#this race didn’t serve in the slightest

[codfanficedits]

Christmas - Full version.

Pairing: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x Reader, John Price x Reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader!

Summary: The boys during Christmas :)

Wordcount: 11,304 | Rating: E! (18+ only!)

Warnings: A little bit hinting to NSFW, I think? A lot of fluff :)

A/N: Merry Christmas (:

Kyle:

Kyle and you had been childhood friends, and eventually you moved to lovers, only to be downgraded to friends again, when he moved away to join the army. And those last years have been.. hectic, you joined the army yourself and Kyle had made it very clear he didn’t want to serve with you, so things had been awkward, on paper you were just friends. Kyle would always come back to you, during easter, during spring break, summer vacations, he would always know where to find you, only to never admit his actual feelings towards you. And you had gotten used to it, so much actually that you didn’t bat an eye when he was at your door for Christmas and you had used it to sweet talk him into making a snowman with you.

A frustrated growl leaves his lips as he adjusts his scarf against the cold. Kyle always tried to play that hardened soldier, just like he had been taught. But he may be grumpy, but his heart is in the right place—he'll help you build your snowman.

With is a slight spring in your step as you finally convinced him to build that snowman with you. Your hair sways with every step as you drag him along with you to the open field.

The cold air numbs your face, but you don't care in the slightest. You turn around to face Kyle, your eyes sparkling as you see him. Your hand reaches out to tug on his scarf, making sure it keeps him warm enough. "Can't have you catching a cold." You whispered, before you kissed his nose, with a quick spin you face the open field, ready to build your snowman.

Kyle's jaw stiffens at your playful touch, your kiss sending a shiver down his spine despite the cold. He mutters an irritable retort, but the heat rushing to his cheeks proves otherwise. You make him so soft—so vulnerable and so damn happy.

He shakes his head slightly in annoyance, then turns his gaze ahead. Just focus on the snowman, he thinks to himself. Don't let them see how much you're enjoying this.

Your hands are cold when you has finally rolled enough snow for the lower abdomen, but it’s okay. Simple, soft things like this make you forget about the world, about being a soldier, about pain, and you wouldn't trade it for the world. You can see him watch you, an annoyed look on his face, half of it being tucked away in the scarf. But you know he would've left already if he truly hated it. You tried to lift the ball of snow for the middle section, so you can put it on the lower section. But you aren’t strong enough. So you shoots Kyle a pleading look. "Can you help me, please?"

His heart squeezes at the look in your eyes — how could he say no? And, if he's being totally honest with himself, he likes you being dependent on him for a change.

So he leans down and effortlessly lifts the section of the snowman, putting it on top of the lower abdomen. "There." He says in a firm, quiet tone — which isn't quite as firm as it's supposed to be, given his heart racing and cheeks blooming to pink. He straightens up, avoiding your eyes.

You watch in awe as he effortlessly lifts up the section you couldn't carry. The same spring in your step as you scoop up the snow for the head, packing it until it is big enough. With a lot of effort you manage to put it on top of the other sections yourself. And you take a step back, hands on your hips as you admired your work.

You take a carrot out of your pocket, sticking it in the middle of the snowman’s face to give it a nose. You take two rocks out of your other pocket, to give it two eyes. And finally you take off your scarf, the cold wind hitting your bare neck as you put the scarf around the snowman.

"Done." You exclaimed happily

His gaze remains on the ground as you complete the snowman, his heart thrumming in his ears. But he can feel your eyes on him, and he knows you want to see his reaction.

Finally, he glances up.

The snowman is goofy and imperfect — just like every other snowman. Yet the sight of it melts his heart and makes his mind turn into a fuzzy puddle of admiration for you.

He's too overwhelmed to speak, so he settles for a soft grunt. "He's...he's perfect."

The spring in your step stays as you walks over to him. "A work of art." You chuckled.

"Couldn't have done it without you, Kyle. I owe you one." You said as you looked up at him.

Your hands are freezing and a mischievous twinkle forms in your eyes. "I'm so sorry for what I am about to do." You giggled as you hugged him, your cold hands sliding under his shirt on to his warm back.

“Jezus!”

He stiffens at the touch of your freezing hands, his shirt rippling with goosebumps. Yet, he finds his body moulding to yours, reluctant to let go of this moment — reluctant to let go of this warmth.

There is a fire in his belly as his heart thunders. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the nape of your neck; breathing in your scent, feeling your heartbeat against his chest. He hates this. He loves this. He is torn in two.

"I said sorry on forehand!" You defend yourself with a laugh as he buries his face in your neck. It was a cheap trick but you were happy that you did it. Your hands move higher up his back, needing the touch of his warm skin once more.

A groan escapes his lips when your hands move up his back, and his embrace tightens.

"I swear to god. You're gonna kill me." This is torture. But the way you tease him, the way you look at him — it drives him wild.

He hates it.

He loves it.

But he doesn't want to admit it.

A quick kiss on his cheek as you pull your hand away from his body, slipping out from under his shirt. There is a big smile on your face, dimples forming on your cheeks.

"Thank you." You murmured. "Let’s go inside before I have to warm my hands again."

His face is hot, his body buzzing with the aftershock of the rush. He hates feeling so weak, so vulnerable, in your presence. But he follows silently. Reluctantly. He is always reluctant to leave the warmth of your touch.

“Why do I put up with you?" He groans. But his voice is teasing — an admittance of defeat and attraction.

You have his sleeve in your hand, leading the two of you back to the house. "Because I make a good snowman and a killer hot chocolate." You answer his question before you stick out your tongue.

Once you’re inside you take off your jacket before you turn to Kyle, there is a soft smile when you take his scarf off, that same soft smile stays when you slowly pulls down the zipper on his jacket.

He watches you with amusement — his expression softening at your teasing. Yet, his body still tenses when you touch his skin.

His heartbeat quickens when you peel away his jacket, your fingers grazing over his muscular body. He grits his teeth. How is it possible he still feels like a blushing teen?

This is torture, he thinks. I love it.

Your touch is sweet and soft when you help him out of his jacket. You knows he isn't gentle to himself, so you make sure to be it for him. Your hand cups his cheek, your thumb running across the skin as you smile again.

You have to stand on your toes to kiss him, and your kiss is sweet and soft.

A soft chuckle leaves your lips as you pull back and disappeared into the kitchen to make that hot chocolate

A low groan escapes his lips when your soft lips brush against his. His hand reaches out to cradle the back of your head — to pull your body closer, pressing you against the wall.

Yet, as he looks down at you, his muscles go tense and he releases his grip. You deserve better. Someone kinder, sweeter. Not a monster who can't keep his own life in check. Your adorable chuckle fills the room as you scurry away, and the warmth in Kyle's heart is overwhelming.

He wants to kiss you.

And he hates that he wants to kiss you.

You know. You know his internal struggle, the fight he has with himself. How he wants you, but doesn't feel like he deserves you. So you’ve been dancing around each other for years now. He pulls you in, shuts you out. And the same thing repeats itself.

But you can't fight this battle for him. It’s his to do. The only thing You can do is be there for him, and remind him that you are waiting for him.

A soft hum escaped you when you stir the milk on the furnace, patiently waiting until you can add the chocolate

A part of him desperately wants you to win this stupid game. To tear him apart, destroy his walls. But how dare you make him crave it so much?

So, for now, he allows you this game of cat and mouse.

He leans against the wall, his eyes on your back as he takes in the familiar curve of your body. There is nothing he wants more than to pin you up against the wall and bury his lips in your soft, inviting neck.

...maybe just one taste would suffice.

You can feel his burning gaze on you, you knows that look all too well, the love, the longing. Not that he ever acts on it though, no God forbid the great Kyle Garrick would succumb to human urges.

You keeps on stirring the milk, waiting for it to boil, it takes long, you can't put it on a high heat, but you are patient, just like you are patient with him. But who said you can’t have a little fun? Your head tilts to the side, the soft skin exposed, just for him to see.

His jaw stiffens as he takes in the beautiful sight. And damn it all, you know it gets to him. You know how much it drives him wild.

But he wants you to keep going — keep teasing him with soft touches, cute giggles, and that damn seductive skin. He closes his eyes, breathing in your scent like a starving man. What would you taste like? He wonders.

His eyes flicker open and he looks back down at the floor. You're playing dangerous games,

Another soft hum leaves your lips as the milk starts to boil, and you add the chocolate, while you keep stirring. You knows how hard he is struggling behind you, how hard he is fighting to accept the love you both crave so much.

Your gaze shifts to the snowman you had built, and a soft smile tugs around your lips.

He watches with a soft smile as your eyes move to the snowman. He still wants to kiss your neck. I mean, who wouldn't want to kiss someone's neck? Especially someone with such silky-smooth skin.

Oh, you. If only he was strong enough to make his desires come into reality. Then he could finally taste your neck, your lips, your hair...your everything.

What would you taste like?

...he catches himself thinking about the flavour of your lips. Is it bad that he'd really like to find out? But he knows how you taste, he has tasted you before. Yet he seems to have forgotten the taste, desperately craving it again.

It feels as if you are on display with the way he looks at your every move. But he is the only one who you allowed to look at your like that. Any other man would've received a scolding of their lifetime.

You transfer the hot chocolate to two mugs and top it off with some whipped cream.

You turn around to face him, your eyes shifting from the hot chocolate towards him, a silent invite for him to come closer and pick that mug up.

His breath catches in his throat at your silent invitation. He takes one step closer, but no more than that. His body is burning with longing, but he has to show restraint. Otherwise he would lose himself in your eyes, your skin, your lips — and he'd never recover.

He grabs his mug of hot chocolate with trembling fingers as he stares at the steaming liquid. He is not allowed to look up at you. Not allowed to speak. Not allowed to touch you.

He's not allowed anything but to exist.

You watch him, like he had watched you.

Your eyes are on him as you take the first sip of your hot chocolate, and it tastes pretty damn good. A smile as you sees him take a sip, closing his eyes as he savours the taste, a soft chuckle from you as he gets some whipped cream on his nose.

You take the mug from his hands, placing it on the counter, before you use your thumb to wipe away the whipped cream.

It’s your turn to be surprised when he takes your wrist and gently licks the whipped cream of your thumb

A low growl escapes his lips as he licks your thumb — his tongue moving around like it's searching, desperate, needful.

And oh, it reminds him of the taste of your neck, the softness of your mouth. He is utterly addicted to your taste. God.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, resisting the urge to lean in to bite your neck.

"Sorry about that."

The air between you is thick with desire, and the tension is almost tangible.

You had never felt something like that before, and you wanted more. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you watched him.

"Kyle." You croaked as you gripped the counter to keep your touch on reality. "I'll go fucking insane if you don't kiss me."

His heart is racing from the sheer rush of your words. There is a fire in his gaze as he studies your features.

He wants to kiss you. God, does he want to kiss you.

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with it.

"You... do you really want me to kiss you?"

The words are harsh, his tone sharp, but he needs to know that you truly want him. Otherwise he could never justify what he's about to do. He can’t dance around you any longer.

You don’t mind the sharp tone. You were used to it by now, your years long dance around each other.

God all you wanted was a kiss, all you wanted was his love. All you wanted was him. With all his flaws, with all quirks, all of him. "Love me." You whispered

His body tenses at your words — a sharp pain piercing his heart.

All he wants is to be loved. But he wasn't taught to let someone in. To be happy. He was never allowed to be weak. But that's all he is now. Weak. For your love, for your kindness, your touch... And he hates being weak.

Your whisper breaks his heart, but he can't deny what he feels. He wants it. He wants you.

"I love you. More than anything."

Your hands reach out for his, pulling him closer to your, so he towers over you.

"I love you too, Kyle." You answered. "I've loved you since the beginning."

"And whatever your mind tells you, you're not weak for loving me."

Those words are like water in the desert for Kyle's parched heart. He takes a deep breath as he gazes into your eyes. He loves you. Even when you're a cheeky little devil, even when you're driving him crazy, even when he thinks he is doomed to a lonely existence.

You're it for him. You. You're it for him.

His body shakes with need. He is going to finally put this years-long dance to an end.

He leans in and kisses your lips with an almost violent passion.

Your hands find their way to his neck, as if you want to keep him there forever.

He had finally given in and you couldn't be happier. But you had to pull back, you had to breathe, but you smile when you see his face.

"I fucking love you, Kyle."

He smiles down at you, his body buzzing as his hands gently cup your face. There is still a hint of restraint — as if he doesn't want to scare your away by being too much, too quick.

But there is no restraining the heat he feels when he looks into your eyes. "I love you."

He kisses you again, the hunger of years finally being sated. This is better than anything he could have imagined.

He holds you tighter, needing you like he needs air to breathe. His very soul is aching. Simon had been wrong. Simon had taught him that love and friendship shouldn’t be in the field manual. But love never felt better.

Simon:

He used to hate the holidays, but by the Gods did that change when he met you. You felt like a gift from the heavens above, slowly introducing him to the warmth that could be, and for the first time since years, did Simon start to love the holidays.

Unfortunately, does the army wait for no one. And right before he was supposed to be home, he got sent on a mission again, leaving him without a way to communicate with you.

Luckely for him, it was a short, easy mission, leaving him with some spare time to buy you something before he got back. He always adored giving you things. A little way of marking you as his, making it known to others that you were off the market.

He was a little too eager when he swung open the door of your house, kicking off his boots almost immediately.

"Hi, lovie," he mumbled exhausted. One of his hands slipped into his pocket, pulling out a small, black box. "Early present for you."

You had not expected him to be home again, you was more worried that he was killed in action, and there he was, exhausted as could be, but alive.

"Oh lovie." You sighed as you hugged him tight, burying your face in the crook of his neck, a content sigh leaving your lips.

You pulled back to look at him, a smile on your face, your hair tickling his arm. You took the little box from him, opening it eagerly.

"Simon!" You had been eyeing this ankle bracelet for a while, and he must've known it. "This must've costed you a fortune!" You exclaimed, seeing it had this initial on it, a little S dangling off it.

He hugged back with a groan, wrapping his arms around your tightly. The love he felt for his person was unmatched by anyone or anything. No matter how hard things got, these rare moments of comfort made his entire being come back to life and feel like things were going to be okay. You made his heart race in ways you'd never know.

"I'm here." He whispered in your ear, a low sigh escaping his lips before he kissed your forehead. He was relieved you wasn't annoyed with his sudden, early return. “It didn’t cost a fortune.” He groaned. “It will look nice when your ankles rest on my shoulders.” He chuckled.

"I'm so glad you are." You murmured softly when he kissed your forehead. "I was so worried something had happened."

You pressed a kiss on his cheek. "Do you want to stay in for Christmas? Or do you want to go to a dinner party or something?" You knew how much he valued his time, so you would gladly give him the choice.

Another low sigh escaped his lips as you kissed his cheek, his tired body leaning into the light affection you gave him. He let his eyes close for a moment but opened them when you asked a question.

He considered the options. "I'm pretty tired, honestly," he mumbled, leaning his head against yours. He wanted nothing more than to simply feel your presence by him.

"Then we're staying at home." You smiled. "I haven't seen you in a few months. And I would rather be with you than anywhere else."

"I can run you a bath, when it is Christmas I'll make some dinner." You mused. "Sounds like a good plan to me."

That was his ideal Christmas holiday. Spend it comfortably with his partner. No parties, no socializing with people you didn't know.

"That's perfect," he mumbled. A bath would feel great right now; his bones felt like they were going to break as soon as he let his guard down. "You can spoil me for the day," he said, his face lighting up now that he knew you’d be staying home.

"You would like that, wouldn't you." You teased him. You gave him a playful slap on his ass. "Let’s get your stinky ass in a bath." You grinned, as you kissed his cheek again.

You walked in front of him, placing the ankle bracelet on your nightstand before you went to the bathroom with him, it was a gorgeous gift, and you loved how he paid attention to what you wanted.

Simon laughed softly when you gave his ass that playful slap, his muscles clenching from the unexpected touch. It might not seem like much to others, but those little acts of affection were everything to him.

He followed behind, his steps slower than usual. Exhaustion weighed down his body, making him feel almost drunk. His muscles ached in the worst way possible. However, the bath was everything he needed to fix that.

"I hate to ask...can you help me wash?" He couldn't help but ask, the weariness showing itself in his voice.

You loved it, and he wouldn't know how happy it was making you, Simon always wanted to care for you, for others.

"Of course, lovie." You said with a smile, as you helped him undress.

You could see how tired he was, exhaustion from being a soldier oozing out of him. He leaned on you, and you knew this was all he needed.

It was almost ironic how he, a man of his physique and stature, was relying on his partner to help him with a simple, everyday task. It was almost funny how he was acting so pitiful; the man who usually carried the team's equipment was now having his clothes stripped from him.

Still, the simple act of you helping him made him feel closer to you and made him feel taken care of. It almost put tears in his eyes, but he was too tired to display such emotion. All he could do was lean against you and simply let you do your thing.

You didn't mind, not at all, you had leaned on him plenty of times, and you loved that you could return the favour.

You rinsed him first under the shower, getting rid of most of the dirt and grime, before you guided him to the bathtub. You let it fill up with warm water, before you leaned in to kiss him, helping him step into the water.

"There ya go."

Simon sighed contently as he felt the warm water against his skin, his muscles no longer hurting quite as badly as they were. The stress and tension just melted away. He let his eyes close again, leaning against you. You were doing him such an act of kindness. He hadn't been this relaxed in so long, the last few months being nothing but an endurance test.

"I could kiss you so many times right now," he mumbled with fatigue, his voice raspy and low from disuse.

"You're too tired to kiss me." You teased him. You took some shampoo, your shampoo, the nice, expensive one, and you lathered it in your hands. You took place behind him, softly massaging his scalp with the shampoo.

"I'm too tired to function right now," he groaned. Still, that didn't stop his body from reacting to your touch. Your hands felt like they were melting away all of the tension in his muscles, the scent of the shampoo being a bonus.

It wasn't long before his eyes closed and his breathing slowed, the last few drops of adrenaline leaving his body as he relaxed completely. It always baffled him how you made things so easy and simple, taking care of him and making his life better than it had ever been.

You used the shower head to rinse out the shampoo from his hair.

After that, you used your bodywash to lather your hands again, softly massaging his shoulders with the soap. Any other day you would’ve joined him, teased him in the bath until he dragged you to the bedroom. But you could see he was too tired, too exhausted and he needed a break.

"I love you." You whispered softly.

Simon let out a relaxing moan when you massaged his shoulders, the tension leaving his body more with each slow touch. He almost couldn't believe he was still on earth. Things were going too perfectly.

"I love you too," he murmured, and that was the truth. It was no longer butterflies in his stomach when he was by your side. Now it was warmth, security, and a sense of overwhelming belongingness.

It had been the same for you. You didn't get butterflies when you saw him, unless he was all dressed up, or bone naked, but he made you feel at home, he made you feel like you belonged in the world.

You work your thumbs into the tired muscles of your lover.

"Nearly done, my love." You murmured softly. "I'll dry you off once we're done."

Your touch felt like a comforting, calming blanket being draped over him. Every ounce of stress and tension was releasing. It was like being back in your arms after a long day, his body getting the much needed attention it deserved. He was already ready to nap once this was over.

"Thank you..." He mumbled, feeling like he should be doing more in this relationship, rather than simply accepting your care and love. Oh but he was doing so much more than he gave himself credit for. He loved you unconditionally and that was the best thing he could do.

You emptied the bath, helping him getting out of the tub, after that you took the fluffiest towel you could find, slowly drying him off.

"Let’s get you to bed, Si."

Simon smiled and closed his eyes again, appreciating how the towel felt against him. It was so soft and warm. Like a hug.

"I'm not being too demanding, am I?" He mumbled softly. The last thing he wanted to do was be a handful to take care of. But with how exhausted he was, it was hard not to melt into the towel and simply relax.

"Demanding?" You repeated. "You're anything but demanding."

A soft kiss is pressed on his chest. "I would do anything for you. This is nothing." You reassured him.

You took his hand, guiding him and his naked body to your bedroom.

You took off your jeans and socks before you got into bed yourself, and before you could say or do anything he was between your legs, his arms around your waist, his head resting on your lap.

Simon's mind went fuzzy at your reassurance and affection. Was he really this loved? Could he have done anything worthy of such unwavering devotion?

He was the one who should have been doing more for you, not the other way around. Yet you still took care of him, took care of everything. Even when he was acting so pitiful and incapable of doing the simplest tasks.

His body reacted appropriately to your warmth; his arms wrapped around your, his muscles tightening as he clung to you.

You took your book from the nightstand, running your free hand through his hair as you let out a content sigh. He was home, and that was all you could ask for.

“What are you reading?” Simon muttered softly, while he tried to keep his eyes open. “Haunting Adeline, it is quite good.”

Simon perks up. “Are you out of your mi-“ He chuckles when he sees a different cover and he let’s himself sink into your lap again. “I nearly went off on you, you idiot.” He scolded you, lovingly of course.

