trust ya’ yet she does.” Sissy said while crossing her arms. “She has less of a risk getting killed by me than she does ya’, and I ain’t even datin’ her.”

Johnny chuckled. “Ya’ right, I’ll give you that.”

“Just think about it, don’t shoot the idea down now.” Sissy said as she tapped the truck and began to walk back to the house.

Johnny shrugged and started to turn the truck around to leave. He was going to see Y/N, and he was excited, but not in the way you think. He was excited to get his hands on her body and rip her apart, but she had barely let him touch her, let alone kiss. It was still a fresh relationship, but the Slaughter boy never took anything slow. It was always fast and rough. Like many attributes of Johnny that you would come to know. He wanted to take her now. But she always insisted on waiting. He would play the waiting game, but there was no doubt that he was going to devour her.

He was tired of her being around other people. Her friends, her family, her coworkers, anyone. He wanted her to be around him and him only. He hated the hot white jealousy that licked away at his lower belly when he saw her interact with people other than him. It made him want to bash her fucking skull in for being so damn insensitive to his feelings. But he played nice, he played the perfect, goody-two shoes Southern boy role with disgust. No one ever noticed how his eyes were empty of all emotion when he smiled or how his face darkened at the talk of the murders that he had dabbled in. He felt like James Dean in a movie role that he was made for.

Putting a tape into the radio, he felt the goosebumps he felt on that life-changing day of December 25th, 1963. He was a very big fan of Ted Nugent, and he had many records and tapes to prove that. He learned how to play “Stranglehold” on guitar and many other Nugent classics that he held near and dear to his heart. To say he was a fan was an understatement, he moreso worshipped the musician.

But “Stranglehold” was something special. Despite the fact that it was his first song he had listened to from the music idol he favorited, he related to it on a primitive level. He and Ted had something in common, they wanted to both devour the girl in their life and let her know that she had nowhere else to go. Johnny wanted full control of her, he wanted her to know that she had absolutely no safety when she was around him. She would stay with him forever, she had nowhere else to run to.

Adrenaline pumping, his fists tightened around the wheel as he drove. He wanted to teach that bitch a lesson for making him wait so damn long for some pussy. He wanted to keep her all for himself. He wanted her now. He wanted her to go with him and never return home. She would be in his presence 24/7, and he would not feel the jealousy he felt when she talked to others but him. He chewed on his lip as his pupils began to expand. This song dug into some other part of Johnny that he did not know he had.

He did not understand why she was so special to him. Why he felt jealousy towards the people around her. Why he felt the need to keep her in his home. Why he felt the desire to even keep her alive. But here he was, listening to his favorite song and wondering about how her head would look like impaled on a fence pick.

They were supposed to hang out today at her house as her parents were gone on a trip. He wore his dark blue flares with a black shirt, a little reminiscent of his hunting outfit. He slicked his hair back to perfection and wore some bone jewelry Nubbins made him. It was easy for him to look good no matter what. That’s what brought in dinner, and dinner made the family happy. Family comes first, right?

Pulling into the driveway, Johnny sighed and glanced in the mirror one last time before getting out of his truck. He did not want to keep putting up his sweet country boy persona but he knew he had to. As annoying as it was, it lured everyone in. Made them believe the lies he spoke.

Knuckles rapping the door, he waited for her to come to his calling. He held no expression, his face at its natural state. As much as he tried to hide it, his natural face was very telling of who he was and what he was feeling. It was void of many attributes of what made a human being. It looked like it was an lifeless portrait.

As soon as she answered the door, his facial expression immediately changed. One that was grinning. “Hey sweet pea.”

She returned his smile. “Hey Johnny. Come in!”

Welcoming inside of her home, Johnny glanced around. He had been inside her home before, and he had the layout of it inside of his head. While she slept in her bed, he would wander around the house like a silent leopard. He was able to memorize all exit points.

He knew it was worth the trouble.

“So what’s the plan, babydoll?” He asked with a small smirk. He pulled her body flush to his as she blushed.

“I was thinking I make us some lunch and we can watch a movie. I got some tapes from the video store.” She said as Johnny peppered kisses on her face.

“How about no lunch and we get into the movie?” He lowered his hand to her ass, grabbing a handful. “Come on.”

She shook her head giggling. “No, Johnny. You already know the answer to that.”

His irritation had risen but he hid it well. “What’s the real reason, doll face? Ya’ been holdin’ out on me for months now.”

“I’m waiting until marriage. You know this.” She replied as Johnny sighed into her neck. She bit her lip, feeling a little guilty that she was holding out on Johnny, making him wait. He was a respectful and loving boyfriend, why should she make him wait?

But it was her choice. No one else’s.

“Guess I gotta’ marry ya’.” Johnny said with a small smile. “Keep ya’ away from everyone else too.”

She chuckled, not understanding what he was hinting at. This only made him smile wider. “Is someone jealous?”

His eye twitched, but she did not see. “Just don’t like other people around ya’.” Johnny said as he rested his hands on her waist. “That’s all.”

“Like who?” She asked jokingly.

“Everyone, doll face.” He replied back.

Still thinking he was joking, she giggled. “Why would you be jealous of everyone around me? You’re still my number one, Johnny.”

His eyes were now darkening and his facial expression was a little off-putting. Almost as if it was not Johnny, it was something else. “I want ya’ ta’ forever stay by my side. I don’t want anyone around ya’ but me.”

“Awww, you’re quite the romantic type.” She said as she burrowed her head into his shoulder.

He scoffed. “I don’t think yer’ understandin’ what I’m sayin’, I want to keep ya’ locked away. Be mine forever.”

The uneasiness began to settle in the pit of her stomach as she pulled away from Johnny for a moment. It was like looking at a stranger. His eyes were not inviting and warm like they once were, they were cold and void. His face was hardened, no smile or any emotion showing. “What do you mean by that?”

“Yer’ a smart girl.” He said lowly. “Piece it together, sunflower.”

Locked away forever? Away from everyone around her? She stepped back from him and he inched closer to her. His murderous aura was beginning to tense the room up. “You want me to be kept away from my friends and family?” She questioned, her fear being exposed through her words.

“Exactly. I hate everyone yer’ around. I want ya’ for myself, and only me.” Johnny now looked much scarier and bigger, his size increasing from what it seemed like to his girlfriend. “I want ta’ kill yer’ parents. Yer’ friends. I hate when they’re around ya’. Ya’ only need me.”

Breathing quickening, she continued to step back as her eyes were wide. Like a rabbit face-to-face with the wolf. Johnny flashed a smile, but it did not hold the same comfort it once did. “Johnny, I need you to leave.”

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere, doll.” He said back as he lunged for her. He narrowly missed her as she dodged his attack, barreling her way to the front door to leave her home. Her adrenaline pumped as Johnny trailed not so far behind her. “Ya’ better get back here ya’ bitch! If ya’ know what’s good for ya’!”

She picked up her pace faster, sprinting down the dirt road and screaming like a banshee for help. But to her dismay, not many people came down that road. It was her and Johnny.

Johnny hopped in his truck and quickly pulled out of her driveway. Pushing his foot as far as he could on the gas pedal, he sped after her. He smiled manically to himself. She was heading right into the direction of the Devil’s lair. The Sawyer home was not too far from hers, so this was going to be easy for him.

Panting and her sides in excruciating pain, she whipped her head back and forth to see how far Johnny was from her. He was pretty damn close to her, and she felt that it was quite unfair that he had the ability to chase her in his truck. Human legs were not always a match for a vehicle.

In the distance, she saw a sunflower field and a two-story home that brought her great relief. She could get help there. That was her way to safety. She quickly rerouted herself to go into the sunflower field making Johnny’s grin wider as he slammed his foot on the break. She was now in his territory. He knew those sunflower fields very well, unbeknownst to her.

The wolf lurched out of his truck and chased after his rabbit who had hopped into the maze of sunflowers. Breathing heavily and moving away the large stems out of her way, she hoped that she was able to escape Johnny this way, or at least throw him off of her path.

That was, until she didn’t hear any footsteps or scurrying behind her. She whipped her head around, attempting to catch her breath as well as look for Johnny, but she did not hear anything.

Just the birds chirping and the soft wind.

“Hey there!” Johnny laughed as he lunged at her from his position. She screeched, running in the opposite direction as he continued his chase once again.

It was not long as a sudden pain surged through her leg as she tumbled to the ground. Her yowling echoed in the field as Johnny smirked at her injured state. “Well well well, look at what the cat dragged in.”

She was caught in Nubbins’ trap. Tears streamed down her face from the amount of pain she was in. Her foot was mangled in the trap. She tried to back away from Johnny who inched closer to her, but it only made her pain worse.

“Sorry doll, it just had to be this way.” He said disappointingly as he kneeled down. “Don’t worry, when you wake up, you will feel better.”