“How do you even know it?” You muse, your hand running through his hair again.

Simon closes his eyes once more. “Soap bought it to impress a woman he had been dating. The idiot read it out loud to us, before we would go to sleep. He tossed it out really quick when we realised it was glorifying sexual assault and Zade was nothing more than a rapist.”

“Soap did good with that one.” You chuckle. “Tried to read it, had to put it down because I was so disturbed.”

“Hmm.” Simon mumbles as he feels the sleep wash over him. “Tonight I want you to read for me.”

"Merry early Christmas, lovie." You whispered, not sure if he would hear you. "Couldn't wish for a better gift."

The heat of your body was so blissful. The comfort that came from just lying with you was unlike any other experience Simon had ever had. When you were close like this, in a bed, he had no urge to protect his surroundings. He was at ease, his heart beating slower from the sheer joy he felt.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered back, drifting into the most restful sleep he's had in months.

John:

You don’t really know how it had happened, but it just happened. Instead of two eggs, you used four, you know, so then the carton would be empty, John would be bringing home new eggs anyway. And all you had to do was add double flour, extra butter, and a whole lot of chocolate chips, and somehow you ended up with sixty-six cookies. Well, sixty-five, since you had to taste one. You triple check the recipe you used, and sure, after you’ve read the author’s life story, it says clearly that is a recipe for just fifteen cookies, and you’re still not sure how you ended up with sixty-five after doubling your ingredients.

You look at your countertops, it’s filled with baking sheets full of cookies. Which wouldn’t be such a hassle, if the cookies would be the only thing you had baked. On your right are countertops filled with chocolate cupcakes, topped off with a buttercream of vanilla and some chopped up walnuts, and to your left there were blueberry muffins with a cream cheese drizzle. Your eyes shift to the clock, knowing that John will be home soon, and you let out a sigh. Who would let a stressed out person who likes to bake loose in a kitchen anyway?

Your hand reaches for your phone and you look up the number for the homeless shelter not too far away. You and John had donated to them a few times before, and what would be a better use for all these sweets that you had baked?

The lady who answers the phone is a little weary at first, and you can’t blame her, how many people treat the homeless shelter as their personal dumpster, dropping off spoiled food, dropping off food laced with who knows what. She asks you to identify yourself when you drop the goods, and you have to sign a weaver. It all sounds fair to you. Just as you end the call, you can hear the front door slam close.

John

With a loud groan he enters the kitchen, his eyes lighting up when he sees all those bakes goods. Was that the reason your shopping list was so long?

"Sweet baby Jezus." He complains, setting the heavy bags down on the counter. “Is this just for me?” He teases as he reaches out to the cookies. “Hey!” He protests when you swat his hand away. His joyful attitude wiped away the peace and quiet you had yourself surrounded in.

Your eyes flickered between the cookies, and the cupcakes you had been baking. "Maybe I did go a little overboard." You giggled. "A little?" he chuckles as he catches sight of the mountain of baked goods. All of that looks like it had to have taken you ages to make! He has to wonder who could eat that many sweets. Maybe he could help you get rid of them.

His arms snake around your waist and he presses a kiss on your forehead. “What’s on your mind, love?” Your shoulders slump at his question. “Just a little stress.” You mumble at his question. John doesn’t buy it. “You’ve been baking enough to feed a whole army, something is bothering you.”

“Just a little nervous to see my mom again.” You mutter eventually, there would be no use in hiding this from him anyway. John chuckled softly at your words. “Is she nagging about grandkids again?”

“Mhm, while calling me fat in the same conversation.”

He kisses your forehead again, his lips lingering against your skin. “We’re not going.” You want to look up at him, but he keeps your face in place with his kiss. “What?” “I refuse to let you ruin your own Christmas because your mother can’t shut up. We’ve told her countless times that our decision on children is not up to her to intervene with.”

“Yeah but what if…” Your voice trails off, you know your mother wouldn’t take lightly to this news.

“I can talk to her.” John muses, as he looks at you. “You are the love of my life, I’ll be damned if I let your mother make you miserable, just because she refuses to go to therapy.”

You gave him a quick peck on his lips. "Thank you lovie." The idea of not seeing your mother for Christmas gave you some room to breathe, maybe a year without judgement would do you good.

His hands go to your waist again, squeezing you softly as he pulls you in closer. "You're welcome, love," he whispers softly. "You look really beautiful. More so than usual."

Your arms go around his neck, and you kiss him softly, a smile on his face when he looks at the baked goods again.

"I want to drop a few off at the homeless shelter." You whisper against his lips. "Want to help me?" You ask him.  "I'll let you eat a cupcake first."

"If I do help, am I allowed to sample one of your cupcakes beforehand?" he asks, a playful, mischievous glint in his eyes. While he jokes, he knows those cupcakes of you are to die for. Even having one before helping you deliver the rest would be enough to make this a grand day.

"Please? Just one?"

"How can I say no to you?" You chuckled softly. "I have chocolate ones, with a buttercream of vanilla and walnuts. Or blueberry with a cream cheese drizzle." You mentioned.

"Which one would you like, love?" You asked him, turning around to the cupcakes. He is completely torn over which one to choose, and the more he debates it, the harder it is for him to pick. "Do I pick the chocolate? Or the blueberry? Hmmmmmm..."

He glances back at you, unable to hide the adoration in his eyes. "You know what? I like surprises. Surprise me." And to really make you work for it, he kisses you again, stealing one last taste before it's time to choose.

Your eyes light up and you grin. "Close your eyes!" You order him. He closes his eyes as you say, eager to see if he can guess which is which without seeing.

You take a chocolate cupcake, the blueberry cupcake and your cinnamon sugar cookie.

You smile as he closes his eyes, and you can't help but kiss him. You place a small piece of the blueberry cupcake in his mouth. "Guess which one this is."

Once it's in his mouth, it's clear that it is most definitely the blueberry cupcake. There's no mistaking that flavour of blueberry and cream cheese.

"Blueberry," he answers confidently. And he opens his eyes to see you grinning triumphantly.

"Correct." You chuckled, before you placed a piece of her cinnamon sugar cookie between his lips. "Guess again!" You giggled before you pressed a kiss on his jawline. "If you guess all three right." You whispered in his ear. "I'll go on top tonight."

"Cinnamon sugar? It has to be that delicious cookie. But if I'm wrong, then I'll never hear the end of it." And he takes a bite, revelling at the sweetness of the dough. "This is absolutely incredible," he smiles.

At what you mention next, his eyes snap wide open. Not even a millisecond of hesitation passes by before an excited "YES!" crosses his lips. "Okay, the next one has to be chocolate. There's no way that's anything but chocolate."

You laugh at his enthusiasm. "There is only one flavour left and that is chocolate.” You chuckle, as you feed him the piece of chocolate cupcake. “So it seems I’ll put in the work tonight.”

"Let’s drop off these cookies and cupcakes at the homeless shelter. And when we get home, I'll show you why I should be on the nice list." You added with a soft chuckle.

"I can't wait," he whispers, leaning in for another kiss. "But first, I'll be a good boy for you."

"And I really can't emphasize how much I love you for making all of these for that shelter," he chuckles. "They deserve the best Christmas possible. And these, I can assure you, are the best." He gives you an affectionate squeeze, before grabbing your hand to head towards the door together.

"Being with you has made me realize how lucky I truly am." You smiled. "And I hope these cupcakes bring a little bit of hope to other too." You added, as you brought the cupcakes and cookies to the car. You took place in the passenger seat. "Drive carefully please." You pleaded.

"Yeah, lucky is definitely the word to describe it," he teases with a smirk. "I think it'll do more than that," he replies. He knows how big of an impact your delicious baking has had on him, and he has no doubt it will be equally as meaningful to them.

At your concern, he nods. "You know I'm not some speed racer, love," he chuckles, turning the car on and beginning your trip.

You pressed a kiss on his cheek before you puts your seatbelt on. "You're a delight." You chuckled softly. "I am so happy you were granted leave for the holidays, John."

"It has been a while since we celebrated Christmas together, and I'm looking forward to it." You add quietly.

The kiss warms his cheek, the sensation of your lips on him bringing an easy smile to his face. "You know I've missed you desperately, love," he whispers back, his attention turned to the road in front of him. "I've been counting the seconds until I had you back in my arms again. You'll never know how much I look forward to being with you on Christmas."

The smile on his face grows as the two of you ride along together. There's something heartwarming and magical about spending the season with the one you truly love.

Of course you had missed him too, more than he would ever know.

You get excited when you arrive at the shelter, and you get out of car, making sure to get to the person who you talked to on the phone. You bring them the cupcakes and cookies before, showing them your ID and signing the weaver. It doesn’t need to be bombastic, you don’t need the praise, you just want to do a little something for others.

"Let’s get back to home, love." You said, as you got in to the car again, before you pressed a kiss on his lips.

Seeing you get excited is always endearing. The way your eyes light up with joy never fails to captivate him. And your eagerness to help those in need is one of the many qualities he loves about you. He wraps an arm around your waist and gives you a comforting squeeze.

"Yes, yes. Let's go home. I can't wait to snuggle up with you again," he says with a smile. And he begins to drive home—where you both belong, where this Christmas season is meant to be spent.

You had missed him, you knew what you got yourself in to when you married a soldier, but it was hard at times. Having him home for Christmas really was a delight.

"I have a good Christmas present for you this year." You hummed content. "I'm really sure you'll like it." You watch the Christmas decorations when you pass the houses in the neighbourhood, and you adore it.

His curiosity is piqued. "I'll like it, you say?" he asks with a wry smile. "Why do I get the feeling you enjoy watching me squirm in anticipation?"

He doesn't mind the torture. In fact, he loves it. It makes the big reveal that much more special. "I have something for you, too, love," he says in turn. "I put quite a bit of thought into it." He winks as he turns the corner, heading towards the driveway.

Oh you love this, the anticipation, the giddy feeling it gives you. It had taken you a while, but you had managed to order his favourite cigars from Cuba. You had to keep it for yourself for so long now, and it made you feel like you could explode any moment.

"Come on!" You urged him as he parked the car. "I know it’s not Boxing Day yet, but i really want to give you your present."

He chuckles at the thought of your excitement.

"Alright, alright, you've won. We don't need to wait another day." With that, he helps you get out of the car. And now you both stand before the front door.

"Okay, love, you would need to wait a little more, I will have the stage first.” He smiles.

He is gentle as he drags you towards the tree. He had a whole day planned for this, but he can't wait any longer. So John goes down on one knee, holding your hand, a black velvet box in his other hand. "Would you do me the honour to renew our vows?"

The question catches you off guard, almost like a swift punch to the gut. Your mind, in the heat of the moment, flashes back through all the time you’ve spent together—all the beautiful memories you've made.

"John," you says softly, wrapping your arms around you in an embrace. "Of course I will."

With the words spoken, there's nothing he wants more than to feel your warm, loving embrace. You could be married a thousand more times, and it would never get old.

“I love you so much, and the time we have to spend apart only makes me realize it more." John whispered in to your ear. "And every day that's spent away from you is nothing but torture. I'm just glad I get to have you back this Christmas. I look forward to tonight and to the coming year."

Johnny:

He had planned it ahead, mustering up a little plan, a little prank. You had always said that you loved his playful nature. So he gathered up Price, Ghost and Gaz, dragging them along in his plan, so when you would reach out to them, they would all confirm his story.

Just the idea made him all giddy from the inside. Johnny could hardly contain himself when he finally called you, his fingers hovering over to text on the screen, your name, next to a little red heart. He almost caught himself giggling when he started to ring you, once, twice, a sudden nervous feeling, worried that you wouldn’t pick up.

But you always did, you always sprinted to your phone the moment you heard it vibrate, you would never miss the opportunity to have a conversation with him.

“Johnny!” The excitement in your voice made him smile, you picked up exactly how he had expected you to. He could already imagine you, hurrying to the couch, making yourself comfortable in the corner, grabbing the little fleece blanket to bury yourself under.

“Hiya love.” He answered, trying to keep his voice steady. But you weren’t born yesterday, you had trained yourself to pick up the littlest of verbal cues.

“Johnny? Is everything alright?” You were indeed sitting on the couch, tucked away in the corner, alone in your little bubble with him, separated, yet together. You had heard the stories, soldiers calling their partner to say a final goodbye, knowing they wouldn’t come home. Your breathing starts to quicken and you find yourself closing your eyes, trying to focus on the sounds around him, but you find it to be eerily quiet.

Johnny had to mute his phone for a second, holding back a little chuckle, it was all going according to plan. “Am fine, love, ‘m fine.” He tried to reassure you. “But I do have bad news.”

Those words were enough to make your blood run cold, to make it seem like the world had stopped spinning. You had wondered at night if being in a relationship with a soldier was something you were cut out for. Being alone most of the time, sometimes hearing nothing from him at all, for weeks at the time, being worried all the time whether or not he would make it out alive, it was slowly eating you from the inside. So you had been ecstatic when he told you he had Christmas off, the two of you had been invited to dinner parties, regular parties, to your family, to your friends, they all wanted to see him again, they wanted to see you shine again, but the feeling in your gut was telling you that would all be ripped away from you, again. Four more days until it would be Christmas eve, and he was supposed to come home tomorrow. You find the courage to swallow the lump in your throat. “What’s the bad news, Johnny?”

On the other side of the world was Johnny fucking MacTavish, a shit eating grin on his face as he looked at the ticket in his hand. “Afraid I can’t make it for Christmas, love.” And he had to pinch his thigh to make his voice sound strained. “I know you’ve been looking forward to it, but they need me here.”

You want to scream, to cry, to yell at him that you need him too, that you need him more than the army does. But you don’t, you stay silent, letting his words linger in the air of the room. You would be alone for Christmas, again.

“Love, are you alright?” Johnny had expected something from you, anything, anger, disappointment, sadness, just not silence.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Your voice is a soft murmur, barely being heard. You’re the one who disconnects the call first, your lips pressed against the screen of your phone. Your screen immediately lights up again. His name and picture showing up, as if the universe is mocking you for your decision. But you’re tired and you can’t take it anymore.

The moment the screen dies down again, it doesn’t take another second for it to light up immediately again, and again, and again.

And on the other side of the world, is Johnny, frantically pacing around, this was not supposed to happen. It was supposed to go like the movies. You had to be a little pouty for the next day, and he would be on your doorstep. You would hug him, and all would be well.

But looking at his phone going to voicemail time after time, made him sick to his stomach. He had never thought losing you would even be an option in all this. After six times of trying to call you, he finally puts down his phone. Unsure of what he had to do now, of what he could do now.

He runs a hand through his mohawk. Fuck, oh fuck. The realisation of having fucked up this bad, hitting him once again. So he goes to the one person he would trust most with this, with you. His knuckles colliding with the door of his office, Johnny didn’t even wait for approval to come in.

“Captain. I fucked up.” The words left his lips before he could even close the door behind him. Price raised an eyebrow in return. “What happened?”

“I did my thing, called, said that I wouldn’t be able to come home, and I got broken up with.” The words leave Johnny’s lips, but he is having trouble believing them himself. “Well.” Price let out a quiet chuckle. “We did warn you this would happen, didn’t we?” Johnny’s face turns into a sour expression, he had been warned, by all his teammates, but that didn’t stop him from thinking it was an amazing idea anyway. “Well, yes.” Johnny grumbled. “Can you help me solve this mess?”

How could Price not? He had always been fond of you, you brought out the best in Johnny, and that was a quality not a lot of people possessed. “Listen closely.” Price warned him, placing his cigar in his ashtray. “You’re still going home and I need you to buy a large bouquet of roses.”

“Which colour?”

Price frowned, first of all, he did not liked to be interrupted, and secondly, was this man an idiot? “Red of course, the colour of love.” Price sighed. “And if you’re lucky enough to be let in, you’re going in for a hug, and don’t let go until you’re forgiven. Unless you’re puyoud away and asked to leave, gotta respect those boundaries.”

Okay, okay, Johnny could do that. He grumbled a low thanks, before he turned around on his heels and left the office again.

You let out an annoyed groan when a loud knock startled you, it was cold, it had been snowing, and you had been in the worst mood possible. After breaking up with Johnny you had cancelled all your plans, all the invites, you just wanted to be left alone. Another groan left your lips when the person standing at the door knocked again.

His eyes remain fixed on the front door, recalling the broken promise and sorrowful words he spoke to you over the phone a few days ago. He knocks twice on the door, wishing nothing more than to be welcomed home with the warmth of your embrace. With an annoyed look on your face you swung open your door. Your eyes widening when you saw your lover, he had made it home for Christmas.

"Johnny!" All the annoyance melted away from you when you wrapped your arms around him. Seeing him again, it made all your anger fade away, the disappointment, the sadness, everything seemed to glide off you when you saw him again, the feeling of dread being replaced with butterflies.

Johnny pulls you into a tight embrace, nuzzling his head into your shoulder while squeezing with all his might. A deep sigh escapes his lips as his eyelids flutter shut, savouring the moment of your soft embrace.

"Surprise," he mumbles, squeezing tighter and pulling his love closer. He nuzzles further into your neck, his nose buried in the crook of your shoulder. You can feel the rumble of his heart racing, his body shaking in the cold. His breath against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t want to let go, worried that it isn't real, that he isn't real. But you feel the rough fabric beneath your fingertips, you can feel his skin, his stubble.

His face gets peppered with soft little kisses. "You're really back," you murmured softly. You pulled him inside the hallway, closing the door behind him.

He feels your lips on his skin, pressing soft kisses over his face, his neck, his shoulders. Johnny's hand gently massages your back as you walk back inside the hallway.

Your love is deep, intense, and overwhelming, but you never fails to make him feel at ease. Like the cold snow falling outside has thawed him out. Like her heart is a beacon in a stormy night. Johnny holds you by your waist, nuzzling his face near your ear, whispering, "Just for the holidays, sweetheart. Then I have to go back."

"I know." You sighed softly. "But I don't want to think about that just yet." You watch as he takes off his coat and you takes over the flowers. "They're beautiful." You tell him with a smile.

"I'll put them in a vase." You said as you walked towards the kitchen.

Johnny follows right behind you, his thoughts occupied by your presence, your warmth, your sweet words. When the two of you enter the kitchen he watches you fill up the vase with water and cut the stems of the flowers. A content smile crosses your face as you you’re your time with the task.

Johnny leans on the counter next to you, his thoughts drifting to your radiant smile and your captivating eyes. A warm feeling fills his chest and he pulls you closer, embracing you tightly, burying his face in your hair.

Just having him there is enough. You adores how he waits patiently until you’re done tending to the flowers. You smile as he pulls you closer. "I've missed ya." You murmured softly.

"I got really pissed when you said you couldn't come." You say. “And I’m sorry for breaking up with you on the spot, but it really, really felt like the final straw.”

"Love, I'm sorry," Johnny whispers into your ear, his hand rubbing you back. "I shouldn't have said those things, I wanted to pull a little joke and I didn’t think about any of the consequences. I miss you... all the time."

He kisses your cheek gently. "You're the light of my life. You're the heart that keeps me going. I cannot imagine this world without you." Johnny's eyes are filled with love as he looks into your eyes. He takes your hand and places it near his heart.

You smile again when he placed your hand near his heart. It is not like you can stay mad at him anyway. You gave him a quick peck on his lips. "Out of spite I cancelled all my plans." You admitted with a sheepish smile. "So it’s just going to be the two of us for the holidays."

"Perfect," Johnny replies with a cheeky grin, his hand running through your hair and brushing the loose strands from your face. John's eyes sparkle when he looks at you, the smile playing on his lips. "Is this spite, or just a sweet way for you to have me all to yourself?" he jokes. "I love being with you. I love waking up next to you, coming back to you, holding you."

John takes both your hands and pulls you closer to him, planting soft kisses all over your face.

"Maybe both, maybe neither." You chuckled softly as you let him kiss you. "Thank you for coming back." You whispered against his lips. "Maybe we can stay in tonight, watch a movie, or two?"

Johnny's heart soars at your reply, you melt him with your every word. He presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a moment and savouring the feeling of your lips lingering on his. "Of course, sweetheart. We can do anything you wish. I'm all yours."

With his thumbs Johnny caresses your cheeks, tilting your face towards his. He stares deeply into your eyes, his lips gently brushing against yours, a tender kiss that makes his heart beat faster.

Oh his sweet words, his sweet gestures, they're enough to make you putty in his hands. "Can we watch The Grinch?" You asks him, your hands finding their way to his waist.

"Pretty please?"

"I'll even put up with the Grinch for you, sweetheart." Johnny replies, his tone playful and his eyes gleaming with love. "We can watch The Grinch, Home Alone, A Christmas Story... anything you want. As long as I get to spend time with you."

Johnny slides his hands down along your waist, his thumbs rubbing gently against your skin.

He leans in to whisper in your ear. "As long as I get to hear you whisper 'pretty please', I'm happy."