Confused at his words, Johnny immediately slammed her head into the ground to knock her out. She was weak, it was too easy. Undoing the trap and setting it up once again, he picked up her limp body and carried her to his shed that the Sawyers kept on their property for his ‘guests’. As much as Drayton hated it, he did not want it in his home, so he made sure that Johnny kept them out. He made his way into his shack and wrapped her foot up hastily. He did not want to spend much time on her, he needed to prepare for his night.

‘You ran the night that you left me, put me in my place. Got you in a stranglehold baby, you better trust your faith.’

The ache chewed away at her, worsening when she awoke from her drowsy state. Her foot felt like it was searing, and it was extremely uncomfortable. Shifting around, she glanced around her surroundings and her heart dropped. It came flooding back to her where she was at.

Johnny had taken her hostage. Her limbs were tied up and she was laying on a dirty mattress with questionable stains. It was cold and dark. There were no signs of Johnny or anyone else for that matter. The structure she was in was small, almost like it was made to be a shed of some sort. A shed with hardly any light filtering in from the moon and with freezing temperatures.

She shivered while she looked around for an exit point. The door was locked shut and there was one small window. Not that she could fit through it. Attempting to stand up, she gritted her teeth in pain as she tried to walk on her bad foot. She landed right on her butt. It was too painful to get around. Her head throbbed from him slamming it into the ground.

Her thoughts went to her parents, her friends. She did not want to die here. Not from the hands of him. Someone who she trusted, loved. Someone she thought she had a future with. Her eyes watered at the fact that he had betrayed her.

But she could not weep for long as the door began to jiggle, and there was a sound of a key entering the key hole. Wipe her tears away, she looked as the Slaughter boy opened the door. He had a smirk on his face as he approached his piece of meat.

“I see yer’ awake, doll. Ya’ ready to meet the family?” He asked her as kneeled down in front of her. She glared at him, her eyes swimming with anger. “Awwe, don’t give me that look, pretty girl.” He held the back of his hand to her face and she moved her head away. How dare he touch her.

“Come on, let’s get ya’ up.” He said as he cut the rope around her ankles and pulled her up, making her practically scream at the weight she put on her injured foot.

“I can’t walk.” She said aggressively as she moved away from Johnny.

He rolled his eyes. “Figure it out, doll. I ain’t carryin’ ya.”

Limping and fighting back tears, she attempted to walk beside him. It was so painful. Blood oozed out of her wound, and the corners of her vision began to blacken. Johnny pulled her along faster, grumbling about her taking her sweet time, and the pain increased. She felt dizzy. She could not run from Johnny now, not in this condition.

He pulled her inside the house, leading her to the dining room where his family sat. Sissy whistled when her brought her to the table, forcing her to sit as he tied her to the chair.

“Ya’ really did pick a purty’ one, Johnny.” She purred as she eyed his girlfriend. “Ma’ names Sissy. I’ve never had a sister before.”

“Oh stop it, Sissy.” Johnny said flatly. “Now yer’ just kissin’ ass.”

Sissy frowned. “Rather it be that way than for me ta’ try cuttin’ her up.” The woman’s heart rate increased and her eyes began to dart around.

“Ya’ wouldn’t try nothin’.” said the Slaughter boy with a glare. “Not on my watch.”

“Be quiet both of ya’! Sit down and eat dinner.” Cook yelled at the two ‘siblings’. “This girl is more trouble than she’s worth.”

“Oh keep it quiet, old man.” Johnny snapped. “Ya’ couldn’t get it up if ya’ even wanted to. Don’t stick yer’ nose in my business.”

Nubbins doubled over in laughter while Bubba wrung his hands anxiously. Drayton’s face turned red as he narrowed his eyes at the young man. “Wait until yer’ mother finds out about yer’ foolishness! Ya’ created a mess for yerself’ Johnny!”

“It ain’t any of yer’ business.” Johnny stabbed into the unknown meat on his plate with a knife. “Don’t fuck with me and piss me off before dinner, old man.”

Drayton shut up and stared at his dinner plate angrily. The tension in the room was suffocating. She felt awkward. Johnny nudged her plate towards her while he chewed on a piece of meat. “Don’t be shy.”

Nausea twisted in her stomach as she grimaced. “I can’t.”

“Yes ya’ can. Try it.” He said encouragingly.

“What is it?” She asked, almost not wanting to know.

Nubbins giggled while Sissy grinned, exchanging a look with the twin. “Just try it sweetheart.”

Johnny stabbed in a chunk and held it to her lips. “Open wide, doll face.”

Not wanting to upset them this early, she bit into a small piece of it. She chewed slowly, tasting the seasonings and flavor.

Johnny couldn’t help his wide, sadistic smile on his face. “It’s good, isn’t it sweetheart?”

She nodded, swallowing it completely. “What is it?”

If his grin could get wider, then it definitely did. “Nothin’ much, just someone’s liver.”

Her face paled. Bile had risen up in her throat and she threw up on the table. Sissy recoiled back and Drayton looked at the girl like she was disgusting. “Now ya’ threw up all over dinner!”

She coughed and held her head down. Johnny t’sked as he shook his head. “Way to go. Now yer’ just bein’ ungrateful.”

Sissy approached her with a napkin, attempting to wipe away the bile from her face until Johnny grabbed her wrist harshly. “Now what do ya’ think yer’ doin’?”

“Cleanin’ her up since ya’ ain’t bein’ a gentleman.” Sissy replied with a roll of her eyes. “Why? Is that a problem?”

“Get yer’ filthy hands off of her. Ya’ ain’t allowed to touch her.” Johnny smacked at Sissy’s hands while she pulled away.

Sissy crossed her arms. “What are ya’ afraid of, Johnny? It’s not like I’m hurtin’ her.”

“Don’t act like yer’ sunshine and rainbows. Yer’ just as fucked up as the rest of us, Sissy. Cut the act.” Johnny was now angry.

Her eyebrows furrowed, and she clenched her jaw. “How about ya’ stop keepin’ her to yerself’ and start sharin’ the meat ya’ bring! She ain’t nothin’ else to ya’ but somethin’ to fuck.”

“Are ya’ jealous or just being bitchy?” Johnny asked with a huff. “It ain’t yer’ business what I’m doin’.”

They began to bicker back and forth. She felt herself spin as their voices got louder and louder. There was a piece of wood sticking out behind the chair that she began to rub the rope back and forth across. If it could cut through the rope, she would be free. All she had to do was bolt out the front door. If she could find it.

'Some people think they gonna die someday. I got news you never got to go.'

Their yells ensued to screams, ones that caused Bubba to rock back and forth while crying and Drayton to scream at them to shut up. Her ears rung, and the rope gave way. Waiting for the right moment, she pushed Sissy harshly out of the way, making her land on the ground.

“Get back ’ere!” Sissy screeched as she quickly got up from the floor to chase Johnny’s girlfriend. Johnny trailed after her, telling Sissy to leave it to him. She limped to the front door and unlocked it quickly, swinging it open and hitting Sissy and Johnny in the face. They both hit the floor, stunned and staring up at the ceiling as Drayton screamed at Bubba to get his chainsaw and Nubbins to chase her.

She ran, well, what she could only describe as running. Her ankle hurt terribly, blood coating the cloth Johnny had wrapped around it. Every step shot pain up her leg, but she was running on adrenaline. She screamed as loud as she could for help, but all she heard back was her own echoes and the revving of Bubba’s chainsaw. She continued to wail as Johnny started to catch up to her.

"Gotcha!" he yelled as he pulled her close to him and started to fight with her. She wrestled him as much as she good, putting all of her weight on her injured ankle despite how much distress the injury was in. More blood seeped out and stained the dirt road. Bubba's revving got closer and closer the more they continued to fight. Johnny grinned manically at her, grunting and taunting her while she wrestled him off. She was able to push him to the ground, sprinting off right before Sissy could slash her with her knife. Sissy yelled at Johnny to get his lazy ass up off the ground and continued the chase that Johnny couldn't seem to catch up with.

As much as he liked to play games, this one had more fight in her than he thought. She had never showed this side of her when they were dating. At least, not to this extent. Recovering from yet another stun, Johnny got to his feet and narrowed his eyes. He needed to put an end to it now. This was beginning to only piss him off more since Drayton decided to ruin their dinner with his two cents.

He started the chase again, sprinting as fast as he could and breathing heavily. He had to catch up with his prey and Sissy, and he hoped that Sissy wouldn't take his kill. She was his, not hers.

"That'll teach ya' ta' fuckin' push me!" Sissy said with a laugh as she slashed her knife at the girl, making her adrenaline peak more and more. Her wounds oozed red liquid that trailed behind her, and she felt the edges of her vision darken. She did not want to die here; she did not want to die at the hands of her captors. She had almost reached the edge of the property, and she had the entire family chasing her down. Even Drayton was in it, he was just last compared to his family, and he was screeching like a banshee to kill her.

Sissy grabbed her, but she turned around quickly to fight off the woman. Wrestling her like she did Johnny, she launched Sissy to the ground before taking off again. Sissy stared up at the night sky for a second before recollecting herself. Johnny passed her and teased her. "Guess ya' gettin' lazy too." She wanted to punch the Slaughter boy in the face for creating a huge mess.

She had now crossed over the edge of the Sawyer property. Lungs heavy and the pain hitting her, she felt weakened. But she was not out of the radar yet. She continued to run, as well as scream for help, as Johnny trailed behind her. The rest of the family did not follow him off the property. They knew that whatever took place outside of the property was something they did not need to witness. He was never nice with his punishments.

Suddenly, she was rolling on the ground with Johnny, dirt flying everywhere as he tackled her. He sat on top of her and held her arms down. She felt so angry. She was so close to escaping, yet here she was now. Underneath Johnny who stared down at her like a hungry wolf.

"You and your entire family are crazy! Let me go, Johnny!" She fought against his grip on her arms.

"Can't do that, sunshine." He said back, his facial features almost consumed in darkness. But she could still see those eyes. "Ya' caused a lot of trouble tonight. Too much. I thought ya' would be different."

Her heart dropped at his words. "There were more before me?"

"Did ya' really think I was some sort of virgin boy? Of course, there were more before ya', there was plenty." He smiled at her, but it was empty. "I just thought ya'd be different. I wished ya' were different."

"I would never stay with you. I would rather die than to be held captive by you! You are crazy!" She retorted back while her face scrunched up. Disgust filled her body. To think this was the man she wanted to marry one day, have a future with. And this is what he did to her.

His eyes darkened and he frowned. He grabbed her by the hair and held his hunting knife up to her throat. "Watch yer' mouth, girl. Ya' suddenly forget that I can easily kill ya'." Johnny did have a good point, and she whimpered quietly when he pressed the knife deeper to her throat. Her wide eyes locked with his, fear swimming in them. He felt goosebumps rise on his skin from seeing the fear. It was something he liked to see on his victims.

Johnny moved the knife away from her throat and smiled again. "There girl, don'tcha worry now." His gloved hand caressed the side of her face. "You'll come around; I promise ya' that. But I can't promise ya' that my family won't try to kill ya'. Ya' gave them a headache."

'You created it yourself,' she thought to herself when Johnny got to his feet and pulled her up. Her ankle yowled in pain. She did not want to go back to the Devil's Lair. She could not. Not when she got so far. Johnny did not make an effort to help her along, and she took another opportunity. Elbow ready, she rammed it straight into his crotch, making Johnny double over in pain. "God-fuckin' dammit!"

She took off again in the opposite direction, still screaming for help as she limped along. She wanted to get away no matter what. Despite how much agony her body was in and how much blood dripped from her wounds, she could not let them win. Johnny was in pain, but he was now aggravated. He had given her many chances to play nice, but she took advantage of his kindness. All because she wanted to control the situation. He did not like that.

He stumbled towards her direction to ease the pain that did not seem to let up. He knew he would have to tough this one out. He could not let his prey escape. Starting to jog, he trailed after her. He would catch up to her one way or another.

And he did. He tackled her once more to the ground, his hands wrapping around her throat and squeezing. He had a snarl on his lips as he tightened his grip. Choking out, she clawed at Johnny's hands and face to try to loosen his grip. But he only made it worse.

"This will be the last time ya' try to two-time me." Johnny muttered as he stared her down. "I wish it was different. I really do. But ya' made me do this."

Her eyes fluttered as she felt all the air escape her lungs. She could never escape him. Why did she think she could? Johnny Slaughter hardly let his prey get away.

Choking again, her arms splayed out next to her and her vision and hearing fading in and out, she was defeated.

With a crunch, Johnny snapped her neck. He breathed hard as he looked at his beautiful creation. He was an artist himself. He knew deep down inside she was worth all the trouble. But it was time to feed the family. He knew he owed it to them.

Picking up her limp body, he lifted her over his shoulder and began to walk back to the Sawyer house. There was never a chase he didn’t end up enjoying. No matter how much trouble they caused.

‘I got you in a stranglehold baby. That night I crushed your face.’

[joohanisms]

Oh dear, no problem! I just asked to be sure lol. You know, I particularly A big Jooyeon stan and kinda think dom! reader... Like they would look great being super stimulated and in pink socks and with tears in their eyes. That's the idea, the member you choose is your decision. Thanks

(Sorry for the bad english,i wang slepp and the Google translator ia bad)

[bangs head against the wall] /pos

i don't really know if this is what you meant but if it isn't i'm So ready to write it too !!!! hope you like it <3

dw about english babe :-) it's not my first language either, don't apologize ever!!

jooyeon + overstimulation + pink socks 💭💫

cw: overstimulation, crying/dacryphilia, lingerie, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex (don't be dumb), usage of good boy (what's new) wc: 1,4k

minors dni

first off, i think jooyeon really likes feeling pretty.

it took a while for him to trust you enough to show you this side of him – but now that your relationship is stable, you get to see him at his fullest.

it's not unusual to come home on special occasions (anniversaries, monthversaries, birthdays, celebrations in general) to find him laying on the bed, over-the-knee socks clipped to lacy boyshorts.

if you're lucky and really make him feel 100% safe, you might even be gifted with the view of him in a bralette. maybe you realize you haven't seen a pair of your lacy lingerie in a while, only to open jooyeon's jeans and find it on his narrow hips.

but today he favored long, shimmery pink socks. the boyshorts were long forgotten, somewhere on your bedroom floor, to give you space to swallow his cock down your throat.

he was seated on the edge of the bed, his sock-clad legs over your shoulders, while your knees were painted a deep red by the wood floors.

jooyeon mewled when you licked a long stripe from the base of him to his spit-shiny tip. you had been sucking him off for the last 20 minutes, switching between excruciatingly slow licks and deep throating. you had set a cock ring aside, but he promised he'd be good and wouldn't come until you gave him permission.

he was feeling so good, but the way you were using your mouth wasn't nearly enough to throw him over the edge.

"baby, please. please, i've been so good!" one of the hands propping him up on the mattress tangled itself in your hair, very lightly pulling.

releasing him with a pop, you took in the view – his deliciously flushed cheeks matching the red splotches you left on his chest and the way he heaved, sniffling every other breath.

"have you, now?" you know you're being cruel.

he has, in fact, been a delight today; he's not nearly as bratty as he usually is, and he took all of your orders so well, obedient and pliant. but there's something about pushing him to his limits – the ones he talks hushedly, almost secretively about in bed, before he dozes off for the day – that gives you a rush too good to ignore.

maybe you're a little drunk with power, being clothed while he's bare enough to be considered naked.

"i have! 've been a good boy, please–" he cuts himself off when you slap his thigh just hard enough to draw his attention back to you. you drop his sock-clad legs from your shoulders, standing up (with a poorly hidden wince from kneeling on the floorboards for so long) to lean over him like a predator cages its prey.

"if you've been so good," a hand tangles into his hair, baring his neck to you, "then how come you're still talking?"

you feel him gulp when you start tracing your lips along his pulse. smart, he doesn't give you a reply other than a nearly imperceptible moan.

instead of leaving a nip or a hickey on his pulse, you drop a light kiss to his skin – a reminder.

"lie down on the pillows, and i'll think about your case."

he scrambles to the headboard, hair fanning out around his face as he haphazardly rests his head on the many pillows and cushions that line your shared bed.

you've always thought jooyeon looks rather divine like this. his hair like a halo framing his face, his red lips adorned with a sheen of spit, the flush spread across his body and the lovebites trailing into his hips. something out of a painting – out of the tales of fallen angels and humans that gave into a pleasure so enticing it was worth giving heaven up for.

in the back of your head, you note something missing from the scene.

tears.

the kind of tears you only know one way of invoking.

and it's by making him frustrated and then giving him all he has ever wanted – well, at least since he decided to wait for you in bed with the tip of his dick peeking from the waistband of his pretty dark blue lace underwear.

as you settle between his legs, your hand finds his cock, stroking him loose and slow. he whines in protest, but his head tips backwards either way.

you keep the torturous pace, kissing and nipping at his inner thighs, his hipbones, and eventually, his chest. taking a nipple into your mouth makes his legs spasm and his skin break into gooseflesh.

he starts begging again, in the softest tone he can muster. a string of pleases and your name falls from his mouth. you can hear his fingers mindlessly drumming on the mattress – a subconscious effort to keep from touching you, to direct the energy somewhere else.

jooyeon is such a good boy. he has your heart melting, taking pity on his drooling cock. you pick up your pace, and his back lifts off the bed.

your tongue drags a line across his chest to kitten lick at his other, ignored, nipple. it doesn't take long at all before he's panting and fucking back into your hand as best as he can.

"joo," you lift from his chest, "since you're being so good, i'll give you a choice."

his gaze goes straight into your eyes, trying to give you all of his attention, even though you know his eyelids are heavy at this point.

"do you want to come like this," you lightly squeeze his cock, "or do you want my pussy?"

he's conflicted for a split second, then he's begging again.