You could see it in his eyes. The moment you asked him 'pretty please.' He was a goner, and you loved having your man swoon over you.

"I didn't expect you to be home." You said. "So I didn't bother with fancy dinners or anything." You admitted with a sheepish smile.

"I have some frozen pizza and some leftover Chinese and that is about it."

"Pizza? Chinese food? Are you kidding? Love, you just described the best holiday meal." Johnny replies with a laugh.

"In fact, I was about to suggest we get a pizza or something. It's been a long day and I'm starving."

Johnny takes your hand and gently pulls you closer. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's eat before we watch our favourite movie. You can lean on me while we watch, get all cozy and warm. I have a feeling you'll fall asleep in my arm."

You sticks out your tongue to him. "I will not fall asleep in your arms." You protested, knowing full well it would probably happen.

"I'll put the pizza in the oven." You said, placing your hand on his neck. "Can you get the blankets from the bedroom?"

You smiled at him. "I want to get all cozy."

A mischievous smile crosses Johnny's face when he looks at you, your hand resting on his neck. "You... you know I can't say no to you," he murmurs. He plants a kiss on your forehead and heads into the bedroom, grabbing the softest blanket in the house.

"It's the perfect night for cuddles." he says to himself as he rushes back into the kitchen, a content sigh escaping his lips. Johnny wraps the soft blanket over your shoulders, rubbing your shoulders gently as you place the pizza in the oven.

You knew Johnny had always been one for physical contact and you adored him for it. You let him massage your shoulders as you set the timer for the pizza. "We have around fifteen minutes." You said, turning around to face him. "How has deployment been, love?"

Johnny slides his hands down your arms, stopping at your elbows where he rubs gentle circles into your skin.

When you turn around he studies your face, a content smile on his lips. He breathes in deeply, savouring your scent.

"Honestly, deployment has been rough. Tough days, tough missions. Not an easy job, being so far away from you... it breaks my heart." Johnny's voice is filled with an overwhelming sense of love and appreciation for you. Your soft smile is contagious and fills his heart with joy, despite all the struggles.

You press a soft kiss on his cheek, picking up on the subtle hints that he doesn't wish to talk about it.

"Since you've been gone, the next door neighbours have gotten a new dog." You said, switching the subject to something lighter. "It’s a cute little thing."

Johnny wraps his arms around you, placing your head on his shoulder. The stress of his recent assignments starts to melt away as he feels your soft hair on his neck and the faint scent of your body wash lingering in the air.

"A cute little thing? So it's just like you? " Johnny jokes. "Was it a good boy or a good girl?"

Johnny's smile is genuine and his tone is playful as he looks at you, his fingers gently moving across your hair in an absent-minded gesture.

You know what he is doing, using the subtle weight of your head to keep him in the present, to prevent the flashbacks, and you were more than happy to help.

"It’s a puppy, of course it’s a cute little thing." You chuckled. "It’s a good girl, her name is Macy and she is a German Shepherd." You said, describing your neighbour’s dog.

"I have already offered to watch her if they ever go away for a holiday or something."

"Macy. What a cute name for a shepherd." Johnny replies with a soft smile.

He's genuinely interested in the conversation, but his eyes wander to your soft complexion. Your skin seems to glow in the light, every pore on your face radiates beauty and innocence.

"I'm just afraid Macy might just adopt me and steal my heart away from you." He teases you.

"Come on, we got a pizza and a movie to enjoy. Then it's time to show a soldier like me what it means to become a Christmas couch potato."

You laughs softly at his impatience, the timer for the pizza had still a minute left. Johnny gets another peck on his cheek from you.

"Be a doll for me and light some candles in the living room for me." You mused as you handed him the blanket that he had draped over your shoulders.

"I'll be with you once the pizza is done."

Johnny nods and heads into the living room, putting the blanket onto the sofa and placing a few candles on the coffee table. He lights the candles with a match.

Johnny sits on the sofa, patting the plushy cushions and waiting for you. He pulls you close after a few moments, laying against your shoulder.

"Come on, sweetheart. No more waiting. Food!" he says with an overexcited tone. "I'm starving."

"Oh you're so impatient for a soldier!" You scold him playfully. You put on the movie, running one hand through his hair, a slice of pizza in your other hand. "Merry Christmas, love." You whispered softly.

Your scolding doesn't stop Johnny from taking a slice of pizza from your hand and taking a big bite out of it. He savours the flavours as he watches you put the movie on the TV.

"Merry Christmas to you too, sweetheart," he replies, his voice full of appreciation and warmth. Johnny wraps his arm around you and takes a few more bites of his pizza, while enjoying his time with his partner.

He can never quite get rid of the sensation of danger and stress, but as long as he's with you... he feels safe.

"My pizza!" You tried to protest when he takes your slice, but how can you scold him when he looks so innocent? "You're lucky I love you." You tried to grumble, but you ends up laughing instead. You take a bite of your pizza. "I've missed this."

"Mine!" he replies playfully, quickly taking another bite out of your slice and chewing as loudly as he can. Johnny's voice takes on a more serious tone as he turns to you. "You're my life. I've missed you more than you can ever imagine. Seeing you again, smelling you, hearing your voice again... that is heaven." Johnny takes a deep breath, his eyes locked on your beautiful face.

"You're the best Christmas gift I could've ever asked for, sweetheart."

"I haven't seen you in months and you just have to tease me." You complained, but it was hard to stay serious when you kept smiling.

You pressed a kiss on his hair. "Having you home is the best Christmas present I could have, my love."

"You, some pizza, the Grinch. I couldn't ask for more." You add with a smile.  Johnny smiles back at you, a warm glow radiating from his face.

"Don't forget the blankets. They're an essential part of the experience. Plus, those cuddles I mentioned." Johnny jokes.

"All these months away from you have been so, so painful, my love. But now I'm home and nothing can take me away from you again."

He brushes your hair out of your face and places his hand on your chin. "We're going to do a marathon of all our favourite movies. And eat all the pizza we want."

"Oh I'm sorry for forgetting those essential parts." You teased him playfully, right before you kiss the thumb close to your lips.  "That sounds like an amazing plan."

"You better not be forgetting them again." Johnny teases back, but his eyes soften.

His lips find yours and he kisses you softly, his hands gently caressing your hips and drawing you closer. A soft groan escapes his lips and he pulls back for a moment.

"Sorry, sweetheart. You just look too attractive to ignore," he whispers in a husky tone.

Johnny smiles, rubbing your cheek and caressing your back. "I want more cuddles. Let's watch that movie."

You lets out a soft laugh, the movie had been playing for a while now, but his attention has been on you. You places your head on his shoulder, snuggling against him. "You'll get all the cuddles you want."

Johnny smiles, wrapping the blankets around the two of them and hugging you closer against his chest. He leans back and puts his hands around your waist, enjoying the feeling of your warmth against his body.

He looks at the movie on the screen for a few moments and kisses you’re on the top of your head. "I'm sorry, my love. Are you paying attention to anything other than me?” He teases you and nuzzles your head, but looks back at the screen. He's seen the movie a million times but loves watching it again and again with you.

"Are you being jealous?" You teased him, as your eyes shifted from the movie to his face. A soft kiss is placed on his lips. "You're absolutely divine, Johnny." You sighed. "I'm glad you're home."

Johnny glances at you with a teasing smile and a sparkle in his eyes. "Jealous of your attention? Me? I may or may not be."

He shifts himself a little, so he's laying down completely. "Come here, sweetheart. I want to shower you with kisses."

Johnny's eyes flicker with a hint of mischief as he draws you in closer. "I'm glad I'm home too. Being away from you breaks me, sweetheart."

You had to lay on his chest, it would be cruel not to. You kisses his jawline, your kisses trailing up to his ear, your hands going to his chest. "I love you."

Johnny's face is flush and his breath is a little unsteady as you kissed him on his throat and jaw, nuzzled against his chest now.

"I love you too, sweetheart," he says. "You're my everything."

He presses his lips against your forehead and plants soft kisses all over your hair

"I just want to love you, forever."

[silent-sanctum]

Hi! May I ask for a Stardust Crusaders Jotaro x Reader?

Where reader gets cut pretty deep and is in immense pain, what would Jotaro do?

I love your stuff btw!!

hello! And thank you for enjoying my fics! Truly appreciate it😊💌 I hope you don't mind the amount of ✨angst✨ this lil work has dear anon, and I do hope you, and the fellow readers enjoy it~

Hurts Like Hell - Jotaro x Reader

word count: 1.8k+

“Hey it’s him. That infamous delinquent”

“Hey dude, shut up! He’s gonna hear you!”

“Shit,” Jotaro cursed through his bleeding wounds. His knees wobbled by the slightest with every sprint and every corner he turned, feeling the high of adrenaline decrease with each run, but he couldn’t give in. Not now. “Shit shit shit!”

“Why do women care for an edgy bastard like him anyways? It’s not like he cares for them anyways.”

His breaths turned more ragged with excruciating effort as he neared his destination. With each hurried step, his heart raced- more out of fear than from the pain and injuries his body was still coping with. Almost there.

One more turn around the corner. And he stilled, heavily panting as his anxiety spiked at the sight before him.

Buildings that used to stand firm for god knows how long, now crumbled into large chunks of debris with few of their base foundations serving as reminders of what were used to be. The streets and pavements cracked and caved in from the colliding power of two Stands. But that was the least of his concerns.

Because in the same area was where he last saw-

“Y/N!” Jotaro yelled the loudest he could, his voice echoing throughout the emptied street. He trudged through the ground, bypassing each huge pile of debris with Star Platinum aiding him in clearing them. “Answer me!”

“Hello… Just so we’re clear, I’m not here to harass you with flowery letters or sweets. I’m just here to eat in peace, okay?”

“Why do you care?”

“Damnit Y/N,” Jotaro persisted despite his severe aching, teeth gritted as he shoved past the countless debris off his path. He grew desperate. “Damnit- Where are you?!”

Eventually, his search came to a halt. And his chest might as well have stabbed him from the way his heart froze in terror. Underneath the fallen concrete of the neighboring building, a large red pool of blood crept its way out of the pile.

No. It couldn’t be. Picking up the pace, his remaining adrenaline offered him that boost to rush over to the aforementioned site. The second he stopped before the damned debris, Star unleashed an array of punches to obliterate them.

And there you were.

Jotaro let out one quivered breath. “F-Fuck.”

“Why the fuck did you follow me woman?!”

“You think I wouldn’t start getting worried whether or not you were still okay?!”

You lay motionless on the broken pavement, a gaping cut slashed from your left shoulder down to your right hip. Beside your body was the knife his mortal enemy once held in frozen time. The same weapon that was supposed to be for Joseph if you hadn’t interfered.

It felt like it all happened in a second- your weakened self, barging into the scene to distract the enemy with your Stand, time stopping for only him and Jotaro to witness, his grin widening as he walked to you to deal the severe laceration across your body. In front of him. To make him reel with agony.

He could never forget the way he trembled with anger and horror, his breath shaking at the sight of your body sliced open at the mercy of the cruel vampire.

Jotaro dropped to his knees, immediately seeking your presence, checking for signs of life to spare him his sanity. Crimson tainted his faded green top. “Hey…” He noted your fast shallow breaths and the faint pulse on your neck. “Come on.” He carefully picked you up into his arms, gazing at your face with a silent plea for your eyes to open.  “Wake up. It’s me.”

You didn’t respond.

He quivered, panic beginning to set in. “Y/N, open your eyes goddamni-“ A cough. A violent one that caused you to stir and regain consciousness with blood leaking from the corner of your mouth. Your eyes couldn’t open as wide as it normally were, but knowing you were still alive was enough for him.

You had the audacity to put up a weakened smile as you croaked out a quiet “Jotaro…”

Hearing you call for him in this state tore something inside. “Damnit.” The delinquent gritted his teeth as he positioned his arms underneath your knees and back to lift you off the ground. Though as he got up, he let out a pained grunt, his knees giving up and sharp pain stabbing him from where his shoulder broke.

“You’re… hurt,” you whispered. “Don’t… do this.”

Jotaro ignored your words as he forced himself back on two feet with your frail body secured in his arms. Star could’ve made this easier for him, but he just had to hold you close to him. Just to make sure you were here in his grip.

“The old man’s got to be nearby.” He bolted to the opposite direction, harsh breaths escaping him as he allowed whatever energy he had left to keep going. “He’ll patch you up.”

“Jojo...” Your hushed voice sent hundreds of tremors into his racing heart. Focus! Don’t panic. “I-I’m cold.”

“Fuck.” He held you closer to him, pressing your broken body close to his and shit, your skin was cool to the touch. “Hang in there. I’m sure they���re nearby.”

“You really can’t shut up, can you?”

“Hmm… I really can’t. Why don’t you shut me up more often then?”

“You brat.”

A giggle. “You ass.” And a kiss.

With his injuries worsening and his vision wavering, Jotaro’s movements grew sluggish no matter how hard he pushed himself to move. He grunted with pain as he lost his footing, tripping over a slab of debris he failed to notice.

Though as he collided with the ground, he shielded you from the impact with Star coming out a split second to embrace you from the front. Jotaro was so close. He could feel the faint sensations of the Joestar mark approaching from a distance.

He tried to get up again, albeit slower and with added agony to his efforts. But he wasn’t immortal like DIO. Just a human who couldn’t continue leaving wounds untreated. With the attempt, he cursed as he fell onto his knees and groaned.

“Please… that’s enough.” Through strained vision, he gazed down to look at you with tears spilling from your hooded eyes. “I’m… I’m not worth… the suffering…”

“Shut up,” Jotaro said, sharp with an underlying tone of panic laced with it. “Stop talking and hang on.”

You whimpered as the delinquent made his way to a nearby wall to lean against with you pressed tight against him. “Just… don’t say anything until gramps gets here. He’s coming.”

“I… I can’t-“ You heaved and coughed frighteningly large droplets of blood onto the pavement. Jotaro didn’t know how much he could hold himself from breaking down at the sight of your immense pain. His eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Y/N?”

“It…” You sobbed, a weak hand clutching the fabric of his clothes. “I-It hurts… so fucking much Jojo.”

His breath trembled with fear, holding your head close to his broken shoulder as he held you tighter in his arms. “I know. I know it does.” Jotaro steadied you as he placed a firm kiss on the crown of your head. “But he’s coming here. And everything’s going to be okay.”

You buried your face into his shirt as tears continued to stream down your face, your shaking hands gripping his clothes.

Fuck. FUCK. “Old man!” Jotaro yelled out to the open. Angry. Frustrated. Desperate. “I know you’re near! Hurry goddamnit!” With every strangled sob ripped out of you, he could feel his chest caving in more and more with dread. “Gramps?! Pol?! Fucking anyone?!”

“Jotaro…”

His screams stopped as he looked down to you with frenzied eyes. And he wished he didn’t. You became pale, your skin colder, the blood still leaking out of your gaping cut. But even after your cries and the severity of your condition, you still had it in you to smile at him as if that would ease his turmoil.

“I’m tired…”

“No… no, no, no- You stay awake for me.” He said, lightly shaking your shoulders to stress out how much that gesture would mean for him right now. “Stay with me until others come. Okay? You hear me?”

You let out another bloody cough, the light in your eyes dimming with every second. The hold you had on his shirt loosened by a bit and your head lolled against his chest. “I… want to sleep Jojo…”

“You’re not going to sleep damnit!” He gritted out, his hands tightening from where they were holding you up. “You can do that when we get back where our wounds will be treated. So just… f-fucking just…” His voice trembled, unable to keep himself from feeling the pain of everything.

A cool palm cupped his cheek, slowly lifting his head up towards your beautiful, bloodied face. “It’s okay…” You whispered to him, your thumb grazing the tear streak running down his cheek.

Jotaro let out one shaky breath, pressing his face against the chill of your hand. He felt pathetic. Pathetic because he did everything that was almost impossible, but now… he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t heal. He couldn’t teleport. And now…

“We lost Avdol… Iggy… Kakyoin…” He muttered through his tears, wrapping his arms around you. Fuck the blood. Fuck his broken bones. “I can’t… I can’t lose you too. Not you.”

At his words, your eyes swelled with fresh tears and with a broken whimper, you uttered, “I…I want to stay here… with you.”

“Remind me that when we defeat DIO, we should frequent the beaches in Tokyo after school.” A beaming smile. “The ocean’s quite lovely, don’t you think? I want to visit it sometime, and you can come with me~”

He could feel your breathing turned faint, but he ignored it and continued to hold you close to him. He grasped the back of your head and directed it towards his shoulder. “Then stay. Because you’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” A couple more tears ran down his cheeks as he pressed his face against the side of your head. “They’re coming and... we’ll visit the ocean. Like you always wanted.”

“I… already did…” You croaked, thumbing his shining aquamarine eyes. “Every… day.”

All the strength from your limbs left as your hand dropped from his cheek. The one gripping his shirt dropping with the other. Your eyes grew heavier and the pain grow duller and duller. “Jo… Jotaro-ssi… I…”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He began to rock you back and forth in gentle motions, his gaze now distant and his deep voice cracking with every strangled sob as everything turned hopeless. “Stay with me. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

Jotaro couldn’t tell how much time has passed, but he never ceased in his swaying motions and never-ending whispers. Even when he couldn’t hear you speak. Or when you stopped moving entirely. Even when Joseph and the Speedwagon Foundation arrived to witness the scene before them.

A broken mantra of “You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay… you’ll be okay….” was all he could say.

[elliemarchetti]

Gwynriel Weeks Day 5

I know today's prompt for @gwynrielweeksofficial was domestic life, and I kind of respected that, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to write this sort of fake dating AU

Prompt: Domestic Life

Words: 1064

Azriel opened his eyes slowly, annoyed by the pale sunlight coming through the decorative curtains. He had overslept, a unique occurrence, but the worst part was that he wasn't recognizing his surroundings. The room was too small, the bed definitely not his, and the light wooden door located in the wrong place, too close to the window, beyond which voices speaking an unknown language chattered softly. Instinct told him to sit up, to make sure there was no danger, and to chase away whoever was daring to peek into his privacy, but a familiar weight on his chest and left arm glued him to the mattress, its warmth comforting for both his body and his spirit.

“Good morning,” a female voice, still drenched in sleep, murmured, and Azriel remembered everything. The mission that could have resulted in a disaster, the cover story Gwyn had invented on the spot, the kind family that had found them on the borders, his injuries, and the priestess desperate plead for help. He heard her say they were a couple of diplomats returning from Vallahan, who had been tasked with managing delicate commercial relations but had been followed by criminals who had almost killed them.

"All for a stupid necklace," she had said, probably showing the pendant whose original recipient was in Prythian, in the arms of her red-haired mate. The lesser Fae believed her, and accompanied them to their village, where Azriel could wait for his right wing to recover.

“You were lucky,” their healer, a tall, lanky creature with long straw-blond hair, had told him. “If they had hit you closer to the shoulder I wouldn’t have known how to save your ability to fly.”

Azriel had shuddered at the thought, and Gwyn had immediately approached him, placing a delicate hand on his muscular arm. She had reassured him, and caressed his face, just like a worried lover. When she had left him alone to rest, she had returned with their hosts to the living room, which also served as the kitchen, and had helped them prepare dinner. They had given her a simple dress, a little worn but still her size, and an apron to avoid getting dirty, into the large pocket of which she had immediately begun to stuff fresh herbs from the small garden in the back. She had put her hair up in a soft braid, and had laughed and joked with the little ones at home, who had the same teal eyes as her and the dark skin of the Summer Court’s inhabitants.

“I would like to have wings like your boyfriend,” the youngest had told her. “So I could beat the other kids in running races.”

She hadn’t denied that their bond was romantic, she hadn’t shown the slightest sign of discomfort at the idea, and even though Azriel knew he didn’t deserve her, he kept spying on her from the crack of the door she had left open, and had listened to her tell to the youngling that even though she didn’t have wings, she was still the fastest among her friends.

Three nights had passed since that day, and although he was starting to get better and no longer felt strong pangs of pain when he tried to stretch his shoulders, he knew he couldn’t resume the mission. Gwyn had helped him with this too, to understand where to start again, how to contain the damage, but above all she had taken care of him like no one had ever done before. She helped him bathe, and get dressed, and she even fed him the first time he got up to eat, making him blush like a lovesick puppy. During the night she had asked him if she hadn’t gone too far, her voice little louder than a breath of wind, but he had reassured her by holding her close and giving her a long kiss on the forehead. The truth was that he liked that farce, he enjoyed the illusion of being able to have a normal life with her, a peaceful existence, where there were no wars, secret missions, enemies to face openly and allies whose loyalty had to be controlled with bargains and blackmail. If someone had told him he would have this kind of thoughts a few days earlier, he would’ve laughed in the face of anyone who dared picture him so weak, but now that he had experienced what it was like to have a normal life with the priestess, he couldn’t help but wish for a little house just for them in the middle of nothing, a place that hadn’t been given to him by Rhysand and that didn’t remind him of the past, maybe a cottage he'd built with his own hands, though he wasn’t sure they knew how to make something so pure. For her, he could’ve learned. With her, perhaps he could forget the horrors of his childhood, and ennoble those bastard origins without being someone’s torturer. He was grateful to Rhysand for everything he had done for him, for saving his life and offering him food and shelter and protection, but working for him inevitably took away the daily life he longed to share with a partner. He could already imagine her walking around the house barefoot, relaxed, the smell of stew in the air and a child or two jumping around asking when dinner would be ready. For centuries, Azriel had been adamant on the issue of offspring: he had a terrible father, and he wasn’t going to be the same for an innocent creature. But with Gwyn…

“Everything okay? Are you feeling sick?” she asked, propping up on one elbow to get a better view of his face, and Azriel wondered what kept him from digging his hand into the flaming cascade of hair that had escaped from the silk tie, forming a puddle of harmless fire on his naked chest, to kiss her senseless. Decency and fairness would’ve been the right answer, but it was fear and guilt, so he just shook his head and told her he was simply hungry.

“I’ll go get you something for breakfast,” she murmured, and as if nothing had happened, as if sleeping together and being so close had been the most natural thing in the world, she got up, heading towards a kitchen that wasn’t theirs but could’ve been.

[sol-consort]

I like to headcanon that the humanity we see in ME is a humanity who worked their shit out mostly, solved most of our internal issues, and is actively trying to improve and wants to see the other species improve too. Humanity isn’t perfect of course, but we know that (which is arguably one of our strengths, knowing full well we ain’t shit, but that’s another discussion). Because of that I think humans caused a social shift in the non-humans at some point, especially within the council races ESPECIALLY in turian society.

At first the reaction is “nosy humans, mind your business” but after a while I can see some of the aliens realize that “dammit, the humans are right.” Humans are the youngest species but we have lived many lives, we know their struggles, we know their problems by heart, because we lived them too, and we don’t want to see what happened to us happen to the rest of the galaxy.

More turians start asking why it is they’re forced to serve in the military, asari start to unpack their superiority complex they didn’t know they had, salarians start to realize the long term consequences of their short term solutions. Maybe EVERYONE starts to really question why there only three/four councilors and why exactly no one else is allowed in their special club. And the humans in the background watching and cheering because YES BESTIE, START ASKING QUESTIONS!

Humans are easily misunderstood and casted aside Because of how young of a species we are. I mean we've only started recording history what 2000 years ago? That's two Asari generations.

But they forget how much we have fucked around and found out during these 2000 years. All the dumb decisions we have made, all the wars we started, all the near world endings we've evaded by a coin toss.

It never was a matter of if we accidentally lead the homosapiens to extinction, it was always a matter of when.

All the inventions that had the slightest possibility of unleashing a flesh eating bacteria or setting the atmosphere on fire were proceeded nonetheless. All the times we flew too close to the sun with no regard to the wax scorching our skin.

But. We. Persist. Like an annoying roach, we are invasive and can't help but poke our noses where we don't belong just because we are hardwired to be problem solvers. And if there are no problems left? We create some just to solve it!

We easily spot the faults in turian society because we have been through it! We have records of Rome and their great empire which crumbled beneath its own weight, we have records of military centric societies losing sight of their purposes and turning against their own civilians.

We have been through it, and it sucks and we hate it, and we wish they'd just listen to us.

Don't even get me started on the asari and how their superiority complex blinds them so much that they actually rationalised SLAVERY. Humanity's biggest shame and regret. Not only did they enslave the vorcha who can't argue with a proper case against the asari because of their limited 20 years lifespan, but they've reached the level of capitalism hell that they started selling people to work of their debts. Making excuses as if not debriving them of basic respect, food and shelter justifies trading an actual living person's soul to the highest company bidder akin to stock at a sheep market.

Their entire justice system is built on lawyers taking advantage of loopholes, birbes and blackmail. They're living the dystopian cautionary tales every human was told and selling it as the most glamourise life of the advanced civilisation that the rest of the galaxy should all strive for.

Not to mention how their government activity ereased the prothean's interference in their early stages and rewrote history for it to be some asari goddess just to sell their propaganda more that they are born inherently better than the other races whilst also NEEDING us for a diverse genetic sequences in reproduction. Shaming for being lesser than them whilst using us to make more asari.

Or the salarians who narrowed the purpose of existence to birth work then death, who against all the braincells they manged to hoard failed to see how they were so concered with getting as much productiveness out of their short lives that they actually forgot to live the said lives.

The hanar who focused too much on spirituality and left no room for the mortal flaw to exist. Who isolated themselves in feverish reverence to worship their stone statues of past dead species while pretending a world outside isn't being built and almost within reach of the same capabilities of their so proclaimed gods. Who deemed others too ignorant or rude to deal with, who's only interaction with others are to educate their barbarian ways and show them the true meaning of life that they decided without consulting any other race.

IT'S A FUCKING CIRCUS SHOW.

HISTORY IS A FLAT FUCKING CIRCLE.

A PARADE OF HUMANITY'S MOST HORRIFIC DYSTOPIAS MASQUERADING AS THE PRIMA DONNA OF EDENS.

WHAT THE FUCK.

Aliens are in fact just like us.

Because they are rolling in the same mud puddles as us.

The shitstorm just happened to reach us before we could reach the stars.

While they're still flinging mudballs onto each other's faces and calling us the apes.

Having run out of my cynical juice tho, I think we at least will get the chance to play heros in this scenario.

Welcome any alien who decided to diverge from the norm of their society standards amidst our ranks and into our homes. Encouraging our turian friends to have dreams and hopes outside of war and country service, allowing our asari friends to be flawed mortals and calling them out on their mistakes without antagonising them, showing salarians how beautifully love is and there is more to marriage or starting a family than simple reproduction values.

It is funny how Korgans are essentially the least flawed and most civilised in comparison to the rest of the galaxy who shunned them for being savages.

I hope our invasive nature infects them, our songs about dreams and passion to move them, our continous persistent that they deserve so much more, that life could be so much better, that the world is bigger than their government lead them to believe would get them to glance outside their aluminium glided cages and wonder if apes were onto something.

[askthedarksidersfam]

In the Pines

Chapter 2- Death Throes

A new stranger arrives at the Dead Kingdom, and you question if he is friend or foe...

The method of dying isn’t a stranger to War. It is an unwelcome experience than a closely held fear that all creatures hold close to their chests. He wouldn’t be one to boast about having been through the whole entirety of dying, but he wouldn’t shy away from exclaiming he doesn’t fear it. 

This time however, War can’t ignore the waves of shame that ache like a slug to the gut. Indeed, he’d felt shame when he perished in battle when carrying the Ravaiim relic to safety. But this was beyond what he felt all those eons ago. 

A failure to keep a relic away from enemy hands was vastly overshadowed by the obliteration of War’s image, his legendary honor. All knew of War’s pride of being the warrior he was, the oaths he’d made and the extensions he’d reach to see them fulfilled. He’d been a poster child, in a sense, of the perfect enforcer of the Balance. The favorite of the Council with his diligent work ethic, outshining them all in how he’d throw himself into his duties. As if he’d have something to prove despite the need not to. 

How far he’d fallen…

Stripped of his power, thoroughly chewed out by the Council and put under their chopping block to serve as their punishment for a supposed crime he didn’t commit. 

After War opened his eyes, he didn’t need to see the sickly green hue clinging to his being to know he’s been transported to the Kingdom of the Dead. The stench of stale air and a musk of the ever decaying souls assaults his nose. Beneath him is a ground devoid of any green, and instead substituted with layers of dust that flutter through the air at the slightest disturbance. 

He can still feel the vague wetness of tears that trail his cheeks. The rider never felt more vulnerable than before. 

The racing images of the past events came flooding through his mind, from the moment of the call to his arrival. The chance meeting with Abaddon…

Abaddon. He must be here, War vaguely thinks between the onslaught of thoughts that plague his mind. If he can find him here, then he will find out why he was there… one way or another…

But that very thought sends a wave of anger through his chest, as War is only able to reflect on the accusations and confusion that follows. What purpose did the Archangel serve among the ranks, he was leader of the Hellguard, a division dedicated to the protection from Hellish infiltration of protected areas, especially the borders of Heaven. They were not at all meant to march at the front lines of the Apocalypse as it wasn’t their duty. 

Yet there they were, among the ranks fighting with just as much ferocity as the summoned legions. The gears in his brain churned at an incomprehensible rate as he tried to key together this mystery. 

What purpose did they serve, and what secrets are they hiding?

Something greater was at play here. Abaddon, the Call beckoning him to do his duty, and no sense of his brothers and sister in the Earth. 

All at once, the frustrations bubbled and broiled over within the Horseman. The memories that lay bare across his vision began to crumble and branch into webbing cracks as his own wrath, hot as frothing lava, rose in terrible tidal waves, fueling dead veins with his famously irremovable ire. 

Then, akin to a weakened dam holding back a tsunami, the images of his mind, and the last of his reserves, explode in an extraordinary display. 

Pulling his lips back to unleash terrible canines, War’s prosthetic arm clenched tight enough to nearly break the metal fingers. Eyelids snap open to reveal the blazing glow of glacial blue, near blinding as they’re fueled by his rage. He raises his fist above his head and, in one great swell of strength, swings it down with a terrible velocity as War unleashes an agonized bellow of betrayal.

The momentum of his arm stops short, colliding with the ground below, stone beneath shatters upon impact. Dust flies everywhere as the shockwave sends throughout. 

War doesn’t need to see the ground to know he’s left a crater. 

Though he doesn’t need air, War huffs as greatly as a rhinoceros. The fire within him surges through his body, showing no signs of slowing down soon. The rider can only stare hatefully at the cobblestone below as he tries to ride out this immeasurable wave. 

For an immeasurable amount of time, the Nephilim stays motionless, sucking in deep lungfuls of dust laden air before forcefully exhaling. His right arm, the flesh one, shakes with tremors under his gauntlet, before the trembles slowly spread across his body. 

The great injustice of it all enraged War greatly, he can’t help but reflect upon what the Council said to Fury of their elder brothers being absent. Strife had been sent out on a mission according to them, but Death’s case had his mind reeling. 

The Eldest had done this before, in the distant past. Disappearing for five hundred years without a trace until finally showing his face in the wake of the Council’s urgent summons. He had disappeared, likely for his own sake of solitude after the Nephilim’s fall. 

But what reason had he now to disappear? Where could Death go that not even the most sensitive ears or eyes could detect him on the furthest comer of Creation? 

He wouldn’t abandon them. Not again… So caught up in the haze of his muddled thoughts, War doesn’t hear gentle footfalls coming up to his side. His hood, far over his head, obscures his peripheral vision and had he noticed, he’d be ashamed for letting an unknown person get so close.

But he doesn’t scold himself as he’s still caught in the fray. At least, that is until he hears a throat be cleared before asking him a question he’s never been directed to in his eons of existence.

“Hello there sir. Are you alright?”

——

The behemoth of a man doesn’t move when you call out. But you know he’s heard you if the tensing of his body is any indication. His face is obscured by the hulking copper pauldron and blood red hood pulled far over his head, blocking off any view of his features.

There’s a tremble to his figure, albeit faint, you can spot the quivers beneath his strange armor. You’d would’ve guessed him to be an Angel if it weren’t for the lack of wings and the doubt of seeing one so scared. Demon was far out of the question due to the obvious absence of a tail, malformed wings or the faint sulfur stink they possessed (a surprising fact to learn).

Was this stranger human? The question rattled in your head as you took in his huge figure, the apex of his shoulders were equal to yours at your full height. But the sheer size of him alone suggested Maker, but even this beast of a man would be minuscule compared to Engri.

But it didn’t matter who or what he was, but rather, the shaking that didn’t cease even as you both stood in silence. A pang of sympathy wells in your chest, remembering how you were just as frightened when you first arrived. Death throes, Engri had called them. The soul still yearns for life, and tries to command flesh that isn’t there anymore.

‘He could probably use a hand, after who knows what he went through.’ You shudder at the thought of the untold horrors that he must’ve endured at his death.

‘Friendly face…’ you remind yourself as you clear your throat and try again.

“Sir, are you alright?”

This time, you get a reaction. The man’s head whips around in record time, near startling you as you’re suddenly stared down by the mysterious newcomer.

Behind the copper pauldron and his hood, you spot two bright eyes staring you down, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. They’re pupilless, glowing like sulfur fire with just as much intensity. The twin flames stare you down like a wrathful lion roused from slumber, and you the mousy culprit.

You can’t help but find yourself lost in the void, sinking further into the crashing storm of anger and despair. It’s too powerful to pull away now, and you can’t gather the strength to as you spot something within him.

For just a moment, in the moment that time was creeping between the two of you, there was the slightest hint of fear swimming beneath the surface. As quick as you caught it, it was dashed away as those wild and raw eyes hardened. It was not unlike watching the surface of magma cool into solid rock, but beneath did the liquid fire still burn.

Caught up in the swirling hues of burning blue, you failed to catch the stranger’s face contort into something more offensive. If you did, you would’ve wisely backed away instead of gawk dumbly as lips pulled back to reveal glimmering teeth.

“What?” He snarls the question at you, the deepness of his breathy tone pulling you in like a magnet. You still don't give an answer, caught between the urge to swallow up your concern and run and to stay and comfort the man. If you could call him that.

Quicker than you’d expect a man his size to move, the stranger throws himself backwards. Adopting a protective stance, his left arm is poised to cover his body more effectively as he bares his teeth warningly. Simultaneously, you jolt back instinctively putting distance between you and him.

How ironic.

Dead as dust, and your mind is trying to keep alive as if you still possessed a beating heart and blood in your viscera. Even more so concerting, considering how you’d been so adamant on approaching him first.

Briefly, there’s a thought that comes into mind, asking if this was a wise idea. But what could one soul do to another when both are dead?

You doubt the dead can be killed again. With that logic you feel less insecure about an attack. So you gulp down your nerves and clear your throat.

“Everything‘s okay,” you begin, arms held up placatingly as the man eyes you warily, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Not that you could even land a single blow on your best day.

The man thinks the same, as his lips pull into a deeper scowl as his nose curls. Though he has no discernible pupil, you can feel him sizing you up. Definitely determining you to be as much of a threat to him as a fly is to a lion.

Seconds tick by like eons, neither one of you twitching a muscle as you stare each other down. One with barely restrained apprehension, the other suspicion and lingering animosity.

Until finally, the man curls his nose with a huff.

Completely unimpressed, he motions to leave you in the dust, metaphorically and literally as he spins on his heel and makes his way out of the tiny pocket of room off the road. The ground below shudders with a muffled tromp, displacing dust to flutter into the air and stray pebbles to rock.

If you’d a moment to think about his sheer impact on the ground, you probably wouldn’t have so brazenly charged forward to meet with him again. Hellbent on trying to understand what was his grand plan here.

Maybe you would’ve wisely backed off, especially when you were so hesitant to approach due to the very threat of bodily harm. Even beyond the grave. You’d definitely be reflecting on this tonight to find the answer to this crazy ass decision. But the only answer you’d receive after racking your brain to find is probably “whoopsie” or “I’m not fucking up my first day of Soul Guiding”.

Just as your hand is about to make contact with the man’s armored arm, there’s a great flash of gray as the world suddenly spins on its axis. Roughly, your back slams into the ground as the beanie hugging your head jostles loose, half handing to your skull. If you’d any breath it’d be knocked clean out, but all you do is gawk, breathless regardless.

In one swift motion you’d been slammed into the ground with the giant of a man hovering over you. Enormous legs cage you in as he keeps a grip so ironclad on your guilty arm you can legitimately feel the pressure near breaking. You fear he’d break your bones had you not been so caught up in staring him down, dead heart lurching in your throat.

Pinned, outsized and far in over your head, the only plausible thing your panic riddled mind can do is teeter on the precipice of two options. Gather the last remnants of human survival and urge you to break loose or relive the last moments of your life cornered in that concrete trap like you are now. The only difference you felt was no roaring of blood into your ears nor the stir of a certain pounding cardiac organ.

You swear in this very moment this man was really those hound monsters in disguise, ready for a part two in their revenge.

Get off.

You see those hungry eyes through the cracks. Blues bleed into fiery orange, the shadows eclipse into coal black leathery skin of hellish hounds.

Get off.

Pulled back lips contort into snarling maws like permanent grins. Bare gums glinting with teeth bigger than your arm. A heavy pant like laughter among the prowling pack that close in on their prey.

GET O F F !

The crushing grip melds into the pain of your arm —- your missing flesh arm —-

You can taste the blood, feel it running down your throat and flood your lungs—

G E T O F F !

The proximity between him and you is near atoms apart. You feel the wisps of breath he exhales, fluttering over your cheeks like ghosts in the wind. There is no heat, unlike the breath of the hounds who felt hotter than the pits of Hell. A complete antithesis-

“GET OFF ME!”

The shriek echoes across the empty field, rattling the naked limbs of a nearby tree and disturbing the dust to flutter around the air. Dancing between the two of you carelessly.

The man above you does not move as you demanded, instead he keeps his grip steady, the only indication of him listening to you are his raised brows and slightly widened eyes. Clearly surprised by the outburst. But he still doesn’t make a single move, instead vying to keep you pinned as his lips form words that your brain fails to comprehend. It’s only after a few seconds of silence after his words have passed his mouth did your brain catch it like a delayed echo.

“Who are you?! What is the meaning of this?” Though he nearly splits your ears with his bellow, the demand sounds as if you’re hearing him with cotton stuffed in your ears. And underwater.

When you don’t give an immediate answer, his patience seems to wear thin, given by the deepening furrow of his brow. Vaguely you think how it’s even physically possible before your ears pick up on a voice ring through the air.

“I-I just-!”

“It will do you good to let them go boy!”

Both you and the man’s head swivel to the origin of the newcomer. Poised for attack, the stranger is dressed in armored regalia, finely detailed with bone imagery long since worn down. He carries a glaive, or at least an imitation of the weapon due to its dramatic length of the blade. It’s pointed in your general direction, but not at you. But the head of the man above you.

He stares you down with well worn eyes, cataracts cloudy yet sharply focused on you.

The stranger doesn’t give away what he feels about the situation, but from the pinching of his brows and snarling of teeth, he doesn’t like what he sees.

The soldier jabs the weapon, the edge near kidding the red hood of the man above. He merely grunts at the proffer of the metal blade, unphased about this. Which was rather ironic given his need to attack weaponless you.

“I will not ask again! Let the ‘uman go.” He snarls, dripping with authority to make you rigid upon hearing. The man above you snaps his head between you and the newcomer, brows pinched together as you shoot him a weary grin, silently begging he’d listen.

“Yeah, uh, please let the human go…” you say weakly, struggling under his grip as you feel an atom more confident with this stranger. Though that is promptly squashed when the man glares daggers into you, sending a wave of cold dread shooting through your chest. The crushing grip tightening even more.

“I am not asking you again boy! ‘ave you no sense o’ ‘onor that you’d attack one without a weapon?!”

That gets his attention.

His ironclad hold violently wrenches free, and you immediately scramble out from underneath him. You drag yourself away from the man and put some distance between you and him, with the stranger as a barrier. Despite not knowing either, you’d take your chances with the soldier rather than the goliath.

The guard shuffles until he’s blocked the view of the red hooded behemoth, weapon poised at his head. He tilts his head back to eye you as he calls out. “You alright ‘uman?” Dazed, you can only offer an unsure grunt, grasping at the arm with fresh indents in the dead skin. You wince as you doubt there’s a chance it’ll recover.

“Y-yeah.” Is the feeble answer.

He grunts before turning his attention to your attacker, whose face is twisted into a vicious snarl half hidden by his hood. Those blue eyes are pure murderous as he glares at your savior. However, he is completely unaffected, instead vying to puff his chest out and raise his shoulders. Immediately, the man becomes larger than he already is, the armor assisting him as the oversized pauldrons that sweep towards the air flare out like boney wings.

The tension growing between the two is heavy, like a thick fog and tingling with electricity. Though you’re not caught in the middle of it, you can feel the sharp sting that leaves you dizzy.

Just when you’re sure the fog will stretch out to you and wrap you in the static blanket, it’s so abruptly interrupted.

“I do not know why you attack this ‘uman, but know that this will not go unnoticed by me. ‘owever that is not why I am ‘ere,” the man straightened his posture as he keeps his glaive pointed straight at the man, “I am ‘ere to escort you, Red Rider, to the King, for you are hereby summoned to appear ‘fore the Dead Court.”

That gets your attention.

Engri had spoken of the monarchy and his exclusivity on the few to no guests he harbors in his Court. In fact, practically no one has made company with the king in the last century other than his guards and royal advisors and overseers.