"pussy, please, wanna fill you up, 'm so good, please–"

"shh, i'll give it to you." you kiss both his cheeks, trying to soothe him. you already knew his eyes would start welling up when you release his cock for all of 5 seconds while you hurriedly took off your shorts and underwear in one go.

in the next 5 seconds it took you to straddle his hips, line yourself up with him and drop down, the first tear drops.

right off the bat, you're riding him at a relentless pace, slamming your hips into him, effectively bouncing on his lap. it's a lot, it's nearly too much, and despite the tear tracks on jooyeon's face, his hands are still obediently on the bed, grasping at the sheets.

you take his wrists, leading them to the dip of your waist. his grip is almost painful, but makes you drip with pleasure.

with the rhythm you were keeping, you knew jooyeon wouldn't take long at all to sob your name and cum into you. it's not a problem at all, because you'll keep going until you cum.

you wipe the tears off his face, kisses him on the lips, and brings a hand to your pussy, immediately rubbing your clit fervorously.

jooyeon's high morphs into the pain-pleasure of, well, not catching a break. he didn't even get a chance to go soft. his back is off the bed, his nails are digging into your skin, his face is wet again, and his legs are shaking. it's too much, it's white-hot and shooting into his veins.

soon enough – and luckily before your legs turn into jelly – you're cumming on his cock. the pressure from your walls clenching on his exhausted cock as you ride it out gives him one last little gift – a small dry orgasm – before his hands are lightly pushing you away, the sensivity hitting him at last. you comply, leaving your seat on his hips to lay down beside him

joo gets really cuddly after sex, especially after rough sex. he dives into your arms, longing to be held.

you'll always give him as much cuddles as he needs to pull himself back together. squeezing him tight, the way he likes, you kiss his sweaty temple.

when he catches his breath, he smiles dazedly at you.

"how was it, baby?" you run a hand through his hair.

"great. i like bein' your good boy." he nuzzles closer, trying to meld into your still clothed chest.

"i'm glad. you're the best boy. so good to me." you hold him impossibly tighter.

"mm. need a nap." he mumbles, and you have to chuckle.

"just a bit, yeah? we need to clean up. get some food."

you suspect he's already asleep by the end of your sentence. you kiss his forehead, his pink socks graze your skin as he intertwines your legs, and you wonder how you got so lucky.

[vanilla-c0c0]

I saw some people talk about this soooo Ricci family names meanings! (specifically this post)

Valerio: this name has Roman origins and it is based on the Italian verb "valere" which means "to be strong" and "to matter"; it usually wishes for the person to be strong, robust and healthy.

Silvio: this name also has Roman origins, and it derives from the Latin word Silvius aka woods. The name itself means "someone from/belonging to the woods". This was also the name of one of the Latin kings, related to the foundation of Rome.

Emidio: the origin of this name is unclear, and current theories trace it back to Greek, Gallic or to the word "semidio" aka demigod/demi Jupiter.

Alfio: Latin origin with the meaning of "white".

Side note: I'm really curious to know where they even found Emidio and Alfio because they're quite uncommon or just kind of old, no one uses them anymore.

Rio's name actually makes sense if one considers it as a blessing from the king, and it particularly makes sense for the "to matter" part, since yk he's the only one that matters in the king's eyes😒

As for Silvio... it just makes me sad, really. In his route it is stated multiple times that he's always been the one to deal with the kingdom's darkest affairs from the shadows, so his name being related to the woods, a place symbolically related to darkness is kind of sad. Furthermore- [BIG SPOILERS FOR HIS ROUTE!!!!!!!]

the way he's suspected to be an illegitimate child (it is stated that he isn't since he inherited his father's blue eyes, symbol of the royal family) somehow plays into his name a bit, too? Once more in relation to darkness but also related to how Benitoite, a kingdom heavily associated with water and the sea, has a prince whose name has ties to the earth and woods: he's not meant to fit in, in a way.

I don't have much to say about Emidio since I haven't really seen his personality (I still have to play Rio's route lol) BUT as for what concerns Alfio, I think it's very interesting that his name means "white" but Gilbert says:

In conclusion, Silvio was set up from the very beginning and Alfio is a fool and a clown and we must beat him with a stick <3

[moon-rising-if]

bouncing back on the “Fallon doesn’t necessarily enjoy the feeling of having blood on their face, but they don’t get too bothered by it” to ask… how would they react if the mc just went to lick the blood off instinctively, only realizing what they did after they’ve done it LOL

I think it’d entirely depend on your relationship with them.

Base Relationship: “W-Why did you do that?” A perplexed expression etches itself across their features. Blue-gray eyes filled with nothing but confusion— only the rigid quality of their shoulders showcases how uncomfortable they were. “Please refrain from doing such a thing again.”

Friendship: Their nose wrinkles in distaste at the action, but amusement dances faintly within their gaze all the same. “I didn’t sign up for that when I asked you to come along, MC.” They shake their head, briefly patting your shoulder. “Let’s not do that again, okay?”

Best Friendship: Laughter bubbles from their chest, a rich sound escaping their lips when they playfully shove you. “You’re not expecting me to return the favor are you?” They shake their head, blue gray eyes filled with fond exasperation. “I thought I was supposed to be the dog out of the two of us.”

Crush: A heated blush covers the expanse of their cheeks, a deeper red somehow showcasing itself within the exact path your tongue had just traveled. “Do—” They clear their throat, shifting on their feet. “Do you want to keep going? I know a wonderful spot just a bit up the path.”

Romance: Before you’re able to pull away completely, strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you tightly to their body. A gentle kiss is placed to your mouth, the barest hint of their tongue tracing your bottom lip, before they release you. “I’ll make sure to repay you for your help in our chambers later, my love.”

[bunnydayss]

╭─────────────.★.. ─────╮

✰ Random Skz–Pair Headcannons: ✰

╰───── ..★.─────────────╯

————————————————————————

(Please note that I do not actually ship them in real life, this is for pure fun and giggles. — It might also not be realistic lol).

Pairs included: Minsung, Jilix, Seungin, Chanlix, Hyunlix, Hyunsung

(might do a part two based on feedback/pair requests)

Listen along while you read :)

————————————————————————

. . .

::🪻 Minsung 🪻:: ( Minho & Jisung )

• Minho would see Han watching other idols’ fancams and secretly learn the dance to show him during practice, just to impress him.

• Jisung would also go out of his way to try and learn difficult dances to subtly flex his improvements to Minho, cause he looks up to him.

• Minho bridal carries Jisung sometimes, or just generally manhandles him to fit his wants (Jisung gets flustered every time).

• Jisung acts like a brat for attention and Minho teases him for it every time and purposefully avoids playing along to rile up Sungie.

• If Jisung is having a bad day, even if Minho already planned/prepped for another meal, he’ll go out to the store to grab ingredients for Han’s favorite food.

• Minho proposes first, Jisung was too shy to do it himself.

• Minho is a silent affectionate, meaning he does things to better Jisung’s mood silently. Jisung is a loud affectionate and is extremely proud of himself when he can return the favor. (“Hey look what I did for you! Aren’t I the best?”).

. . .

:: 🌻 Jilix 🌻 :: ( Jisung & Felix )

• Both would be cuddle-bugs, but Felix would be more confident asking for them, and eventually would rub off on Jisung who would slowly become more vocal about his needs.

• Both are good at switching between the one talking and the one listening. (They’re both great at actively listening and communicating.)

• Felix apologizes first but Jisung is the first one to initiate physical contact after a fight.

• They don’t fight often but if they do it’s usually due to exhaustion or pent up stress, and it’s a short lived fight (they both immediately regret it).

• Felix fondly watches Jisung fall asleep to assure his sleep schedule betters itself during a comeback (Jisung spends too much time in the studio).

• Felix proposes first but Jisung saw the ring a week ago, but didn’t mention it to not stress out Lix.

. . .

:: 🪷 Seungin 🪷 :: ( Seungmin & Jeongin )

• Rather quiet affectionates, but can be loud when it’s a special occasion or when it matters most.

• Both propose at the same time ong.

• Seungmin drags Jeongin around and Jeongin fights back but eventually relents. (Jeongin melts into Minnie’s touch and ends up whining when he moves away).

• Morning cuddles, and refusing to let Seungmin leave the bed to start the day (“impeding morning” being I.N’s worst fear lol).

• Jeongin king of denying affection but secretly loving it (Seungmin knows).

• Seungmin puppy behavior ong, and he’s soft for all Innie’s wants, in order to please him. (“I kinda want cake”, “Innie it’s 2am”, “I know…”, “What’re you waiting around for? Let’s go-”).

• Seungmin likes to tease Jeongin by purposefully being distant from time to time, just to see Jeongin seek him out for attention. (Jeongin thinks he’s sneaky).

. . .

:: 💐 Chanlix 💐 :: ( Chan & Felix )

• Chan workaholic, Felix fighting for his life to throw him out of the studio. (He probably kisses him silly to get his attention).

• Felix has Bang Chan lap rights and sits in his lap, otherwise Chan rests his head on Liz’s thighs and let’s him play with his hair.

• Hand size difference 🗣️🗣️🗣️ (Chan lives for holding both Liz’s hands in one of his).