Not that making company was as simple as approaching the throne room and waltzing in to share your grievances. Between the tales of the men of the Arena who’s battle prowess could match that of the aged Maker and cynical advisors, you’d heard of one such obstacle to meet the king.

The Arena and its heralded unbeatable Champion.

Engri had shared the stories of the Champion, a creature of bone and sinew, nigh invincible. How she’d faced the beast before in boast, promising to bring the skull to the Court not for an audience, but to wipe the smirk off their smug faces when they claimed she’d be unsuccessful as the others. And they’d been right.

The monster was unpredictable in its attacks and twice as formidable in strength, even against a seasoned warrior as Engri. In the end, the battle mage decided it best to abandon her quest and turn tail to save herself the near severed limbs and a wounded ego during the excursion.

That was the only ticket to meet the king.

And this guy gets a free fucking pass.

A trickling sensation of horror and suspicion runs up your spine as you wearily eye the stranger. What had he done to warrant the king’s audience per his demand?

Probably something terrible. Right?

The “Red Rider” or he’s been addressed, near snarls at the soldier whilst rising to an impossible height. Your eyes shamelessly bulge from their sockets as your jaw fails to keep itself hinged while you wordlessly gawk.

You knew he was tall from how he nearly reached your shoulder on his knees, but not like this. He towers over the soldier who himself boasts an impressive height, and his glaive stands taller than his helmet which adds a few extra inches. You doubt your head even reaches the bottom of his sternum if you stood on your toes.

“What would your king,” he spits the word out like rot on his tongue, “want with me? I am no stranger to this realm nor am I a foe.”

The soldier doesn’t stop the scoff, making the taller shoot a nasty glare. “Do you think us so shut in from the world of the livin’ we do not know o’ your affairs?” The hooded man immediately stiffens, your head tilts as you questioningly stare at the accused wondering if-

“I've done nothing of the sort. I am not guilty of the crimes the Council accuses me of!” He bellows, voice so powerful you can feel it punch you in the chest. Though the other male seems completely unaffected, not even a flinch.

“Whatever those slags o’ molten rocks decide is none o’ my concern. I am ‘ere merely to escort you to the Court.” He cooly says.

Council? Crimes? Molten rocks?! What in fuck’s name are they talking about?!

Too caught up in the haze, you shake your head in efforts to clear the very muddled thoughts you’re trying to piece together. You don’t even register their conversation.

Yeah, the man straight up attacked you, but he hadn’t seemed to do so blindly. Though the whole parameters of why he’d think of you as a threat doesn’t click.

But beforehand, prior to his… lashing out, he seemed completely caught up in himself. The scream you’d heard, how the raw bellow was so pained, opposite to his aloof attitude. How he sounded so… betrayed?

Scared.

Like when you first opened your eyes on the cobblestone road.

A pang of sympathy worms its way through your chest, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of the past. A frown stretches across your lips, remembering that wretched feeling.

Why should you not extend that mercy to him? Because of some self preservation to your corpse? A guard claiming he’s to be punished for a possible crime? Your survival instincts screamed not to, and logic dictated that this was none of your own business.

But the man’s protests of innocence were too heartfelt. Too… fervent.

Unlike the aged corpse of a soldier, you listen to those cries. You know them well. Distant wails that cut through the ears of the endlessly noisy city like a gunshot. Too many times you lie awake on your bed, listening helplessly to the sound.

You once burst out of your room with an urgent desperation to quell those cries. Tirelessly searching for the endless laments, overwhelmed to find the city overrun with souls that scream for a life stolen away, of being lost with this insufferably ceaseless city.

Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help anyone. It seemed as if the screams were not from souls, but part of the very ambience of the city.

You barely slept a week after that, regardless of your exhaustion.

This man, this soul- you can’t bear the thought of leaving him to his fate. It’s selfish but you don't want to bear another moment in the city after the day is done. Returning to that unshakable tune. Maybe this once, you could quell this one’s cries so he wouldn’t join that accursed choir.

Leaving him to go to the Court did not sit right in your gut. You couldn’t stop it, but maybe you could sway them.

Engri’s talk of the King did not soothe your nerves however. But in spite of that, you do not stop yourself from the words that spill out your mouth just as the soldier was about to escort the soul out.

“Uhm,” you scramble to your feet, something more dignified if it weren’t for the dust and beanie falling out of place, “wait right there! I’m coming along!”

The soldier snorts, actually snorts before he can cover his mouth with a hand. That near permanent grin of a half rotted skull seems to widen as he attempts to collect himself. You scarcely notice curious blue eyes drift your way as you pull your beanie back over your scalp, suddenly bashful.

“You ‘ave no business with the King,” he declares, tone trembling with barely held back chuckles, “it’s ‘im that the King wants, ‘uman. You’ve no idea of what magnitude the offense this one has committed.” The Red Rider shoots him a poisonous glare from behind.

“Well, I don’t happen to believe that!” You lamely retort, chest clenching at your weak protest that makes both men take pause. The soldier eyes you with suspicion while Red remains otherwise impassable, other than the slightest widening of his eyes behind his hood. You absently wonder if he is even affected by your protest. Something within your dead chest screams that it does, that he is in fact, thinking about what you’re doing, but your head seems to think otherwise, filled with doubt.

Your brain weighs the outcomes of both possibilities at blink-fast speed, considering both extremes that could come to haunt you. Either one, this man is indeed what the guard claims, to have committed the worst of crimes, hiding behind a red hood and devastatingly convincing face to trick the bleeding hearts into his scheming and letting him roam free. Though the worst possible crimes he can commit in this godforsaken realm such as murder was null and void, that didn’t make him less of a threat. You could let him walk free, unpunished and unforgiving into this world, here forever if you can even convince the Court.

Or…

This man is indeed innocent. A victim of circumstance, or even a setup if his protests have any hint of what had happened. You could save him from taking the fall and being wrongly punished for someone else’s crimes. You couldn’t imagine living, or rather, continuing on this dead life with that on your conscience for eternity. Not even after a million years could you imagine that the guilt would even erode in the slightest.

Then, you think about when you first laid eyes on him, how frightened he was, that scream, and those wild eyes that you almost drowned in. There was a deep powerlessness that you recognized that you couldn’t forget.

You’ve seen that look in the eyes of your fellow humans as they were slaughtered on the streets, hopelessly overpowered in the eyes of Angels and Demons. Pure, unadulterated terror soaking into the very bone, leaving no atom unmarred. Then, a ringing in your ear turns into his scream and it blends in with hundreds more you hear a familiar voice come through.

“‘M off tae take ‘em to tae city,” It’s Engri’s voice from hours ago, “I doubt there won’ be any other souls while ‘m gone,” you had decided to stay behind, using the excuse of wanting to help farry souls as a reason not to go back to that wailing city. You did want to help, but you never expected, well, this.

“Well, what should I do if someone comes and they won’t go with me?” You asked, unsure of what to expect, to which she had answered simply.

“Then follow ‘em wherever they go. With time, they’ll go with ye.”

Sucking in a breath, you hope this won’t be the biggest mistake of your undead life. Squaring your shoulders and straightening your spine, you boldly stare the guard in the back as you unsteadily declare,

“Take me with him to the King’s Court, I am acting as his voucher of character.”

Sometimes, the heart is bigger than the head.

[xxsksxxx]

Liberating the Mirage

Summary:

When an assignment goes horribly wrong, Mulder has to race against time to find Scully.

But sometimes the line between reality and illusion blurs—and it turns out there’s more than one locked door that needs to be opened.

Notes:

This is my little contribution to Fictober, a yearly event that celebrates writing and reading—and fall. All of which are good things in my world.

Since there’s no way I can come up with a new story every day, I’ve decided to write one fic that includes all prompts from the Fictober 2023 prompt list. They’re all in bold if you want to seek them out specifically. You can find the list here: Fictober 2023

This story is complete, but to keep in the spirit of Fictober, I’m posting one chapter a day.

I hope you’ll have as much fun reading this fic as I had writing it.

AO3 | Start at the Beginning | @today-in-fic and @xffictober2023

Chapter 5: Illusions

Pearson Steel Corp., Washington D.C

Mulder slowly crept closer to the edge of the old factory. It felt oddly familiar, and Mulder realized with surprise that it had only been 18 hours since he had crept along a similar stone wall. It seemed like a lifetime ago—and this time Scully wasn't sitting in a van listening. She was inside here somewhere, and he didn't have any time to waste.

Mulder’s fingers sought the weight of Scully’s cross around his neck, the jagged edges cutting into his palm, serving as a sharp reminder that she was waiting for him to find her. He grabbed the cross tightly for a moment, recalling another painful time when she’d been missing, and he’d lost himself in a swirl of pain—her cross the only anchor that kept him alive.

He pulled the lock pick out of his jacket and looked around. He couldn't see anyone, nor did he notice any cameras. Expertly, he picked the lock and silently slipped inside.

The inside of the abandoned mill was dark and silent. The high ceiling echoed every sound, and he was glad he'd chosen sneakers before coming here. Mulder looked around, the large iron machines loomed like dark sentinels, not giving anything away.

He swiftly moved through the manufacturing hall, looking for a staircase or a basement where Scully could be held. The former offices appeared to be on one side of the hall, so he decided to head in that direction first. A large window opened to the hall at the top of a small iron stairway. Probably a foreman’s office from where the production could be overseen, he thought. Quietly, he climbed the stairs and cautiously opened the door. Another door on the other side of the office seemed to lead farther into the building, and a small sliver of light streamed from under the door.

Mulder took a breath to calm his racing heart, inhaling the musty scent of the old metal. The cold, damp air settled uncomfortably on his arms and face. Finally, he thought. Someone was here. He carefully approached the door, listening for any sounds.

He yanked the door open and stared right into the startled face of the tall man from the warehouse. This time he wasn't running, though. John Egan’s shock didn’t last, and Mulder’s sudden appearance propelled him into action, his hand jerking to the back of his pants, groping for his gun.

Mulder made a split-second decision, jumped forward, and tackled the taller man. Egan grunted in surprise when he was thrown to the floor.

“Freeze! Federal agent!” Mulder shouted, pressing with full force on the other man’s arms to prevent him from moving. His captive, however, wasn't deterred in the slightest and kept fighting. Mulder grunted with effort, as Egan tried to squirm out from under him, and pushed his entire body weight down on his opponent. John moaned in pain, but he had no choice but to stop resisting or risk breaking his arms. Mulder instantly pulled his handcuffs from his belt and shackled the man to the desk in the center of the large office.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mulder panted. “I told you to stop moving! And if I find out you hurt her, this will be just the beginning,” he said forcefully, gritting his teeth. “Now, where is she?”

Egan didn’t respond.

Mulder leaned closer, his grip tight on the back of the mobsters’ shirt, their faces only inches apart. “I said, ‘Where is she!’,” Mulder yelled in the other man’s face and shoved him down onto the hard concrete floor, his shackled wrist bending up at an awkward angle.

John yelped in agony and nodded in the direction of the other door, his teeth tightly clenched. “She’s in the basement. Through that door, down the stairs, and through the first door.”

Mulder didn’t waste any time. He jumped up and ran down the stairs to the basement.

He came to a halt in front of a fire protection door and stopped to listen for any sounds. It was deathly silent in the small hallway. The key was sticking inside the lock, and Mulder unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The room appeared empty except for an old mattress lying on the floor in the back. Mulder squinted, trying to make out anything in the dark room. Just then, the heavy clouds outside parted and a beam of moonlight shone into the small basement window, casting a silvery glow over the room. There was a lump on the mattress, but he couldn’t make out any details.

He slowly moved closer, realizing it was a person. “Scully?” he called softly. “Scully, is that you?”

The lump moved and turned, and Mulder let out a sigh. It was her! He took two quick steps towards her and kneeled by her side.

With a metallic bang, the door slammed shut behind him. Mulder whirled around and ran back to it, twisting the handle.

“Locked! Dammit!” he slapped the metal with his hand. “Stupid. I fell right for his trap,” he leaned his forehead against the steel and took a deep breath, closing his eyes in frustration.

*****

Scully tried to focus on Mulder standing by the door. His outline swirled and came in and out of focus. Warily, she put her head back down on the mattress and closed her eyes. Another hallucination, she thought. “Mulder, are you close to finding me?” she murmured, more to herself than to the apparition in her cell. “I think you need to hurry. I don't know what he's injecting me with, but the next dose might be too much.”

Mulder raised his head and hurried over to her. He dropped to his knees next to her again and brushed a lock of her hair off of her face. “Scully? It's me. Are you okay?”

Scully smiled without opening her eyes. She rather enjoyed these hallucinations. They weren’t as good as the real thing, of course, but it all felt real enough. “I'm ok, Mulder. But I need your help. And you need to hurry. I want to get out of here.”

Mulder gave her a confused look. “Scully? Can you open your eyes?”

Scully groaned softly, turned her head in his direction, and slowly opened her eyes. Her fantasy Mulder was backlit by moonlight, his edges blurry.

Mulder sighed. “You're drugged. And I got us trapped,” he said warily. “I'm here, Scully. I need you to hold on a bit longer, though, okay?”

Scully tried to focus. “Are you really with me?” she asked, squinting. “Were you also here before? I saw you! Mulder, we need to get out of here! He drugged me!”

Mulder watched her with a concerned look. “No. It’s alright, I’m really here now.” He reached for her hand and entwined their fingers. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

“He completely surprised me, Mulder,” Scully slurred, closing her eyes and putting her head down on the mattress again. “I have no idea how I could’ve let him surprise me like that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mulder answered quietly and squeezed her fingers. “We shouldn’t have let him escape in the first place. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine.”

Scully grunted. “Can’t you just let me blame myself for once, Mulder?” she asked indignantly, but her lips twitched in amusement. She squeezed his hand back in understanding.

“Did he hurt you, Scully?” he asked, checking anxiously in the dim light if he could make out any injuries.

Scully shook her head firmly. “No, not really. He injected me with something in the car, and the first thing I remember is waking up here. Where are we anyway?” She opened her eyes and gave looking at Mulder another try.

“It’s an old steel mill not far outside D.C., Connolly ratted everyone out and gave me the location—which reminds me, I’ve got something for you.” Mulder released her hand and put his hands behind his neck. Scully watched him curiously, trying to fight her blurry vision.

“What is it, Mulder?” she asked. He held his closed hand in front of her face and smiled.

“Okay, show me,” she demanded, grabbing his hand and opening it. “My cross!” she squealed, eagerly taking it out of his hand. She tried to put it around her neck, but her coordination was completely off.

Mulder carefully took the cross from her hands. “Here, let me. Can you turn around a bit?” he asked and fasted the chain around her neck.

Scully looked down at it and then back up to Mulder. “Thanks for returning it to me, Mulder,” she said softly, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. Thanks for looking for me, she added in her mind. And thanks for always finding me in time.

With a loud bang, the door flew open and crashed into the wall. John stood in the open door with a gun raised to Mulder's head. “Thought you'd tricked me? I'm not that stupid. I want the list. Now!” He angrily waved his gun.

“I don't have it,” Mulder said, slowly getting to his feet, and moving between the man and Scully who watched drowsily from the ground.

“Then get it! I don't care how,” Egan yelled, now waving his gun at Scully. “This bitch is drugged out of her mind and still won't tell me anything, and you're playing hard to get! You better give it to me, before anything happens.”

Mulder simply returned the man’s stare. “I can’t give you what I don’t have,” he explained calmly, raising his hands, palms up.

“Then I’d suggest you try harder and write down what you remember. And I’d try hard if I were you!” the man growled, throwing a pad and a pen in Mulder’s direction. “And don’t think I’m playing. I’ve got nothing to lose.” Mulder ducked to pick up the pen and pad, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“And while we’re at it, I assume you didn’t get here unarmed. Put your gun on the ground,” John sneered, pointing at the floor.

Mulder gritted his teeth and pulled his gun from the back of his jeans. He bent down and put it on the floor.

“Now kick it over here. Slowly! If you try to play any tricks on me, I’ll shoot her,” the man threatened, redirecting his gun to Scully who watched with heavy-lidded eyes.

Mulder kicked the gun in John’s direction and raised his hands again. “There’s no need for that. I’m not going to try anything,” he said soothingly.

Egan retrieved Mulder’s weapon, never taking his eyes off of him. He slowly stepped backward, his gun still aimed at Mulder. “I’ll be back in an hour. I suggest you come up with a list of names by then, or I guess I have to consider you useless to me. And I don’t tend to keep useless things around,” he said, his threats punctuated with the point of his gun.

John Egan backed out of the room, the door closing behind him with a bang.

***

Thank you so much for reading. You can also find this fic on AO3.

[realmackross]

PARTIES: @nightmaretist, @realmackross TIMING: Inge's Birthday SUMMARY: Mack just happens to have a shift at Dance Macabre the night Inge (one of her zombie snacks) is celebrating her birthday. Lets just say the interaction isn't the best. :/ WARNINGS: alcohol tw, surgery tw (very brief mention)

It felt like it had been a lifetime since Mackenzie had worked a shift at Dance Macabre, but it was nice being back. She didn’t even mind hearing the overly loud emo music being screamed at her through the speakers. But tonight made it even more special. There had been a birthday celebration going on. Those were, strangely, her favorite nights. Seeing people celebrating growing another year older had given her a way to live vicariously through them as she knew she would be stuck in the slowly decaying body of a 23 year old for the rest of her life.

“I hear you’re having a birthday tonight? This drink is on the house. What can I get for you to start the celebration off right?” She leaned over the counter practically yelling at the woman in front of her. The music had always made this job challenging, but that was okay. It gave her a chance to meet new people and, after the way things had been going in her personal life, a reason to feel connected. But little did Mackenzie know, the person she was “connecting” with had been one of the people she had almost made into a snack during her Serpent Flat Days.

— 

She’d donned her best and worn her brightest red lipstick-smile tonight. There was no pretense about her euphoria — Inge thought her unchanging state of being was something to celebrate, as was another year she’d survived in spite of. Though this year had come with new scars and nemeses, it had mostly served her well. So she was ecstatic, growing steadily more intoxicated as her bill at Dance Mabacre grew higher and higher. She, too, contributed to this high prize, practically skipping over to the bar to order another drink.

But as the bartender addressed her, that gleeful look disappeared from her face. Inge stared long and hard at the face under the gloomy lights and then reached forward, snatching the other’s shirt. “You,” she bristled, “You —” The scar on her arm was ugly and dented and here the other was, playing a bartender as if she hadn’t been some feral creature. “You bit me.” What was she going to do? She hadn’t the slightest, but she knew she was angry, that she had been angry at this unresolved situation and the dent on her arm. “And not in a fun way.”

—

Mackenzie’s night had been going great. All the bullshit outside of her bartending job had faded for the evening, and she was actually enjoying herself. That is, until she felt the woman in front of her reach across the bart and latch on tightly to her shirt and pull the zombie forward. Mackenzie listened as she spit venom, and then it came racing towards her faster than she could process it…Her wild week through town, the one she had somehow manage to put behind her for the briefest of moments, because of how stagnant the search for answers had became, returned to bite her in the ass and in the most unforgiving way.

“I…” She didn’t know what to say. Mackenzie was stuck. Stuck behind a bar at her job with someone she attempted to unknowingly eat threatening her. Luckily for her, the blasting music and drunk patrons gave her some protection from anyone there knowing her secret, and if worse came to worse, Mack could try and blame it on the alcohol, at least for the time being until she could properly discuss this matter with the woman who was supposed to be celebrating her birthday. But first she had to get out of her death grip, “Um, so why don’t we just take this outside…We can discuss it there in private…” She was calm in her manner not wanting to further worsen the situation.

—

There was a rule in this place. No supernatural on supernatural violence. But Inge figured the other had broken that rule first when she’d set her teeth into her flesh and ripped part off it. Not when she’d had to go to the hospital – the hospital! – to find an inexperienced (but effective) vampire nurse to stitch her up. She had half a mind to pull harder, to dig her other hand in the other’s blonde hair and grab tight, slam her into the bar. But she refrained, perhaps the other’s calmness making her reconsider. She also didn’t want to be kicked out from one of her favorite places in town on her birthday.

She huffed (a purely dramatic thing, as she didn’t need to breathe) and squinted at the other, letting go and stretching her fingers dramatically as she let it return to her. She didn’t feel like beating around the bush of her anger. She didn’t like to do that on most days, especially when she found her anger particularly justified, but today? Today was her day. She was sinking money into this fine establishment. She didn’t need to be sweet about her rage. “Fine. Lead the way. Don’t repeat the shit you pulled last time I saw you near an alley, though.” Inge pushed herself away from the bar, waiting for the blonde to abandon her station and move. She clicked her heeled boots after her, grabbing a half-finished drink from the bar and downing it. 

—

When Mackenzie felt the release, she quickly backed up away from the woman rubbing her throat. She couldn’t figure out what she had done to this person, but whatever it was, it was enough to make the young zombie nervous, until she heard the words that confirmed they had actually met. They did actually know each other. And then it struck her…This woman was someone Mack had attacked after touching the Flats. No wonder she had wanted to slam Mackenzie into the bar, and if she had it would have been well warranted.