• Chan plays his Lix’s legs when they watch movies, he traces his fingers in random patterns while Felix giggles and buries his head in his chest.

• Chan proposes first but only because Felix knew he’s a huge closeted romantic and wanted to let him have his big moment.

• Felix displays love through physical affection and quality time, Chan through acts of service and gifts.

• Chan and Felix have a great comedy dynamic, both knowing the same references from Australia.

. . .

:: 🌷 Hyunlix 🌷 :: ( Hyunjin & Felix )

• Drama queen Hyunjin and Felix plays along fondly. (It flusters Hyunjin when he does—e.g. Hyunjin stubs his toe, fake cries about it, Felix acts worried and kisses his finger better, Hyunjin blushes).

• Both love when the other has long hair that they can play with. In fact their favorite way to go to sleep is facing one another with each others hands buried in their strands of hair.

• Poke and teases each other, even when the other is in a bad mood. And if they live for draping themselves over the other, putting all their body weight on the other to lightly annoy them.

• Felix proposes first, Hyunjin got so flustered.

• Big spoon Hyunjin and little spoon Felix, but they also switch and Hyunjin finds it so cute how his hands fully wrap around Felix and meet, and Felix’s can’t with the broadness of Jinnie’s torso.

• Hyunjin loves getting Felix flowers 24/7, replaced them in the vase every morning before Lix wakes up.

• Hyunjin paints while Felix finds TikTok challenges to do. (Hyunjin also paints Felix…)

. . .

:: 🌹 Hyunsung 🌹 :: ( Hyunjin & Jisung )

• Loves play fighting, an absolute must especially with their own past.

• They’re the type to provoke one another into affection: “You wanna kiss me sooooo bad”, “I dare you” etc.

• They fight but immediately regret it due to their relationship pre-debut, so they’re scared of big arguments. They apologize at the same time, but refuse to admit it when confronted about it (“I’m so—”, “I shouldn’t have—”…“What were you gonna say?”, “Pft. Nothing”).

• Messy and messier, with Hyunjin’s artistic hobbies and Jisung’s chaotic nature, they dedicate days to clean the house together while playing music (shared playlist on shuffle).

• Jisung doesn’t like to admit it, to Hyunjin of all people too, but he loves being held and complimented. His ego (and heart) grow at Hyunjin’s small compliments, although Jinnie makes sure to tease Jisung about his like for them.

———————

Feel free to request any other pairs! (SKZ, TXT and maybe some other groups but it depends on my familiarity with them).

Don’t forget to eat and drink water :)

[the-axe-and-flail]

I've got some exciting news to share today!

I've officially begun work on my new big project- a series of fics based in a late modern/futuristic setting AU, where the slayers are based out of a nightclub named "The Wisteria Lounge".

Each of the Hashira have a planned fic, and all will be intertwined with each other (think Otome game route style, as that was the inspiration. I am Otomesass after all 🤣). These will all be Y/N fics, with most (if not all) being Y/N×Hashira, though Im still up in the air about Mui, and possibly Genya.

While I don't have anything to post yet, enjoy all these random notes I wrote myself during development to give you an idea of where this is all going! There is a lot below the cut so be prepared lol.

"The Wisteria Lounge" (logo by me, still a wip. Cannot decided on a font lol)

Each character will get their own story, exploring how they handle the trappings of their backgrounds and what tolls being a savior to humanity take. During the day, each of the Hashira have jobs they hold to appear 'normal' while their evening duties range from official slayer work, to helping keep the Wisteria Lounge up and running as a profitable front for their true business.

Wisteria is set in a future where disaster has struck the modern world, making daylight all but nonexistent. As humanity learned to adapt, they had no idea that Demons would soon come to claim the upper echelons of society as government officials, idols, and CEOs. With murder on the rise, missing peoples reports skyrocketing, and whisperings of cannibals being passed around, an order of individuals seeks to find and eliminate the new plague on humanity.

Unlike in the normal Canon, each Hashira is in charge of a "team" of slayers, each specializing in different goals or techniques. So far these are-

Unit overview-

The slayers function in units, with each Hashira running a unit of their own. Not all units are active duty 24/7, and some are more highly specialized than others

•Shinobu- Insect Hashira, team Chō (butterfly)

Runs the clinic, takes care of injured slayers

Tasked with research of new or developing chemicals that can kill demons

Fighters focus on speed of strikes rather than power, utilizing pharmaceuticals in combat.

•Gyomei- Stone Hashira, Team Ganban (bedrock)

Runs security for the bar and other slayer controlled locations.

Specializing in securing locations, getting civilians out unharmed, and protecting captives during Kizuki raids.

Exceptional strength and force in combat makes them valuable when overtaking enemy locations.

•Tengen- Sound Hashira, Team Uwasa (rumor)

Mostly recon, and explosives experts

In charge of finding leads on demon locations/whereabouts

His team is good at charming info out of people, equally specialized in torturing info out of demons.

•Giyuu- Water Hashira, Team Suiko (Torrent)

Tech savvy, excellent at digital tracking. Investigations experts, tracking irl as well.

On location/job hacking, information recovery, and data collecting.

Team focuses on high perception and deductive reasoning skills.

•Sanemi- Wind Hashira, Team Tenkū (air)

Muscle muscle muscle. Overwhelming force that would burn itself out rather than back down.

Specializing in destroying everything and leaving no traces behind, including buildings and locations.

The "take no prisoners" team. Highly skilled in hand to hand and all are weapons experts. Basically black ops.

•Mitsuri- Love Hashira, Team Gōka (refined)

Undercover experts, highly skilled with changing appearance/disguise

Exceptional in hand to hand combat, especially evasive actions

Exceptional infiltration tactics, combo of tech savvy and charismatic

•Obanai- Serpent Hashira, Team Sotto (Quiet)

Single cell assassination team, most individuals work on their own.

Often accompany Team Gōka and team Uwasa on missions.

Highly prized one on one combatants. They specialize in taking out targets quickly, often immobilizing them with poisons that team Chō provides.

•Muichiro- Mist Hashira, Team Kōrin (nimbus)

Muscle, though much more refined than team Tenkū.

Specializes in tactics that confuse enemies and create battlefield chaos.

Fond of wide spread smokescreen, gasses, and demoralization tactics.

•Kyojuro- Flame Hashira, Team Rekka (wildfire)

More muscle, very powerful fighters with unwavering dedication

Highly skilled Frontline fighters, excellent tacticians, problem solvers. Good at reading opponents and predicting their moves.

Highly versatile. Often used in conjunction with other teams like Tenkū and Ganban, but can fit in just about anywhere.

Each fic will have a different sub plot, with all coming together to weave in and out of each other to keep the stories cohesive. This is the second big project I've worked on like this, with the first being my Blind Kings project (over on my main).

Some very general/brief fic outlines for each character so far-

Y/N is brought on as a specialist (speciality will change from fic route to route) to aid in the defeat and capture of demons (which demon will depend on which route). In true otome fashion, the first couple chapters will introduce all the characters, the exposition, overarching plot, and MC's introduction to the main cast.

-10-15 chapters a piece, like an otome, with the final chapters being a "resolution". 

-Not all routes will end with the end of Muzan. Most routes will be 1-2 demon specific. 

-Some events will carry from route to route 

-1st "story" will be a 2 chapter introduction, as a standalone. Then readers go to whatever "route" they want. 

Route overviews-

Gyomei- Kaigaku, who Gyomei learns was behind his false imprisonment, has abandoned the slayers and joined the demons. Under the protection of Kokushibo, Kaigaku is untouchable. Gyomei must fight to restore what he once thought lost- his personhood.

Shinobu- Hunting down her sister's killer, Shinobu learns that Douma runs a "church" that operates as a battered women's shelter. She and her protégé manage to infiltrate the cult to take their revenge on the demon.

Kyojuro- After suffering a near fatal attack by Akaza, Kyojuro seeks to put Akaza out of his misery for good after his recovery, but first must confront his broken father and learn the missing artes he needs to do so.

Giyuu- The demon responsible for killing his best friend resurfaces after years of hiding and takes his older sister hostage. Giyuu must track them down in time to save her before the Demon can harm her.

Sanemi- After killing his own father to protect his siblings and mother, Sanemi served time in juvie. Upon his release, he finds out that his mother and all but 1 of his siblings were killed in his absence and seeks vengeance on the Demon who killed them- Muzan himself.

Muichiro- after mysterious dreams "given" to him by his dead brother, Mui finds out he is related to Kokushibo and seeks to put an end to his relative's reign of terror.

Obanai- once thought dead, the snake demon that slaughtered his family reappears, hoping to finish off his bloodline once and for all. It's a race to see who can kill whom first, as Obanai struggles with the PTSD of his past and his scars.

Mitsuri- scorned by society for being "too strong and independent", Mitsuri hopes to prove herself by infiltrating Muzan's ranks and killing Hantengu, a Demon masquerading as a corrupt judge that is continually evading her grasp.

Tengen- seemingly "cursed" to be alone, Tengen is the target of a very persistent pair of demons who keep killing his loved ones. After his 3rd girlfriend's death, he sets out to put the two six feet under for good.