Eyes dropping to the floor, ashamed to look up, she leaned over to her co-worker, “I gotta take a quick break. I’ll be back soon.” Biting at her bottom lip, she refused to look at the woman as she slipped out from behind the bar and made her way towards the back exit. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea heading outback with someone as angry as the birthday girl was, but it wasn’t as if Mackenzie could just make it up with free drinks.

As she stepped out into the alley, she made sure to keep space from the other woman. Mackenzie still struggled to make eye contact and stammered as she tried to prepare the best apology she could muster in the shortest amount of time she was being given, never expecting to just run into one of her victims like this or to be recognized so easily; despite having met Emilio months ago, who threatened to make her life a living hell if she “stepped” out of line again.

—

Inge couldn’t feed from the undead. There was no true sleep for them any more and so no dreams — she couldn’t put them to sleep with a touch the way she could with mortals, couldn’t enter their subconscious dreamscape and nose around in there, rearrange the furniture of their minds. It was a kind of equalizer, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be an equalizer among all undead, she found, this mutual inability to use one another for nutrition. To still their endless, immortal hungers.

And yet, here was this zombie, who had sunk her teeth into her shoulder and chewed, who had devoured her non-blood and non-flesh and done damage. No clear motive. Maybe if there had been motive, if this woman was just raging against her limitations and didn’t care much for the unspoken rules Inge had made up, then she could have respected it. But it had felt aimless. Now, too, she remained silent. Led her to an alley and didn’t say a thing.

She glowered at her, eyes shining red in the lack of light of the alley. “Are you mute?” She wanted to rattle her. What was this, this stammering? This stumbling? Where was that conviction she’d had that night? Inge pulled up her sleeve to the top of her shoulder, showing off the dent in her upper arm. A piece missing. Ugly, jagged. She’d marred her. Made her wonky. And yes, sure, there was something beautiful about that horrifying scar, and though imperfection could be approached with an artistic eye and made perfect all the same, she was vain. “Explain yourself. Explain this. I don’t care if you feed off the humans of this town, but this?” Her red eyes should be an indication. “You shouldn’t be in there.” Head tilted to Dance Macabre. “If you’re someone who hurts our kind.”

—

Mackenzie didn’t have words at the moment. Instead, she listened as the woman in front of her berated and belittled her as she had every right to do. And then an absolute wave of guilt washed further over her. She had bit this woman. Had potentially infected her with the zombie virus, but the closer she looked, the more she realized that her eyes were different. They weren’t milky much like she assumed hers looked considering how poor her eyesight got when she started to zomb out, and without thinking, she stepped in closer, “Your eyes…they’re not like mine. You’re not...a zombie then?”

Mack realized that she had moved in towards the woman and quickly found herself stepping backwards, almost tripping in the process, “Sorry. I-I just assumed that…” She had really thought about if there had been any other zombies walking around in Wicked’s Rest because of her. She had always tried to be careful by keeping her nails short and keeping a distance from people when she could. But as the angered woman continued to speak, Mackenzie became even more perplexed. The only other time she had witnessed someone with red eyes was…Mateo. Mare. She was a mare. That had explained a lot and also calmed her fears about having created another unlucky undead soul to roam the Earth.

“Look, I wasn’t myself when that happened. You probably won’t believe me, but I’ll tell you anyway, because you deserve an answer. My friend, Chai, took me to a place called the Serpent Flats, and I touched them thinking it was just some stupid rock. It did a lot more, and when I attacked you, I didn’t realize I was doing it. I’m so fucking sorry, okay? And I don’t want to hurt…anyone, if I don’t have to. It just happened.” Just like Emilio and Parker, defending the living, now Mackenzie was being told she didn’t deserve to be around the undead. At this rate and the trend that was starting to form, she almost wanted to find a cave to live in, so she’d never have to risk being around anyone ever again, but if the rumors she had heard were true…didn’t Cass live in a cave? It didn’t seem like there was really anywhere left for Mack to go.

—

Inge let out a laugh,though it wasn’t at all humorous. No part of her was amused. “No! I’m not a zombie! God, imagine if I—” She shook her head. She’d hate to be a zombie, so uninspired and gorey and lacking in creativity. In media they were portrayed as bumbling fools and in real life they just did what? Eat brains? At least mares worked with creativity, at least nightmares didn’t get old. If she had to be any other kind of undead, she’d pick vampire, but she was glad she was what she was. Proud, even. “Fuck. No.” 

She continued to glower at the zombie, eyes narrowed in red slits. She thought it some kind of unspoken agreement among the undead, that there was no room for feeding off one another. She couldn’t even try — her sleepy touch had no impact on her undead brethren and none of them slept, so there was no way to break into their mind. But zombies, those furious and violent creatures, they could still feed on the undead with their sheer force. Even if it didn’t bring them any nutrition. 

And though the zombie had an explanation at the ready and was quick to blame one of the many supernatural phenomena in town, Inge remained dissatisfied. “What am I gonna do with sorry? Look at my arm,” she said, pushing it forward again. “Gorge on all the human brains you want, I don’t give half a damn, but —” She bristled, exhaling a useless breath. It wasn’t easy, to be met with remorse. With someone who’d been out of control. Who couldn’t help what she’d done. If she continued to rage against the blonde it would be pointless and even cruel (though that had never really stopped Inge), but if she just accepted the apology then it would be too easy. “Just don’t let it happen again. I don’t feed off you, you don’t feed off me. Easy.”

—

The woman’s response to Mack about not being a zombie had been hurtful. She had already felt like the scum of the Earth, and this had just further confirmed it. Coming from a business where what people thought of you either projected or stalled your career had left a mark on Mackenzie’s psyche, and with all the rejection she had been feeling since all of this had happened was making it harder and harder to want to keep moving forward with her undead life.

“I…I know a really good plastic surgeon, but he’s in California…” It was the first thing that had come to mind, and Mackenzie almost immediately regretted saying it. “But I swear…it won’t happen again. Okay? I-I don’t want any of this to ever happen again to anybody. I’m never going towards those rocks again. And drinks, they’re on the house tonight. My treat.” Everyone liked free alcohol at a club right? It would probably take her check and then some, but bartending was a side hustle anyways. And she at least wanted to be right with someone in this town after everything that had happened.

—

It was her birthday, she was supposed to be enjoying herself and instead she was standing across from someone who was suggesting a plastic surgeon as if that would solve the issue. “Yeah,” she snapped, “Yeah, I’ll just ring up a surgeon who can cut me open and see I don’t even have regular blood ‘cause that will totally not make them freak out.” She almost laughed again. Someone needed to build an undead hospital at this point. 

Inge considered the free alcohol, then waved it away, “No, I’ll pay my own tab. Just keep your brain eating limited to the actual living and I won’t care one bit.” She cared a little. She adjusted her sleeve, covering up her scar. “I’m going back to my party.” She was resolute. She’d told the zombie what she’d done, what she thought of it and she’d gotten an attempt at an apology. Now she wanted to get back to the people she liked being around. “Have a great rest of your shift.” And with that she stepped away, stalking off back into the bar where the sound of music and chatter enveloped her once again.

[goorehound]

long time no see! i’ve actually been writing a bit these days so I thought I’d share a piece I’d actually finished. i did write it out very quickly and didn’t edit or proofread, so hopefully it’s bearable.

warnings: general angst and emotional constipation

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish / Simon “Ghost” Riley, mild nsfw, sort of love confession

word count: 814

Oh God. Please, Love me.

Instinct kept him safe. That instantaneous reaction, the tense of muscles and coursing adrenaline that prepared him to do what was necessary to keep his body safe. It protected him. It protected those he served with.

Sometimes, he felt it did far more for him than armour plates.

Some nights, he felt it was suffocating him.

Immediate bristling when friendly hands dared to linger. Dodging attempts at contact before they were even a fully fledged idea. Caging himself within barbed wire intended to leave jagged gashes upon those who dared to edge too close.

This was not some intentional process, it all boiled down to instinct. To survival.

There was no manual for how he’d built it up. There was no instructions for how to disassemble it, either. No way to loosen a gap, just for one hand to come through. To make contact.

No matter his desperate scramble from within, pressed up against the blades to reach out. Skin sheared and torn, words bubbling up like acid in his throat. Heated and metallic as though his lungs flooded with blood at the mere idea that he tried to voice his pleas.

All he could do was pray that his eyes may convey his beg. That perhaps Johnny could put in the work that he simply couldn’t.

Please. Oh, god. Please, love me.

And some nights, his knuckles would burrow themselves so deeply into his eye sockets. Wishing he could undo his bodies betrayal, cease his shoulder from shrugging off a kind hand.

Other nights it was far easier to fall to logic. To reason that the distance was what kept him capable and sharp. Allowing Johnny any closer than he’d become, well, that would be a crime to them both. To put the man in a position where he could be harmed was unforgivable at best, and to tear apart all he’d suffered to keep himself functioning?

Where would he be then?

The enticing whispers in the back of his mind were easy to squash those nights. The promises of no longer being alone, assurances of comfort. Rediscovering kindness and warmth with a guiding hand. Those felt far more like pipe dreams.

He had Johnny, what was there to complain about? Stupid chatter over comms, enrapturing eyes, casual brushes - that would have to be enough to satiate the starving creature that dwelled within.

Until it wasn’t.

Until he found it near unbearable to peel himself away from his door, direct himself to bed.

Until it began to lead him out of the hallway, racing thoughts finding a focal point every time he breezed past the flimsy doorknob that separated him from what he craved down to his very core.

Until he began to linger.

Until Johnny’s eyes softened their edges, and his knees shook with the urge to buckle. Tongue caught between teeth to the point of splitting, anything to keep the despairing pleads trapped inside.

Until he couldn’t anymore.

Quivering hand shoving that godforsaken knob down, broad shoulders shoving their way inside the room - there was no game plan here. Nothing to keep him moving when he came face to face with the man, all momentum lost.

Metallic and smothering, crawling up his throat. He was afraid to part his lips. Fearing that blood may seep and pour through any cracks he offered, the horrors he saw in himself may escape and drown them both.

“Please.”

He’d not fooled himself into thinking he could stop himself this time.

And Johnny left no time for regret to fester. There were lips against his own before he could take another shuddering breath, calloused hands bracketing his face. Thumbs tucked up under his mask to keep it pinned out of the way.

It was all consuming.

The slightest of touch, but it was finally enough. As though a layer had been shed and Johnny’s touch was finally reaching him, finally offering some solace and recognition to the beast within.

Later Ghost would feel guilty for the bruises his tight grip burrowed deep into the skin, hands wretched with the need to cling. To draw Johnny impossibly closer.

The warmth those lips ignited inside him was something he knew he would no longer be able to live without, the understanding settling heavy - he would slaughter thousands to keep this man with him. To have those hands on him. To allow himself to slide his own palms under fabric, roaming bare skin with a reverence he didn’t believe himself capable of.

Those lips and caresses molded him into something more tolerable, until they were laid out breathless and sated. Only then was Simon no longer concerned he might sob with the relief that had overtaken him.

Wrapped up in an embrace that was so unlike anything he’d experienced before, soft words were mumbled into his temple.

“I’ve got you.”

And by god, if he didn’t believe it.

[writingskaska]

Vamp x Human scene

A scenario in an alternative universe in one of my RPGs with my wonderful girlfriend @drowningtea who writes the lovely Hana! I hope I was able to portrait her somewhat decently! No context needed for anyone taking a peak.

Hajime was staring at the young maiden in disbelief. His mouth fell open, his throat went dry and a heavy gulp was not able to clear this condition in the slightest. His cold body vibrated, his hands trembled and while his whole body screamed for him to give in, he fought against the urges.

„Do you know… what you are offering?“, he heard his own shaken voice ask. Hana giggled at his reaction. A sound, reminding him of the gentle ring of a bell. Like the one he followed, that called for him when her slender hands made it chime.

„I offer you to bite me and drink my blood.“, she repeated her initial words slightly rephrased. The eternally young man shook his head. Unwilling to accept this. Whatever this might be. „Why?“ While many questions were piercing through his racing mind, that was the one haunting him the most. And he had to remind himself of the positions they were in.

Him, a boy, frozen in time at the age of seventeen. Having seen the horrors of life for something that will proceed to be the eternity but has started two hundred years ago. A lowly slave, serving her family, not deserving of any gift. Especially non so precious. And her, a beautiful soul, a girl at the age of 18 with a life in front of her that was promising, that was yet unwritten while she held the feather, dunk in ink in her slender hands.

A girl warm like the sun that he could never again feel on his skin. His master. Hajime was bound to eternal loyalty towards her bloodline. Blood that she wanted to give him so willingly. That was wrong.

With a sudden rush of energy and restlessness he jumped to his feet, barging away from the bed she was sitting on as if she stood model for a painter. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

„Because you‘re hungry… I know they don‘t feed you well. What good can you extract from a rat once a week?“ A deep sigh left her plump, rosy lips and Hajime found himself staring at them. He saw them move first, heard her heartbeat and the blood rushing through her veins, her breath that filled and emptied her lungs before her words even found any meaning in his mind.

Hana extended her hand and asked him wordlessly to take it. But Hajime didn’t move. „You did so many good deeds. While father is away, you keep me company. While others try to take advantage of me, you care. You saved me a docent of times from myself and the dangers from beyond. I am used to being seen as nothing more than a tool. I study everyday for my father to be proud of me and yet I know I can only be of use to him if I marry rich. No one cares for who I am. And yet there are you. Your kindness and your love for me.“

Her voice drifted off somewhere in her monologue. Became dreamy. She was talking to a mirage, Hajime thought. „I am bound by blood to loyalty, my liege. I am nothing more than a tool for you to use and-…“

„Tell me that you don‘t love me!“, she cut him off, raising to her knees in her nightgown, pouting. Hajime opened his mouth but there was no word escaping his lips. He felt interrogated, pressed against a wall, forced to confess his sins. How could he say such a thing? He averted his eyes, looking to the ground, looking for a way out through the cracks in the stone.

„See. You can‘t. You love me.“ Hana raised from her bed, approaching the tall, young man and reaching out to cup his cold cheek. Her warmth against him made him shiver. „So why is it so bad for me to love you too? Tell me! Why would you forbid me to love you.“ She was so incredibly stubborn and righteous. While the world crumbled around her under hate and despise she always saw equality in all beings. Even one like him. Hajime thought about what to say. About how he could make her understand that she was good and he wasn’t. He would have to show her hatefulness. Cruelty and horror to make her understand. But how in god‘s name was he supposed to do that to her when she was so pure and gentle.

„How long have you been eighteen?“, he then asked. Hana was thrown aback, blinking in confusion. „What?“ Hajime just held their eye contact, begging with his gaze for her to answer. Hana looked around, trying to remember. „Since the 23rd of march. I’ve been eighteen for 4 months now… Why do you-…“

„I’ve turned seventeen two hundred years ago.“, he muttered bitterly. „I was already alive a long time before you were born. Before your mother was born. I served this family before your grandmother was born. And I will proceed to serve it. I will inevitably see you die. Soon you will want a marriage, a family, a husband to grow old with, to look together on a life with hurdles and beauty. I can not give you any of that.“

He finally took her hand that she was cupping his cheek with and lowered it, holding it in his grasp, looking deep into her eyes. His voice already felt strained from using it so much today. Hajime was not used to long discussions and debates. He didn’t feel fit or adequate enough to explain anything so grand. And yet he had to.

Hana didn’t answer right away. She let his words sink in and tried to fight the understanding of what he was say. In the end she hummed. „Well then… I will promise to you! While my love for you is real, I… understand who you are. And what you are. And while I am here, in fathers estate… while I am not married yet to another man… Only for this short blink of an eye… Let me be yours.“ Her bottom lip trembled and tears filled her eyes. Hajime knew her well enough to know how painful this was for her. And yet he also understood that the damage was already done. If he would refuse her wishes she would always dream of what might have been. She would idolize him and a life she constructed in her mind. Seeing wrong in everything that was right.

A false hope flared up in his chest. Maybe he could give in. Just for this short period of time and she would see how different her expectation was from reality. Maybe, if he just managed to make her understand that there was no life among the dead waiting for her, she would understand and leave on her own accords! Hajime did not even try to deny that he was lying to himself. But how was he supposed not to fall for it? If even Adam and Eve fell for the promises of the snake and ate the fruit that was forbidden to them, how was he supposed to decline the same offer?

„Alright“, he muttered, finding no ounce of control over his body anymore. Hana‘s face lit up. „Yes? You agree? Really?“ Hajime nodded, still looking like he was about to break out into tears. Hana hummed again before letting out a sigh of relief. „I am so glad!“ She came closer to the timid boy, placing her hand again on his cheek, while snatching his fingers with her left one. She came closer until their bodies touched. Hajime felt paralyzed. Her eyes were fixed on his lips and right before her breath hitched his face, she looked up again.

„So we can kiss?“

And with that it was over for Hajime‘s restraint. He leaned in to her touch, wrapping his arm around the slender frame of the girl, crossing their fingers together and connecting their lips in a kiss. The hot touch was nearly too much for him handle. He felt like burning himself on the touch. But it was addicting and delicious pain that reminded him of not being entirely lifeless yet.

Hana sighed into the kiss, pressing herself against the boy, feeling his hard chest under her fingers as her hand roamed his body. Their kiss was tender at first, careful but quickly became desperate, hungry and sinful. Hana‘s breath has quickened when they finally tore away from each other. With flushed cheeks she gazed at her stone cold lover, unchanged in his demeanor. Only his eyes seemed dazed. Affected by their intimacy as if he had been surrounded by opium.

Hana liked that gleam in his eyes. „I want you to drink my blood.“, she insisted further, not being satisfied with what he gave her yet. Hajime nodded, unable to resist any longer. „Yes…“ His voice sounded breathy although there was no air filling his lungs. Hana liked the thought of him breathing in her very core. Her soul begging for him.

He took her hand and lead her to the bed. Suddenly Hana felt a rush of embarrassment and excitement shower over her. She has offered herself up so boldly. Now was no time to become shy. Like he always did when fixing up her sheets, the young man smoothed them out systemically and fluffed up her pillows before turning around and taking her hand, gently helping her onto the mattress. Hana‘s heart was beating violently against her chest and her breath felt too thin, making her lightheaded.

„Will it hurt?“, she asked anxiously. Hajime sat down on the side as she laid down. He thought about it. „At first, yes.“ He showed her a glance of his sharp teeth. „But then, comparable to the venom of a snake you will be infected with a sedative. It will make you relaxed and calm. Sometimes it arouses humans. But most describe it as a peaceful dream they went into. Loosing all sense for pain or sorrow.“

Hana stared at him in awe. „You can do such things?“ Hajime showed a half smile shrugging with his shoulder. „Well, I could be lying to you, couldn’t I? What if it is very painful like being eaten by bear? Would you want to take that risk?“ The young girl hesitated for a moment before letting herself fall into the pillows. „You wouldn’t lie like that.“ Hajime slowly build himself up above her. Caging her between his arms, letting his bodyweight rest atop her. „What makes you so sure?“

He was in trance. Being so close to her, feeling her running blood underneath him robbed him of all senses and he was ready to indulge himself in this drug. Hana too felt dazed as if under the influence of substances yet unheard of. There was for the first time since they knew each other something so peaceful about the beautiful man. His voice was quiet and melodic, promising and gentle. As if he was the one leading her into a beautiful dream, not his venom. She let her hands caress over his arms, gulping at the attempt to answer. „Because you love me.“

Hajime hummed. He let his eyes roam her body and gently placed her hair out of the way, letting it fall over one shoulder, exposing the other. And while his fingers run through the long strands he did not stop when his fingertips reached the collar of her nightgown, pushing it down gently.

He was so delicate with her. Hana twisted a bit, pressing her lips and legs together. Heat filled her veins and she felt like a precious piece of art, too fragile to be touched and yet admired enough to draw his hands to her. „I do“, Hajime finally admitted. „There is no way for me not to.“ Hana stopped breathing for the words he finally granted her.

With wide eyes she stared at him, unbelieving of what was happening. „You… you do?“, she now asked, not so sure of herself as she was just a moment ago. It was easy to tell herself that someone must be in love with her. But something entirely different hearing it from the person in question.

The young man nodded, letting his fingers run over the skin of her throat, hissing slightly at the sensation of the running blood flow. He pressed slightly against it, eager to feel even more. „From the moment I laid eyes on you. From the second I heard your voice for the first time. From the very first touch of the warmth in your smile that could only be the compared to the rays of the sun I had felt a very long time ago. I’ve loved you for all this time.“

Hanas fingers clawed into her pillow as she listened intently, drinking up every sweet word that dropped from his lips, eager to not miss a single one of it, while his hand still remained on her body. No one has ever touched her like that. No one has ever seen her like that.

And she felt proud dwelling up in her chest that it was him taking this ignorant innocence from her. That it was his touch she‘d remember as the touch of a man.

„Are you… really sure about this?“, Hajime found the self control to confirm again, looking deep into her eyes searching for a sprinkle of doubt. But the young maiden nodded eagerly. „I am… not selfless in offering you my blood“, she finally confessed. „It excites me… I want to be part of you. And maybe… a little part of me wished to… make you addicted to something of me. Enough to make you surrender to your feelings, to make you weak for my touch.“

Hajime smiled and buried his face into the crook of her neck. His closed lips drew over her skin. Her scent was enough to let him bow before her every wish. „I never expected my master to be this… morally flexible. To make me an addicted man like that.“ He felt his voice vibrate in her. His arm wrapped around her back, digging his fingers into her shoulder like a man about to drown, holding onto dear life. And that she was for him. Dear life itself.

„I’ve been your servant long before. Blood is not what draws me to you… But I can’t deny how… incredibly delicious you are…“ And with that his tongue shot out, licking over the soft skin, placing a kiss in gratefulness of this meal before finally sinking his teeth into her flesh…

[dorianwritesthings]

Happy To Fail

Malavai Quinn x Sith! Reader

A/N: This contains spoilers for the Sith Warrior story on Star Wars the Old Republic. You have been warned!!!

Quinn sighed, and shook his head.

Sith weren’t merciful. He knew that, he’d seen it. And even you, perfect, powerful you...he knew exactly how ruthless you could be.

And yet, you spared him. Suddenly he grew more thankful for the late nights and stolen moments before his betrayal. The moments that made his heart race. The ones that convinced you to go alone with him on that ship…They were the same ones that likely saved his life.

He tapped a finger on the desk, he needed to stop thinking as a strategist. He loved you, really, but he never thought you actually returned that feeling. Sith weren’t merciful, but they could be impulsive.

He owed you now, owed you for more that just a career. Darth Baras was his enemy now, and he hoped that you would defeat him. For both your sakes.

You hadn’t talked to him since the incident on the ship, rather, you had remained holed up in your quarters, filling the ship with an uneasy feeling. Jaesa seemed energized by it, but he only felt guilty. It had only been a day since his betrayal, but time passed slowly with nothing but his own thoughts. You said you wouldn’t tell the crew, but he felt isolated either way.

He’d only seen you once since then. As you stepped out of the refresher, hair still wet, earlier that morning. You calmly offered a greeting that he couldn’t remember, though he could feel the anger radiating off you in waves.

Your yellow eyes didn’t give much away as he quickly stuttered out a hello and tried to keep his composure.

You simply walked past him, heading back into your quarters.

The interaction had drained him so quickly. He spent far too long in the shower, just letting the warm water fall over his skin.

He wasn’t working at his fullest capacity. His thoughts got in the way whenever his mind took the slightest pause. All he wanted was to talk to you again, he wanted to make sure that you knew how grateful he was that...well that he couldn’t calculate for you.

For once he was happy that he’d failed.

Could he ever be happy had his plan succeeded? He’d have gone back to Baras, of course, and continued serving the Empire as he always did but…

He loved you. He hated this mission, hated himself for going through with it, yet something in him pushed him on. He told himself that your interest had to be a with whim, but that cut into him almost as much as his own betrayal did.

The night he’d received Baras’s communication regarding your “removal”, he’d felt terrible. Quinn didn’t sleep much that night and he hadn’t slept much since. His actions felt empty, and his body felt, heavy, ever since he’d set on that treacherous course to kill you. He’d hoped that when he killed you that feeling would begin to go away, but now... now he suspected that the weight of it would have stayed on him his entire life. It might have ended him.

He would have been haunted by the way you’d held his hand when boarding the ship, the way you asked “Is something wrong, Quinn?” when you sensed his unease, the way your eyes looked when he explained what he’d done. 

“Quinn.” your voice behind him made him jump, he hadn’t heard your approach.

“M-My Lord.”

His nervousness clearly wasn’t lost on you, and you sighed.

“I can tell that you’re nervous, upset, confused…”

“All of the above, my Lord.” he said, “I hope you know my confusion is not about my dedication to you.”

You held his gaze, taking a pause that was just a moment too long.

“I hope so.” you said, “I...Betrayal stings, it leaves behind an anger that Sith thrive on.”

“I’ve heard similar things from other sith.”

You nodded slowly, “But...betrayal from you...feels different.”

Quinn looked down, waiting for you to continue.

“I expected betrayal from my master, perhaps not at that moment, but eventually. But from you...I was blind to it.”

“I am so sorry…” he could feel tears pricking at his eyes. It was a sensation he hadn’t experienced since he was a boy, “I had your trust and I squandered it.”

You put your hands on either side of his face, “I am not a gentle person, normally.” You said, “But the people I bring into this small circle are...important to me. The world of the Sith is one of backstabbing and mercilessness. I didn’t grow up with many friends who lasted long.”

“That sounds...terribly lonely.” Quinn said. You nodded, and took the opportunity to glance around. To be this vulnerable in front of him...even after what he’d done to you surprised him.

“I decided that the people aboard my personal ship would be exempt from all of that, from me. I needed a group who I could trust, but I still find myself sleeping with my lightsaber.”

“You..appeared to give up that practice the nights I’ve stayed with you.”

“I had…” you said, “Things aren’t going to be the same, Quinn, but I hope you understand what you meant to me, and what you and the rest of the crew still mean to me.”

“I...think I do my Lord.”

You sighed, then released him. He felt a pang as your skin left his and a small pull at his mind.

“I promise, I will never give you cause to feel this way again.” Quinn said, grabbing your hand before you could leave, “I’ll do all I can to make this right.”

You gave him a small smile, the first he’d seen all day and for the first time in a long time, he felt his anxieties lessen.

“I’ll be back soon to finish preparations for Camilla.” you said, “I imagine it’s easier for us to work together for the time being.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” He gave a slight bow and watched you leave.

You wanted to keep an eye on him, but your choice to do so personally gave him hope that all was not lost.

—————

You left to your chambers to meditate. Quinn's betrayal cut deep and you felt the pain pulling you into the darkside, but unlike last night, your rage was again controlled, focused.

Baras was capable of a great many things, and though you doubted he’d be able to bend your beloved Quinn as much as the average man...you knew, or perhaps you simply needed to believe, that he’d done something to him. Quinn was never one to dispatch of assets he thought would aid the empire, and you thought...

You loved the Captain, though neither of you had said it, yet. And your anger towards your former master grew ever more at the thought of losing one of the few people you trusted to his manipulations. He’d suffer at your hand. You would see to it personally.

[codfanficedits]

Christmas - Part 1/4

Pairing: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader

Summary: Kyle during Christmas :)

Wordcount: 2925 | Rating: E! (18+ only!)

Warnings: A little bit hinting to NSFW, I think? A lot of fluff :)

A/N: Merry Christmas!!

Kyle and you had been childhood friends, and eventually you moved to lovers, only to be downgraded to friends again, when he moved away to join the army. And those last years have been.. hectic, you joined the army yourself and Kyle had made it very clear he didn’t want to serve with you, so things had been awkward, on paper you were just friends. Kyle would always come back to you, during easter, during spring break, summer vacations, he would always know where to find you, only to never admit his actual feelings towards you. And you had gotten used to it, so much actually that you didn’t bat an eye when he was at your door for Christmas and you had used it to sweet talk him into making a snowman with you.

A frustrated growl leaves his lips as he adjusts his scarf against the cold. Kyle always tried to play that hardened soldier, just like he had been taught. But he may be grumpy, but his heart is in the right place—he'll help you build your snowman.

With is a slight spring in your step as you finally convinced him to build that snowman with you. Your hair sways with every step as you drag him along with you to the open field.

The cold air numbs your face, but you don't care in the slightest. You turn around to face Kyle, your eyes sparkling as you see him. Your hand reaches out to tug on his scarf, making sure it keeps him warm enough. "Can't have you catching a cold." You whispered, before you kissed his nose, with a quick spin you face the open field, ready to build your snowman.

Kyle's jaw stiffens at your playful touch, your kiss sending a shiver down his spine despite the cold. He mutters an irritable retort, but the heat rushing to his cheeks proves otherwise. You make him so soft—so vulnerable and so damn happy.

He shakes his head slightly in annoyance, then turns his gaze ahead. Just focus on the snowman, he thinks to himself. Don't let them see how much you're enjoying this.

Your hands are cold when you has finally rolled enough snow for the lower abdomen, but it’s okay. Simple, soft things like this make you forget about the world, about being a soldier, about pain, and you wouldn't trade it for the world. You can see him watch you, an annoyed look on his face, half of it being tucked away in the scarf. But you know he would've left already if he truly hated it. You tried to lift the ball of snow for the middle section, so you can put it on the lower section. But you aren’t strong enough. So you shoots Kyle a pleading look. "Can you help me, please?"

His heart squeezes at the look in your eyes — how could he say no? And, if he's being totally honest with himself, he likes you being dependent on him for a change.

So he leans down and effortlessly lifts the section of the snowman, putting it on top of the lower abdomen. "There." He says in a firm, quiet tone — which isn't quite as firm as it's supposed to be, given his heart racing and cheeks blooming to pink. He straightens up, avoiding your eyes.

You watch in awe as he effortlessly lifts up the section you couldn't carry. The same spring in your step as you scoop up the snow for the head, packing it until it is big enough. With a lot of effort you manage to put it on top of the other sections yourself. And you take a step back, hands on your hips as you admired your work.

You take a carrot out of your pocket, sticking it in the middle of the snowman’s face to give it a nose. You take two rocks out of your other pocket, to give it two eyes. And finally you take off your scarf, the cold wind hitting your bare neck as you put the scarf around the snowman.

"Done." You exclaimed happily

His gaze remains on the ground as you complete the snowman, his heart thrumming in his ears. But he can feel your eyes on him, and he knows you want to see his reaction.

Finally, he glances up.

The snowman is goofy and imperfect — just like every other snowman. Yet the sight of it melts his heart and makes his mind turn into a fuzzy puddle of admiration for you.

He's too overwhelmed to speak, so he settles for a soft grunt. "He's...he's perfect."

The spring in your step stays as you walks over to him. "A work of art." You chuckled.

"Couldn't have done it without you, Kyle. I owe you one." You said as you looked up at him.

Your hands are freezing and a mischievous twinkle forms in your eyes. "I'm so sorry for what I am about to do." You giggled as you hugged him, your cold hands sliding under his shirt on to his warm back.

“Jezus!”

He stiffens at the touch of your freezing hands, his shirt rippling with goosebumps. Yet, he finds his body moulding to yours, reluctant to let go of this moment — reluctant to let go of this warmth.

There is a fire in his belly as his heart thunders. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the nape of your neck; breathing in your scent, feeling your heartbeat against his chest. He hates this. He loves this. He is torn in two.

"I said sorry on forehand!" You defend yourself with a laugh as he buries his face in your neck. It was a cheap trick but you were happy that you did it. Your hands move higher up his back, needing the touch of his warm skin once more.

A groan escapes his lips when your hands move up his back, and his embrace tightens.

"I swear to god. You're gonna kill me." This is torture. But the way you tease him, the way you look at him — it drives him wild.

He hates it.

He loves it.

But he doesn't want to admit it.

A quick kiss on his cheek as you pull your hand away from his body, slipping out from under his shirt. There is a big smile on your face, dimples forming on your cheeks.

"Thank you." You murmured. "Let’s go inside before I have to warm my hands again."

His face is hot, his body buzzing with the aftershock of the rush. He hates feeling so weak, so vulnerable, in your presence. But he follows silently. Reluctantly. He is always reluctant to leave the warmth of your touch.

“Why do I put up with you?" He groans. But his voice is teasing — an admittance of defeat and attraction.

You have his sleeve in your hand, leading the two of you back to the house. "Because I make a good snowman and a killer hot chocolate." You answer his question before you stick out your tongue.

Once you’re inside you take off your jacket before you turn to Kyle, there is a soft smile when you take his scarf off, that same soft smile stays when you slowly pulls down the zipper on his jacket.

He watches you with amusement — his expression softening at your teasing. Yet, his body still tenses when you touch his skin.

His heartbeat quickens when you peel away his jacket, your fingers grazing over his muscular body. He grits his teeth. How is it possible he still feels like a blushing teen?

This is torture, he thinks. I love it.

Your touch is sweet and soft when you help him out of his jacket. You knows he isn't gentle to himself, so you make sure to be it for him. Your hand cups his cheek, your thumb running across the skin as you smile again.

You have to stand on your toes to kiss him, and your kiss is sweet and soft.

A soft chuckle leaves your lips as you pull back and disappeared into the kitchen to make that hot chocolate

A low groan escapes his lips when your soft lips brush against his. His hand reaches out to cradle the back of your head — to pull your body closer, pressing you against the wall.

Yet, as he looks down at you, his muscles go tense and he releases his grip. You deserve better. Someone kinder, sweeter. Not a monster who can't keep his own life in check. Your adorable chuckle fills the room as you scurry away, and the warmth in Kyle's heart is overwhelming.

He wants to kiss you.

And he hates that he wants to kiss you.

You know. You know his internal struggle, the fight he has with himself. How he wants you, but doesn't feel like he deserves you. So you’ve been dancing around each other for years now. He pulls you in, shuts you out. And the same thing repeats itself.

But you can't fight this battle for him. It’s his to do. The only thing You can do is be there for him, and remind him that you are waiting for him.

A soft hum escaped you when you stir the milk on the furnace, patiently waiting until you can add the chocolate

A part of him desperately wants you to win this stupid game. To tear him apart, destroy his walls. But how dare you make him crave it so much?

So, for now, he allows you this game of cat and mouse.

He leans against the wall, his eyes on your back as he takes in the familiar curve of your body. There is nothing he wants more than to pin you up against the wall and bury his lips in your soft, inviting neck.

...maybe just one taste would suffice.

You can feel his burning gaze on you, you knows that look all too well, the love, the longing. Not that he ever acts on it though, no God forbid the great Kyle Garrick would succumb to human urges.

You keeps on stirring the milk, waiting for it to boil, it takes long, you can't put it on a high heat, but you are patient, just like you are patient with him. But who said you can’t have a little fun? Your head tilts to the side, the soft skin exposed, just for him to see.

His jaw stiffens as he takes in the beautiful sight. And damn it all, you know it gets to him. You know how much it drives him wild.

But he wants you to keep going — keep teasing him with soft touches, cute giggles, and that damn seductive skin. He closes his eyes, breathing in your scent like a starving man. What would you taste like? He wonders.

His eyes flicker open and he looks back down at the floor. You're playing dangerous games,

Another soft hum leaves your lips as the milk starts to boil, and you add the chocolate, while you keep stirring. You knows how hard he is struggling behind you, how hard he is fighting to accept the love you both crave so much.

Your gaze shifts to the snowman you had built, and a soft smile tugs around your lips.

He watches with a soft smile as your eyes move to the snowman. He still wants to kiss your neck. I mean, who wouldn't want to kiss someone's neck? Especially someone with such silky-smooth skin.

Oh, you. If only he was strong enough to make his desires come into reality. Then he could finally taste your neck, your lips, your hair...your everything.

What would you taste like?

...he catches himself thinking about the flavour of your lips. Is it bad that he'd really like to find out? But he knows how you taste, he has tasted you before. Yet he seems to have forgotten the taste, desperately craving it again.

It feels as if you are on display with the way he looks at your every move. But he is the only one who you allowed to look at your like that. Any other man would've received a scolding of their lifetime.

You transfer the hot chocolate to two mugs and top it off with some whipped cream.

You turn around to face him, your eyes shifting from the hot chocolate towards him, a silent invite for him to come closer and pick that mug up.

His breath catches in his throat at your silent invitation. He takes one step closer, but no more than that. His body is burning with longing, but he has to show restraint. Otherwise he would lose himself in your eyes, your skin, your lips — and he'd never recover.

He grabs his mug of hot chocolate with trembling fingers as he stares at the steaming liquid. He is not allowed to look up at you. Not allowed to speak. Not allowed to touch you.

He's not allowed anything but to exist.

You watch him, like he had watched you.

Your eyes are on him as you take the first sip of your hot chocolate, and it tastes pretty damn good. A smile as you sees him take a sip, closing his eyes as he savours the taste, a soft chuckle from you as he gets some whipped cream on his nose.

You take the mug from his hands, placing it on the counter, before you use your thumb to wipe away the whipped cream.

It’s your turn to be surprised when he takes your wrist and gently licks the whipped cream of your thumb

A low growl escapes his lips as he licks your thumb — his tongue moving around like it's searching, desperate, needful.

And oh, it reminds him of the taste of your neck, the softness of your mouth. He is utterly addicted to your taste. God.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, resisting the urge to lean in to bite your neck.

"Sorry about that."

The air between you is thick with desire, and the tension is almost tangible.

You had never felt something like that before, and you wanted more. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you watched him.

"Kyle." You croaked as you gripped the counter to keep your touch on reality. "I'll go fucking insane if you don't kiss me."

His heart is racing from the sheer rush of your words. There is a fire in his gaze as he studies your features.

He wants to kiss you. God, does he want to kiss you.

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with it.

"You... do you really want me to kiss you?"

The words are harsh, his tone sharp, but he needs to know that you truly want him. Otherwise he could never justify what he's about to do. He can’t dance around you any longer.

You don’t mind the sharp tone. You were used to it by now, your years long dance around each other.

God all you wanted was a kiss, all you wanted was his love. All you wanted was him. With all his flaws, with all quirks, all of him. "Love me." You whispered

His body tenses at your words — a sharp pain piercing his heart.

All he wants is to be loved. But he wasn't taught to let someone in. To be happy. He was never allowed to be weak. But that's all he is now. Weak. For your love, for your kindness, your touch... And he hates being weak.

Your whisper breaks his heart, but he can't deny what he feels. He wants it. He wants you.

"I love you. More than anything."

Your hands reach out for his, pulling him closer to your, so he towers over you.

"I love you too, Kyle." You answered. "I've loved you since the beginning."

"And whatever your mind tells you, you're not weak for loving me."

Those words are like water in the desert for Kyle's parched heart. He takes a deep breath as he gazes into your eyes. He loves you. Even when you're a cheeky little devil, even when you're driving him crazy, even when he thinks he is doomed to a lonely existence.

You're it for him. You. You're it for him.

His body shakes with need. He is going to finally put this years-long dance to an end.

He leans in and kisses your lips with an almost violent passion.

Your hands find their way to his neck, as if you want to keep him there forever.

He had finally given in and you couldn't be happier. But you had to pull back, you had to breathe, but you smile when you see his face.

"I fucking love you, Kyle."

He smiles down at you, his body buzzing as his hands gently cup your face. There is still a hint of restraint — as if he doesn't want to scare your away by being too much, too quick.

But there is no restraining the heat he feels when he looks into your eyes. "I love you."

He kisses you again, the hunger of years finally being sated. This is better than anything he could have imagined.

He holds you tighter, needing you like he needs air to breathe. His very soul is aching. Simon had been wrong. Simon had taught him that love and friendship shouldn’t be in the field manual. But love never felt better.

[moodymisty]

So I've been working on the Wrecker fic for a bit now, and I'm gonna start revising the chapters now. Should be out before or on Valentines Day for you all to enjoy <3

But I figured I'd give people a snippet, just for fun. It'll probably end up changing, but we'll see <3 Enjoy!!

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

"Hey, you guys just get back?"

Hunter looks up, having been rested his eyes while leaning against the side of the ship with his arms crossed.

"Yeah; We landed only a few standard hours ago."

After nodding to him you look around and notice that Wrecker isn't among them, nor do you hear him close by. When you ask, Tech pulls his nose from his datapad for a moment just long enough to speak, before looking right back down.

“He is currently resting in the ship as per his instructions; He was hit with a high explosive during our mission."

You almost choke on air, eyes darting around at them all before suddenly Hunter butts into view and waives his hands up and down.

"He's fine he's fine, just a little banged up." As much as his sentence might be attempting to soothe you, it really doesn't do much in the end. His hands still held outward away from his body, Hunter turns Tech and gives the crate he's sitting on while doing maintenance work a good kick. It's enough to scoot the crate, and make Tech sport a sour, displeased expression to boot.

"Tech! You couldn't have worded that in a way that wouldn't give her a heart attack?!" Tech appears unphased by all the eyes on him, and simply looks up from his datapad again for only a moment to speak.

"I thought I had 'worded' it sufficiently."

He doesn’t really have much time to reword it however, as you quickly race up the gangplank and turn left, seeing Wrecker slinging is legs off the side of his bunk and looking over at you. He’s currently only clad in his lower body armor, the top has been completely removed showing his bare chest. He’s covered in a moderate amount of bandages and bacta patches, though the actual damage appears to mainly be on his right side.