Genya- (this one is another that is up in the air) fresh out of college and ready to put his skills to the test by taking out the very same demon his brother is hunting. Undeterred by Sanemi's threats, Genya uses his superior deductive reasoning and newfound powers to hunt the Demon king himself.

Now that you've made it through the whole entire thing, let me thank you personally! That's a lot of rambling and half baked ideas you just waded in, and I commend your tenacity! At this time I have no exact eta on when chapters will start going up, but I can say that we'll be starting with Gyomei because I love him and he deserves the world! Any and all critique or questions are welcomed, so please lmk if you've got any!

[mythgirlimagines]

Which Project Sekai group do you think would sing each PokéMiku song?

VERY good question that made me actually sit down and listen to all of the Project Voltage songs lmao

This got long so everything past the first two are under the cut!

TL;DR: 4 L/N, 4 MMJ, 4 VBS, 4 WxS, 3 n25

Volt Tackle- I think for just Volt Tackle itself, L/N could rock it since parts of it remind me of songs like Teo or Hibana -Reloaded-. However, for the Jewel Remix, VBS would be the ones to cover it and you cannot change my mind on that. It’d be really cool if in-story this was one of L/N’s songs and VBS decided to remix and cover it

Electricity Forecast- The Viridian Forest theme (one of my favorite themes in all the games and not only because of Yellow) seals to me that this would be an n25 song. I really have no defense for it other than that but honestly tell me it doesn’t fit. Like I could see an argument for VBS but I think n25 would slay this

What Kind of Future- I could see MMJ doing some kind of collaboration with Pokemon and covering this song, like them kind of incorporating the “attacks” in their choreography or something like that. The beat also reminds me of some of their songs, like Newly Edgy Idols. I can definitely see this on an idol stage. I also think at least Minori would be amused by all of the puns XD

The Pokemon Inside My Heart- This one for sure gives WxS, especially on the gaming side of things. You know if this were a song in-universe Nene would cover it even on her own. It honestly reminds me of some of their more chill songs as a group, and honestly feels kind of reminiscent of Starry Sky Melody for some reason?? That might just be me

Battle! (Hatsune Miku)- VBS hands-down, are you kidding? I don’t even think I have to justify my choice here

Fly With You- It’s telling the story of Mudkip and Pelipper, so I think WxS would cover this just on the storytelling ground, y’know? I could see it being a show on Wonder Stage

I GOT YOU!- VBS, and again I don’t really think I have to justify this choice lol, I also think this is one of my favorites so far

JUVENILE- L/N both based on the overall sound and the themes in the lyrics! Very fitting imo. Tell me I’m wrong I dare you

I’m a Ghost Type- I was originally going to say VBS, but I honestly think that n25 could handle this song slightly better? I’m still kind of torn between them but I’m going to say final answer n25 because they do deserve some hard-hitting beats like this, plus n25 has done several syudou songs before that went well

GO! Team BIDOOF- I’m kind of caught between MMJ and WxS for this one, but I think I’m leaning towards WxS just because it’s giving Niccori and I love Niccori lol (edit a second after I wrote this: they’re produced by the same producer so that’s probably why I kept drawing parallels between the two lmaooooo)

Awoo- n25 is probably gonna end up getting all the spooky-themed songs tbh but I really do think they’d do well with this one lol

Encounter- I’m split between MMJ and L/N but this also reminds me of Torinoko City so I think I’m going to give it to MMJ. Both groups fit the lyrics “‘You’re stronger than you were back then”/Even though I’ve grown up/Nothing seems to have changed, does it?” but MMJ gets the edge in terms of the sound of the song imo since it also lowkey gives Watashi wa, Watashitachi wa

Eon Ticket- I gotta go with L/N for this one, I mean just listen to it (I am maybe a little biased that marasy also produced Aoku Kakero! which is one of my favorite L/N covers)

PARTY ROCK ETERNITY- Another where I’m between VBS and n25!! Ahhhhh I think for this one I’m going to go with VBS on this one. This is another one of my favorite Project Voltage songs now lol

Journey’s Prequels, Journey’s Traces- WxS for this one, it just Gives Them

Psychic Psychic- I want to say MMJ for this one and I have no idea why. I think it kind of reminds me of Melty Land Nightmare vibes?

MELLOMELLOID- This one, oddly enough, had me split between MMJ and n25, but I think this reminds me too much of Darling Dance to not give it to MMJ

Glorious Day- I would love hearing L/N do this one, so I'm gonna have to give it to them!

[roryslut]

tear you apart-charlie walker x reader

based on the song by she wants revenge

warnings‼️ making out + idk fear? (i don’t want to write about a murderous charlie lol)

i trace the red lipstick on my lips in front of my mirror before finally heading downstairs, my hair and makeup perfect wearing a cute white dress with a black bow. “charlie’s here” my dad says from the bottom of the stairs. i notice him look through the open doorway, a smile peaking through his lips. i walk down the stairs and get into his car.

“i’m glad we are going to this dance” charlie says, smiling at me, “me too” i smile back. it’s quiet for a moment. “i always thought you were really special.” he says, now looking at the road. “what do you mean special?” i question. he pauses then says “you just seem different then everybody here.” “different?” i ask.

he’s interrupted after a glance in the rear view mirror. “what the hell?” he whispers under his breath. he looks over “i think that car has been following us… and it’s driving really close.” i look over my shoulder, a little nervous.

he looks at me, “i hope it’s not another ghostface.”

“charlie, do you really believe in all that?”

“not really… it’s just it’s repeated itself three times now… i sometimes wonder”

“i moved here after that”

“well rumor has it-”

“hey, i don’t want to talk about this…we’re here so let’s just have a good time” i say, he looks over at me with a look of concern but also smirking slightly. “did i scare you?” as if it excited him. i pause, “no,” then look behind me again, “i just want to have a good time.”

we arrive shortly and charlie turns off the car quickly to run to my door and open it for me. he puts out a hand and i take it as he escorts me into the building.

we walk into the dance, there is a mirror ball and balloons and streamers hanging from the ceiling and a band playing on the stage.

we start dancing, he’s a little awkward, gently holding my waist and almost stuttering, “so what are you gonna do after school?” he asks, trying to make conversation. “i’ll go where my parents move next.” i respond. “why do they move so much?” he asks, tilting his head and you start to twirl his hair.

“i don’t know we don’t talk.”

“why not? you don’t get along?” he questions “not really… i think my dad wanted a boy and he got me”

“he’s lucky he got you.” he smiled and pulled me a little closer. “do you want to go somewhere private?” i ask. “uhm… okay” he says, obviously nervous.

i grabbed his hand and led him to the film club room, i knew he had a key. once the door closes we stand in the faint light looking at eachother for a second before pressing our lips together, closing the gap between us.

he presses me up against the wall and kisses me harder. i was suprised with his confidence as he slipped his tounge in my mouth to kiss me deeper. he felt amazing and i didn’t want it to end but i pulled away and said “i want to know you really like me.”

“i do”

“no matter what?” i ask, playing with his hair again. “yes, you want to know how much?” he asks stepping closer. i don’t respond, he grabs my face and shifts my head so he can whisper in my ear, his lips grazing my hot skin, “i want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight, soft breath, beating heart…” he placed a kiss on my neck, feeling my fast pulse in his lips, “i want to fucking tear you apart.”

[lady-morrigen]

Could I perhaps request Cassian Andor fluff with reader going through a particularly difficult bout of winter depression and him having the patience of a saint? Much love ❤️

Daylily

pairing: cassian andor x gn!reader (it was accidentally gn, so let me know if i missed anything)

a/n: so first, i'm sorry i take a million years to fill requests! idk what drew me to this one, but i guess because i'm army crawling towards the end of winter myself. i'm not sure if this is what you were going for, but my current work stress sorta worked its way in here... my apologies lol i can write something fluffier when i don't feel endless rage

rating: g

warnings: seasonal depression angst, job stress, brief mention of parental death (nothing graphic)

You’ve always hated it, the way the sun dropped beyond the horizon before you had a chance to feel it thaw the frozen contours of your face. It hardly seemed fair. A hint of a cotton candy sky peeking through the slats of the window over your bunk was as close as you came to seeing the sun all day. 

Day in and day out, you were surrounded by the damp, clay walls of the base, working yourself to the exhaustion to ensure data collected by the Rebellion’s Intelligence Officers was properly decoded. Lukewarm cups of caf and nutrition bars weren’t exactly a balanced or healthy diet, but they got you through more often than not. Each passing day, as your vitamin D stores depleted and the hunger pains grew stronger, your irritability wedged itself permanently at the front of your personality. 

When the doors of the tech bay slid open with a hiss, you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes. The man headed toward you was a particular thorn in your side, always one to meet your icy tone with an edge of his own, taunting you, pushing you, like a thumb to a bruise. Captain Andor had never met a spat he didn’t absolutely savor and you seemed to be the most recent object of his ire. 

He approached the desk, smug smile in place as he braced his arms on the top, crossing over the desktop, crowding your space to an annoying degree. With a huff, you sat down your data pad, steeling your gaze and facing him head-on.

“Captain Andor,” you said plainly, disdain evident in your tone. 

“Always so happy to see me, Lieutenant.” His smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. Truthfully, he looked just as exhausted as you felt. His brown eyes no longer held the sparkle, the hope that you were sure once shone in them.  

He could have been lovely once, you thought. Before the Empire crushed our spirits and the cold leeched out what little happiness we had left.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” 

Your already thin patience was waning, desperate to move the conversation along so you could get back to work. He tapped a finger against the screen of your data pad insistently. 

“Did you decrypt those Coruscant messages yet?” His lips set into a thin line, his features twisting into something much more serious, all traces of playfulness drained from his expression. 

You scrubbed a hand over your face, the feeling of being impossibly overwhelmed bubbled up in your chest, creeping up your throat and threatening to suffocate you. You fought back against the tears welling in your eyes. You knew well that Captain Andor wasn’t one to miss things like that, no matter how well controlled, and showing him any sign of weakness was out of the question. 

“Like I told you yesterday, Sir, we are very behind. It’s going to take me at least two more days.” 

You turned to the table behind you, taking a deep breath to regulate yourself, looking anywhere but at the disappointment on the face of the man behind you. When you turned to him again, his arms were crossed over his chest, and he was eyeing you quizzically, as if trying to figure out your deepest secret. A few silent moments passed when you suddenly realized he was waiting for you to continue.

“I’m sorry,” you started to speak, the sound breaking in your throat in traitorous defiance to your control. You felt your shoulders droop, the fight leaving your body in place of defeat. “I’m doing the best I can.”

The energy in the room changed then. Captain Andor’s body softened, his eyes held a kindness and understanding that hadn’t been there before. He looked almost sad for you, as if he could empathize with you. And you supposed maybe he could. 

“Hey,” he said, leaning forward once more. “How much of the key have you completed?”

“Captain Andor, I sai-” He held up a hand to cut you off. 

“I was only wondering if there was enough for me to try the decryption on my own. I want to help you.”

The look on your face must have been a comical mixture of confusion and shock because the corners of his eyes crinkled and he chuckled, throwing his mask of confidence back on and leaning into an elbow. 

“Don’t look so surprised.” In any other situation, the way he grinned at you would have made you weak in the knees. “I can be a nice guy when the situation calls for it. I am a spy, afterall.”

You nodded, dumbly, grabbing the data pad and bringing up the partially completed decryption key, handing it to him. 

“So far, this is all I could make out. If you could apply what we have to the messages, maybe we can get a headstart on figuring out what it all means.” 

His brows knit together in concentration as he poured over the symbols, picking up on the pattern, analyzing your skill. He moved around to the back of the console, pulling a stool up beside you and got to work. As you focused on a special project for General Draven, the two of you began to work in relative silence, punctuated every now and then by Captain Andor asking questions about specific sequential symbols.

It was comfortable, you thought, working with him like that. You never knew that he could be anything other than the ornery man you’ve always met, worn down by the weight of the responsibility resting on his shoulders. As if reading your mind, he spoke, pulling you out of your thoughts with a jolt. 

“You weren’t always like this,” he said. You whipped your head toward him, shooting him a glare as deadly as blaster fire. “When you first got here, I mean.”

“What exactly am I like?” You groused, setting down your data pad to face him fully. He shrugged noncommittally. 

“Stressed. Angry. Argumentative.”

You laughed, something humorless and cruel. How dare he?

“That’s rich coming from you, Captain Andor. This very well may be the first time we’ve spent more than two minutes in a room together and I haven’t wanted to rip your head off. If I’m any of those things, I am only mirroring your own temperament.”

For a long moment, he stared, his dark eyes flitting back and forth over your own, searching for… something. With a sigh, he relented. 

“You’re right.”

“I’m… what?” The fight drained from you all at once. You could tell he was sincere, and maybe even slightly remorseful. 

“You’re right. I am all of those things and I have been for a very long time. That’s why it bothers me to see them in you. I wanted better for you.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Before, you had kindness in your eyes. You believed in what we’re doing here. You knew it was something good. You had hope.” 

“I still believe in what we’re doing, I just…”

“Thought it would be easier than this? That we would have won by now? Me too.” 

He turned his attention back to his data pad and the weight of his words lay heavy between you. 

“Captain Andor, I’m so-”

“Cassian.”

“What?”

“That’s my name. ‘Captain Andor’ is so formal. You can call me Cassian.”

“Cassian Andor… it’s nice.” And it was nice. Knowing his full name made the miles of distance between you feel like feet. Made this intimidating man feel more like a tangible person. Someone you could grow to understand, maybe even like. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Go for it.”

“Why did Mothma decide to build a base on the coldest planet in the galaxy?” That earned you a chuckle, low and warm. 

“Hoth is the coldest planet in the galaxy. We’ll soon have a base there too. We’re headed there once we’re done here.”

“How convenient,” you rolled your eyes. “But you know what I mean. Is this not a better fit for the soulless many of the Empire? I swear, I can feel it leeching the happiness from my body the longer we stay here.”

“Is that what the problem is?” He looked at you, curiosity once again twisting his brow. “Where are you from?” 

“Alderaan. My father was a farmer.” 

“Was?”

“The Empire’s destruction extends far beyond Coruscant. They wanted to use our land to build a base and they were… unhappy with him when he refused. My older brother and I were able to escape, but just barely. My mother was a childhood friend of the Organas. They provided us with shelter and sent us to Mon Mothma when we refused to sit on our hands and watch the chaos unfold.” He was staring at you. Taking in every word with silent contemplation. You nervously rubbed your palms against the rough fabric of your uniformed thighs. “And yeah so anyway… Now I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.” He was quiet for a moment. “Do you think you’ll go back? When we win?”

“I like to think so. I have so much to thank the Organas for. They saved us. If it weren’t for them…” 

“I get it. I’ve been there.” You didn’t pry. You got the feeling he wasn’t particularly happy to speak of his past.

“Yeah,” you said. “It would all feel worth it if I could just see the sunshine again, feel the warmth of it on my face. Something other than constant, dreadful cold and blank walls.”

Cassian glanced back to the data pad, making note of the time. 

“Hey, we’ve been at this for a while,” he said. “It’s almost morning. You should get some rest.”

“Morning is the only time I get to see the sun shine all day. I’d just end up sleeping through it if I went to bed now.”

“I see,” he said. “I have an idea.”

He took the data pad from your hand, setting onto the console beside his and grabbing you gently by the wrist, pulling you toward the door. He grabbed your coat from a nearby stool and handed it to you. 

“You’ll need this.”

As you followed him through the hallways, your curiosity continued to grow. You stopped by his workstation so that he could grab his own coat, a long, navy parka with a furry hood. When he slipped it on, he seemed to transform into a different person. He looked soft, small in comparison to the bulk of the coat, and incredibly warm. 

He tossed a pair of gloves to you, slipping on a pair of his own, before extending his hand. Hesitantly, you grabbed it, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“Where are we going?” You asked. 

“First, we’re going to get some caf,” he pulled you toward the mezzanine impatiently, as if he was racing against an imaginary clock. “The second part is a surprise.”

“Cassian, I really don’t like surprises.” You tried to stop, to pull your hand from his, but he held tight. He turned, placing a cup of caf in your free hand and you could have cried from the warmth as it slowly seeped through your glove.

“You’ll like this one,” he said, a smile threatening to crack at the corners of his mouth. He tugged your joined hands again, impatiently, leading you toward the exit. 

“Please, Cassian, it’s freezing.” You were whining, you knew it, but you were already so cold and the thought of going outside, into the frosted darkness of Tokmia, was enough to make you want to throw a full-blown tantrum. 

He said nothing as he led you through the forest, making his way to a steep hill and motioning for you to walk ahead of him. You glared at him once more for dramatic effect, huffing as you made your way up the steep embankment. When you reached the top, you stopped short, gasping in surprise. 

The hill overlooked a pristine snow field, sparkling in the waning moonlight, breathtakingly beautiful in its serenity. You turned to face Cassian, huffing slightly as he crested the hill. He offered up a shy smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked toward you. 

“It’s nice, right?” He took a sip of his caf, an effort to disguise a smile, you thought. “I found it once when I needed to escape K’s blabbering. I come here when I need a reminder of what we’re fighting for.”

“It’s beautiful." Your voice was barely more than a whisper, breathless as you noticed the pinky blue light of the sunrise begin to peek through the darkness. You inhaled sharply, the sound getting caught in your throat as you realized why he had been in such a rush.

“Looks like we made it just in time,” he said, taking another sip of caf. 

You closed your eyes as the sun crested over the horizon, reveling in the way the light pushed past your eyelids. When you were younger, you caught as many Alderaanean sunrises as you could. There was some kind of magic tied to being the first person to catch sight of the sun as she rose from her slumber. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that feeling. 

You glanced at Cassian, interested to see if he was enjoying the sunrise as well and found that he was already looking at you. His smile was genuine, satisfied, and dazzling. 

Maybe he is lovely afterall, you thought. He just needed a little warmth.

[weirdbeancurd]

Yield

@yarnprism another fic :0

I am also taking requests for any of the fandoms in my bio (including ultrakill lol)!

Shotgun pellets whizzed by his head, grazing the side of his helm. In response, he threw Justice and Splendor (his beloved swords) at the machine's sliding form. If only one of them landed, he'd be able pin it to the ground, effectively immobilizing them and-

Gabriel's thoughts were interrupted by a coin launched (parried) at the speed of light, hitting him square in the face. Momentarily stunned, he drew back and was immediately tackled by a blood-sucking freight train. For something built to be quick and nimble, V1 was surprisingly heavy. He groaned when he hit the ground, helmet scraping the dirt. V1 was perched on his back, knee pressing down on Gabriel's spine, pinning him to the floor, his wings splayed out on either side. It let out a mechanical growl, causing him to roll his many eyes. Apparently it had taken the words "fight me like an animal" to heart.

The two were enjoying their time on the surface, taking the time to spar every once in a while (every day). This was the fourth time in a row that V1 won that day. Gabriel on the other hand, was getting a bit frustrated, determined to win at least one round. While he was ruminating under the machine's hold, its knee drove itself into his spine, causing a yelp. Still, he didn't want to give up just yet.

"Ack! N-no. I do not yield." V1 just growled again. He squirmed against its hold, almost managing to throw it off balance, but it grabbed his side with the knuckleblaster to steady itself. He jumped like he was electrocuted.

"AAH! R-release me, machine! You will not-" V1 tuned the rest of his words out. It had an idea: a devious one. Gabriel was about to regret his stubbornness.

It used an arm to pin a flailing wing to the ground, gently but firmly. Gabriel froze.

"Machine? What are you-hey!" V1 grabbed one of Gabriel's arms and pinned it behind his back using its knee. He spun his neck around to glare at V1. His heart dropped when he saw two free hands wiggling their fingers towards him. 

"Wait! I-uh." The machine cocked its head as if asking "do you yield?" Oh absolutely not. It's not like a little bit of tickling was going to defeat him, he was the righteous hand of- 

Apparently he took too long to answer, because V1 started tracing patterns on his exposed sides. He cursed his armor for being so revealing.

He would deny the sweet giggles that spilled from his mouth (the judge of hell does not giggle) until the heat death of the universe. He grasped at the foliage beneath him to keep his composure, or at least what was left of it. That was unacceptable to V1; if Gabriel wanted to be stubborn, then he would have to beg for mercy. It reached a hand back and vigorously squeezed at his thigh. 

"Snrk-nahAHA! Nohohoho!" He hated the sound of his laughter, but hated losing even more. And so, he held strong. Or at least tried to. It became really difficult when V1 started clawing at the small of his back. 

Gabriel produced peals of laughter, kicking out his legs behind him. The tickling suddenly stopped, making him glance back at the machine. It signed with its free pair of hands. Yield? It asked. He shook his head adamantly. V1 flicked his helmet just to rile him up before it leaned over, fluttering its fingers on his neck. Gabriel squeaked like a mouse.

“Stahahap thihis foolishness! I wohohn’t give ihihin!” He growled through cackles. 

To V1, that sounded like a challenge. And boy, did V1 like challenges. It paused to figure out what spot to target next, but not before flicking his helmet once more for good measure. Gabriel made a frustrated sound. Ignoring him, its optic wandered over his back and settled at the base of his wings. They had smaller feathers, soft and wispy. For no other reason than wanting to touch them, V1 sunk its fingers into the downy fluff. It had to dodge a wing to the face when Gabriel screamed. Jackpot.

"..."

Time stood still for Gabriel, anticipating his most ticklish spot being relentlessly exploited. However, nothing happened.

"..."

"...Uh, are you- WAH! FUHUHUHUHUCK!" 

Oh, that sneaky bastard. V1 had waited until he let his guard down before scribbling deviously at the sensitive patch of skin guarded by feathers. His wings shot out, extending fully out of pure instinct, flapping under V1's hold. It felt like his nerves were being assaulted with hundreds of tiny shocks, leaving him in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Scratch that, he was practically screaming at this point. 

Uselessly, he pounded his fist on the ground to hold out a little longer, but the tickling seemed to be sapping his strength. By the time he tapped out, tears were forming at the corners of his eyes. 

"OKAHAY OKAY! I GIHIHIHIVE! MERCY PLEHEHEA-" 

The torturous fingers drew back immediately, ending their reign of terror. Gabriel found himself wheezy, despite not needing to breathe. His wings shivered from lingering sensations. He felt a weight lift from off his back, but was too tired to flip over once V1 got off of him.

The machine crouched down near his head, lightly tapping his helmet as if asking if he was alright. 

"Ihihim fine. But mark my words, machihine. I will claim victory one day." Though, that day was not today. Gabriel felt as if his bones were jelly, his armor being the only thing giving him form. He yawned.

"...That day will have to wait."

He took V1's extended hand and pulled himself up. After taking the short walk to the base they called home, he settled on their makeshift couch. V1 insisted on curling up beside him like a cat, to which he reluctantly allowed. Gabriel smiled as he drifted to sleep, encompassing them both in his wings. When he woke, he was the most rested he'd felt in ages.

[applejuiceism]

applejuiceism talks about her mime ocs that only she cares about cuz theyre trapped in her brain and not talked about like, anywhere else

huge chunks of text warning ... i only go over POP, SNAP PEA, COPYCAT and BIP

POP is the first mime oc i ever made, based around 80s glamrock fashion and general 'glam' motifs. they (they/any) are extremely energetic and outgoing, willing to spark up conversation with anyone, even the most awkward and antisocial people. somebody could silently stare at them, or be clearly uninterested, and they'd still yap away non-stop. this extroverted-ness is a blessing and a curse however, because they tend to not pick up on social cues that indicate the person is uncomfortable; therefore, they have a tendency to overwhelm folks by trying to push them into talking, without meaning to!! their true color is a PASTEL GREEN, which they're ashamed of, and actively hide by pretending their true color is a hot neon pink. the only traces of their true color is in their eyes, tongue and hemolyph. they shut down and their personality takes a 180 when it's pointed out to them; it's a huge topic of insecurity.

SNAP PEA is sort of the second one i ever made? based around cows. he's (he/him) friendly and understanding, willing to be a shoulder to cry on for anyone who needs it. he tends to be a little awkward sometimes, not at all blessed with natural charisma, but he tries his best either way. when you're around him, you're bound to likely enjoy your time—even if theres moments of silence because he doesn't know what to say. unlike most mimes, SNAP PEA is VERY living-oriented. he is basically the biggest advocator for their safety, and he makes that very known. with his dangerously high levels of strength and durability, he easily wipes out any mime who is deemed hostile towards the living. his mime kill-streak is ... pretty high. he doesn't actively seek out mimes to snuff out, but if one happens to cross his path and isn't apart of Light's Cooperative or is otherwise 'safe', they will not be around long. despite all of this, he's still a good guy (objectively), and a great leader when he's allowed to be. also he's HARVEST GOLD.

COPYCAT is sort of unknown lol. i forgot when exactly i made her in order. she's (she/her or any) rude and mean, often spitting out random insults just to give you a taste of her annoyance. it's not very hard to aggravate her, and while she won't physically attack you (she can't, really, her hemolyph is too low for the risk), she will indeed call you a plethora of names and give you the dirtiest looks. ignoring all of this, she's not 24/7 bitchy, and more often than not she's simply snappy. no matter who she's with, she tends to talk their head off; going down rabbit holes of random topics until she's either decided she's had enough, or you're clearly not interested. she, obviously, prefers to be around people who are willing to listen to her. her opinions are very strong as a front, but it's easy to wilt her feelings and make her question herself. she LOVES the living; wishing she was one of them rather than a mime. as a mime herself in general, she is a copycat of one of the living cast, and as a result she has a lot of moral dilemmas surrounding it. but that's a whole can of worms in of itself. she's WINE RED.

BIP is one of the most recent mime ocs i have. he (he/him) is literally the worst guy ever. wish i was joking. he is hated by almost every single one of my ocs, both living and mimes, with the exception of just roughly three (mind you, i have like 10+ ocs in cq). and it's for a good reason—aforementioned, he is awful. he likes to piss people off to a degree of purposefully overstimulating them, and often will make them so upset they want to harm him. which never works. he's physically strong, and sometimes he uses them 'initiating it' to kick someone's shit in for fun. the only mimes who like him are his wife DAME (she/they), his 'friend' PRAIRIE (she/her), and his sister DOROTHY (xe/xem). it's all mostly tolerance, besides his wife, whom loves him as much as he loves her. they're inseparable. anyway; BIP is incredibly hard to be around, and likes making people suffer, so there's no use in trying to talk sense into him. people have tried. he is PASTEL PURPLE.

thanks for coming