"Hey! What're you doing here?"

You come close to the side of the bed, and try to avoid being obvious of the way you're checking him over for damage.

He has all of his limbs, which is a good start.

"I could say the same thing about you, Wreck. What happened?" In an attempt to distract from that fact that he is shirtless, you look right at his face and notice a tiny little cut on the right side of his chin.

"Tried to make an explosive out of somethin’ that, wasn't really the best idea, heh." When he sees the worry still all over your face, he quickly leans up more, his boots clanking against the metal floor of the ship.

Sure, it's probably not the worst injury he's had before; His eye is a testament to that, but seeing someone you know hurt right in front of you is far more intense than hearing about it as a fond retelling.

"I uh, heard Tech gave ya’ a bit of a scare," His hand rubs against the back of his neck, the smile he's wearing favoring one side. "It’s not nearly as bad as he made it sound, they didn't even have to dunk me. A little explosion ain’t gonna hurt someone like me." You don’t doubt in the slightest that it would take an incredible feat to down someone like Wrecker, but you hope this serves as a reminder that he isn’t indestructible. He may be close, though.

"You better be thankful they didn’t have to, I don’t know what I would’ve done if I'd found out you were stuck in a bacta tank." You make an angry little face at him, before letting out a nervous, breathy laugh. “I probably would’ve cried, then waited till you woke up to beat you senseless.”

Wrecker laughs; His same deep chested laugh that always warms your heart.

"Don't you even consider cryin’ over me, none of this even hurts." Probably because he has a fair bit of medication in his system, but the sentence serves to soothe you at least a little.

"It better not, or I'll hurt you even worse for being such a blockhead." Wrecker laughs at your spunky sentence, noticing the way you're still attempting to be somewhat serious with him.

"But please Wrecker," Though his face does soften when he notices you're not joking around as much this time, rubbing the side of your own arm.

"Be more careful?" The bandage that wraps just at the crook of his neck moves when he leans his head to one side, giving in on your concern. "I will, I will; Promise. Just for you." That's good enough for you. You just hope before he does something that gormless and bombastic again, he thinks of his own safety first.

"Besides, wouldn't want you to get in an accident and damage that handsome mug of yours."

Wrecker suddenly sits up noticeably straighter, smile dropping into a face much more akin to genuine surprise. You however, quickly go ramrod straight.

Shit! Shit shit shit- I seriously didn't just say that! My big stupid mouth!

"Uh... Well I'll-" You turn around, already halfway out of the Marauder. “See you later!”

[farchanter]

Gary Whitta: GUNDOG

This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.

(picture from Realm)

In the near future, humanity has been conquered by a race of artificial intelligences known as the Mek. The American West has been divided into a series of labor camps invigilated by the Mek. At night, however, the workers tell each other stories. Among these are tales of the GUNDOGs, the bipedal war machines which supposedly served as the last weapons of the human race... until they, too, were felled.

Sitting somewhere at the intersection of Pacific Rim and The Postman, GUNDOG is Mobile Suit Gundam dripping with Americana. It will not surprise you. The action scenes, the romance, the dialogue, the family relationships— all of them are quite comfortable to exist within cliché. Even if you've known this story exists for all of the two paragraphs of this review, you already know how it ends.

Speculative fiction can be broadly said to follow a certain structure: imagine that the world has a new change introduced to it. What are the ramifications of that change? What are the ramifications of that ramification? When done well, it feels like a well-oiled machine.

Mecha stories require a certain modification of that framework: after all, the idea that human-shaped, building-sized robots could possibly be effective war machines falls apart under the slightest scrutiny. Part of the contract with the reader, then, is for us to not apply that scrutiny and instead go along for the ride.

That being said, though, some of the "rules" of GUNDOG feel particularly contrived. As I've gotten older, I've gotten less demanding that my science fiction be internally consistent and logical, but GUNDOG strains that credulity. This feels a bit like seeing the strings holding up the Enterprise, and it poses a danger to the author: I found myself not asking "why is this world like this", but instead "why did Gary Whitta write it like this?" In short, I found myself taken out of the story at moments.

Which is a shame, because as negative as this review has sounded so far, I didn't really hate GUNDOG. For as clichéd as these characters are, they're reasonably compelling studies of those clichés. I encountered this story through the free podcast/audiobook version hosted by the company Realm, and narrator Shannon Woodward does an awesome job. Your life will not be changed by GUNDOG. If you want to put something on to half-listen to while you work, though, you could do a lot worse.

[hearteyes-for-killmonger]

Verboten Passion

A very loose interpretation of Hero & Leander, a Greek myth, but make it Cult. Original character Quin x Chris Evans. Surprise! This is my 2nd Chris Evans fic.

Chapter 2: Seed on the Tile

Disappointed in her elite leaders' unethical decision making, Quin chose to remain in her room reading an ancient text full of secrets that the crowd beneath her would riot and burn the country down if they'd read. Quin simply turned the page.

"Priestess," Fayth stepped forward, not praying but watching. "It's been requested that you mingle and scout new members from the crowd."

"Requested by who," she licked her finger to turn the page, determined to remain at peace within herself and faithful to her practice. It was a honed skill to be so unbothered.

"The Council."

With a deep sigh full of the irritation in her soul, Quin closed the old book and locked it in her private book locker, away from prying eyes. The key to it along with the keys to all rooms of the church remained with her at all times.This book was a Bledell family heirloom not to be touched by the lesser of the race or the impoverished or the white. There were no white people in the Celestial Order as all members were black, but today all races were in the church. The bottom of the barrel were just downstairs and, against her will and better judgment, she now had to join them.  She stepped to her wardrobe to pull another fresh black robe, feeling the silken fabric in her fingers, but Fayth spoke again.

"Priestess, the council has requested that you don't wear the ceremonial robe or face covering, so as to appeal to the crowd. It might freak them out.. All sacred items have been concealed and locked away. They ask that you be careful in what you reveal." 

Quin’s eye twitched the slightest amount at Fayth’s nonchalance. Fayth was still in casual clothes, as were Quin’s two male guards. The ceremonial robes served a purpose which seemed to have been forgotten by all of the Celestial Order for the sake of a half-assed mass orgy. As if they didn't have regularly scheduled and guided ceremonial orgies in honor of Raysha. Ceremonial orgies always resulted in multiple pregnancies for the Celestial Order. The afterbirths were to be used in sacred rituals or encapsulated and consumed by order members. Common births by common women who had not been initiated were of no use or worth. Still, she could see her fellow Celestial Order members were itching to mix with the heathens. Since they’d heard about the festival, they were chomping at the bit to create children who would receive no preference. Children who would not be allowed to know the secrets of the church unless they were educated under Quin and initiated.

"Et tu, Fayth," Quin stared deep into her attendant’s eyes, looking for the last shred of respect that fled her in that instant. "That's fine, you're beneath serving me anyway." Fayth could be replaced as could her guards and anyone else she didn’t care for. Turning sharply, she left the room exactly as she was with no primping. "Take me to Hell," she demanded, leading the descent down the spiraling stairs into madness. It was a circus as she'd expected.

There were wide couches and mattress-like cushions scattered about with men on men, men on women, women on women, and women on men. No one had yet prayed and the sex was not sanctified unto the goddess, it was just baseless sex. She could hear the loud booming music and the shrieking screams of laughter and pleasure in the once peaceful concourse. Human sacrifices didn't scream this loudly. 

It seemed half the city was fucking and leaving their bodily fluids on the main floor of the church which was advertised to the public. The floors had to be mopped and dried in intervals. The women did not know their places. The men were weak and when they spoke, it was utter nonsense. The people who weren’t fucking like mindless rabbits danced, ate and drank to excess, puked on the floor, and smoked bowls of weed served by temple servants who were dressed as common waiters. They were running, cleaning, and serving while the guests had no respect for themselves or each other. It was an abomination, but she and her parents were the only ones who seemed to think so. Unfortunately the council was not in attendance to see what they'd created, if so they might have stopped it. They were so out of touch.

"Oh look, The GAP," Quin’s eyes rolled, spotting tags in dresses.

As the priestess of Raysha, Quin’s was highly disappointed. There was no glamor or beauty or order. The festival was a disgrace in her eyes. Still, as the high priestess, her duty was to be present at all events, not just the ones she agreed with. 

Ignoring the spewed blasphemy surrounding her, she stood among the crowd and walked a straight line through the hoard with a guard in front and behind. 

"Clear the way for the priestess of Raysha," a member in plain clothes announced from the temporarily placed stage where a woman was getting fucked in a handstand under the ceiling paiting of Raysha, which was very disrespectful in Quin’s opinion. If the council had not set this event in motion, Quin would have surely ended it.

The people parted, moving out of her way, gawking at her as she clacked through the marbled concourse in her black Tom Ford stilettos and black pantsuit with her curly hair wild. She stood quietly on stage before the multitude knowin Gamba's concourse was just as full and the orgies were likely worse.  

After a brief welcome speech, the speaker, drunk on overripe wine, stuttered a detailed order of events which included a concert. Apparently the higher tax bracket, which included the talent, sat on the second floor which was blocked off to all but Quin and her guards. He waved his hands to quiet the attendees and regain order which he struggled to do, to Quin’s sober annoyance. 

"First," he struggled to retain their attention. "Wait-wait.. Guys.. Guys! First! The food. Our menu! We have food catered by BBQ Pit, black owned. So get with BBQ Pit for all your BBQ needs! Also, we have a concert. Who is it,” he looked to another member who pronounced the name for him. “It’s.. it’s.. Solange.” 

They went wild when they heard Solange would be performing. Liquor poured over their bodies soaking the floor and they rolled in it like hogs in mud. Quin couldn't care less. Between their excitement, drunkenness, and fascination with staring at her, the speaker had his work cut out for him. 

Grabbing the mic in her gloved hand, Quin took control. 

"Silence, please," she stood in place, not begging but demanding.

Within seconds she could hear the squeaking of shoes and whispers. The moans came to hushes with hands over mouths. The attention was on Quin, but the silence wasn't in respect to Raysha, it was in awe of Quin’s good looks. For the moment, she would take it.

"Thank you. Now, we have some rules of conduct. I know, upsetting. Try to remember this is a holy place. It may not be your church, but it is ours. Please act accordingly. If you will. Clean your own damn fluids! Now.. Raise your head and your arms with me in honor of our esteemed goddess Raysha and her counterpart, Gamba, the true purpose of this festival and the reason you’ve been granted access."

And it was done. A sea of arms raised for the full five minutes that she took to pray and dedicate the event to her goddess, but cameras also flashed and she felt lustful eyes on her bare face and roaming her body. 

"Thank you," she turned, handing off the mic to exit the stage. 

"Priestess," a man stopped, blocked by her security before he could get far. His fully erect penis was in his hand as he jerked it and he was flashing her with not much to show. She looked him up and down. He was in her way, as were the other men who gathered around her panting like puppies to be kicked. She gestured for them to move, walking around them. "Priestess," more voices called as cameras snapped. She kept her eyes forward. "Priestess," a man lunged, landing a kiss on her gloved hand before she snatched it and he hit the ground with a smile. "I love you priestess," he yelled after her, rousing her anger. "I'd drink your bathwater," another got close enough to say with an obscene tongue motion." The men were making all manner of crass comments as if she weren't a holy woman. "You're so beautiful," a man swooned, offering her a flower that she ignored. This is what she got for mingling. The women weren't any better. The amount of breasts in her face reminded her of a brothel. In her mind, they were all as the excrement on a servant's shoe, behaving as feverishly and foolishly as one would expect. They were drunken, loud, and raucous. 

"Get me out of here," she groaned, forcing the guards to stop chatting and making out with random women so that they could escort her to the blocked off second floor where those with money and influence partied separately. The taste level was exponentially better and it was a welcome break from the unwashed and uneducated. She only accepted a glass of wine from a temple servant who averted her gaze in respect. She’d found her new attendant.  

"You're the priestess," a woman smiled in her direction. "I heard you were beautiful but," her eyes widened. 

"All honor to goddess Raysha..," Quin leaned hinting for her name. 

"Gaga."

"Pleasure."

"Excuse me, you are radiant," another woman cut in with respect to Gaga. "May I ask what makeup brands you use?"

"With proper skin care and diet you don't need makeup," Quin countered. "I don't wear makeup."

It was always difficult for people to believe considering her long natural lashes, flawless and dewy skin, lack of pores, and full even colored lips. She was fully aware of the fact that she looked airbrushed. Her true secret was in her custom blended skincare, rigid daily workout and sleep schedule, placenta consumption, blood rituals, and prayers. 

She moved away with her wine to a corner on her own to self-reflect but the distance was short-lived. She was continuously approached. 

"You are stunning," gasped another man who slithered beside her with his drink. "All of this is amazing,” he gestured to the sculptures, “How exactly does it work in your congregation? Women are submissive?" 

This is what drew most men to the temple. She'd constantly have to educate them and explain to them the parts they misunderstood until they realized the Celestial Order wasn't for them. They didn't want to hear her minister, pray all day, or worship Raysha or Gamba, they wanted a sex slave in which case they could simply go find one.. 

"To men, yes, it's only right."

"And they have to do anything a man tells them?"

"Is this a difficult concept," Quin cocked her head to ask, her irritation flaring briefly before she could check it. 

"So if I told you right now to get on your knees and-,” he smiled. “You would have to-"

"Be submissive?" She smiled wryly, leaning to whisper into his ear. "My title supersedes most men in power, which is why I'm allowed to tell you to go straight to Hell."

One signal to her guard had Mr. James Franco removed from her general area. She stared at her guards in irritation when yet another man approached her unblocked. They seemed amused.

"What is it," she snapped.

"I've never seen someone as beautiful as you."

"You're surrounded by beautiful women everyday, stop it." She walked away only to be followed. 

"Please wait, beautiful. I just wanna chat to you. Just a moment of your time." With bowed head and folded hands he begged until she turned around. "I'd really like to make you my wife.. Hear me out now, I'm worth $40 million--"

"I wipe my ass with $50 million," she whispered in his ear. She knew his face and unfortunately it encouraged him. 

"You ain't never experienced nothing like-"

"I'd rather choke on blood. Guard," she gestured for him to be removed as well. 

She could hear the concert downstairs. Solange was singing. Then the music changed and the crowd went wild once more seeing the secret special guest. 

"Say heeeey Ms. Carter," made the entire church attendance go feral. Even some of the rich and the celebrities braved the crowd to go down and watch the performance. Quin remained where she stood.

"Not again," she mumbled as another man confessed his deep attraction. “You’re radiant,” complimented another. “You smell so good.”

The men were gathering to ogle as a group and the familiar energy of an orgy could be felt. She continued to sip her wine ignoring the leering and the advances until she simply could not tolerate any more.

She walked to the bathrooms on the floor spotting a brown-haired man of the causcasion persuasion staring intently at a painting of Raysha with her newborn. He didn’t seem to notice her until she turned the corner into plain sight. He did a double-take, staring as she approached but stayed silent as she came to a stop at his side looking at the painting alongside him. She was imagining what an outsider would see in these representations of the goddess. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a mini packet of M&Ms of all things, opening them quietly, pouring himself a few in his smooth palm, and handing her the pack.

She hadn’t eaten, determined not to delight in any of the council’s bullshit. M&M’s weren’t ideal, but they did taste good. Her guard came for her just then and she dismissed him since he seemed more interested in making her squirm which in any other circumstance would have landed him in big trouble on the spot.

“Your service is no longer required,” she told him, turning back to admire the painting as she had been.

The white man smiled a soft and warm white smile at the painting and she wondered if he knew who she was before the guard came and practically announced it for her. She thought he’d speak, but he continued to eat M&M’s.

“Priestess, I must insist that you return with me.”

Before Quin could form a retort, the white stranger had taken her hand and was guiding her away with no clear destination, just away.

They ended up at a shrine and rather than capitalizing on the moment with her, he turned his attention to looking around, folding his hands in respect. What truly surprised Quin was when he raised his arms and his head and said his thanks aloud to the goddess. He stated that he was coming to her with an open heart and a mind without judgment.

Quin approached him wondering where he’d learned how to pray to her. How did he understand the goddess’ heart? Her own heart began to flutter as she found herself attracted to him. Instead of asking and adding noise to a pure moment, she kneeled and began to pray alongside him, wishing there were a way he could be initiated. If only the council would receive him. Openly she prayed with no thought to censor a thing and when she was done, they took a deep breath together. 

“Priestess,” Fayth called from behind at the shrine room’s entrance. 

“Priestess. Priestess,” Quin mocked. “We’ll all be lucky if Raysha does not strike us down tonight in our sleep.”

“But Priestess-”

“Call me one more time, Fayth. One more. Go tell the others not to bother me or I will pray against them.”

Spooked, Fayth took her leave. 

“You don’t approve of the festivals,” the white man stated the obvious, earning her side-eye. “I get it, they’re messy.. And a little much.”

He moved away, looking about at the replications of spiritual figures. He was fishing for her response and she smiled, purposely taking the bait. It was a good time to do what she was trained to do.. educate him in the ways of Raysha and her history. He seemed to know a little already, which was already more than most.

She explained what she tried to explain in her teachings at the temple. Raysha liked order and respect. Raysha was a goddess of beauty, protection, longevity, and love, but she could be vengeful.

“Raysha does enjoy celebrations, does she not?”

“Of course, what God doesn’t.”

“She enjoys orgies and free love. Unsrestrained sex and procreation, holding nothing back,” he stated repeating the exact words she’d used with her members.

“How do you know so much about Raysha?”

“I read. I may not have access to all these books,” he looked around the public section of the library, “Doesn’t Raysha enjoy wine and hallucinogens? Canonically? If I recall there was a chapter where she became very drunk and slept with a different God, didn’t it lead to more open orgies between Raysha, Gamba, and other deities? ..Didn’t Gamba himself get sick and throw up in the sand?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Isn’t it true?”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Why do you hate it so much? Why does.. the priestess.. abstain from all the orgies when her very own god and goddess do not? Raysha takes no pleasure in virgins..”

And there it was. Quin stood determining how she should respond. A lot of it was upbringing. He wouldn’t understand.

“It’s not appropriate for a priestess to engage,” she lied, turning away to leave.

“A priestess? ..Or you?”

She turned slowly with her eyes cast on his mouth.

“Watch the next words that come from those lips,” she warned, her eyes flickering up for the briefest of moments to see those blues burning bright with an intense passion that moved her to an uncomfortable degree.

“..I want to kiss you.” 

The sudden admission made her check the door to ensure no one heard. She didn’t know whether to leave quickly or approach him to ask him to stop looking at her with those too blue eyes. She kissed him before she realized, stepping back when she realized her blunder.

“I can’t do this..”

“Because I’m not initiated..”

“Because you’re WHITE.. And you’re not initiated. Are you rich?”

“80 Million?”

“Shit, you’re poor,” she gasped in panic. He was holding her waist when she responded from her racing thoughts. “This really can’t happen,” she fell into his eyes again and onto his lips, pulling away. “I don’t even know your name,” she stressed as he dropped silently to one knee gazing up with her hands in his. 

“Chris.”

“My parents would kill you.” It was a literal statement. With no second thought, they would. 

“And I would accept instant death if it meant that for one day, I could be at your side.”

“Don’t say that,” she warned, feeling butterflies for the first time in her 28 years.

“Look, I’d tell you how beautiful you are, but you've heard it all. There aren’t any words that could penetrate your ears as well as your beauty has penetrated my soul.”

“Don’t say penetrate-”

“Penetrate. I’d sacrifice my life on your altar if it meant I’d- (penetrate that pussy),” he mouthed, “-become something you once loved.”

“Don’t say that,” Quin dropped with a humored sigh, weak to his words.

His gentle touch on her chin and arm spoke what words couldn’t. Words were only words. His kisses were like fire on her cheek and to her neck and as he trailed with gentle dominance to her chest, sweeping his hands down her body she felt the temptation to succumb to an orgy full of the different versions of herself and this one man. She was a high priestess, but she was also a woman. 

“Raysha spoke no law against free love.. and sex.. you deserve.. to feel.. love,” he continued with his kisses, his strong hands gripping her in places that hadn’t been touched before. He could sense it, she was fully sure. 

@ogbritbrat @dashhoney25 @lettidarawest @soufcakmistress @ljstraightnochaser @princessstevens @eye-raq @thiccdaddy-mbaku @destinio1 @iamrheaspeaks @hidden-treasures21 @bidibidibombaclaat @forbeautyandlife @blowmymbackout @misspooh @thotyana-in-this-hoe @localtrapgod @purplehairgawdess @thegucciwaffle @miyuhpapayuh

[blog-reflection]

ONE / Seventeen - Tomorrow, we’ll Rearrange the Stars

All three of us woke up in the living room.

Sarah has been falling asleep in her armchair, herself completely covert in a blanket. Jesse was sort of on the couch, while also being on the brig to fall off of it, no signs of any blanket but surprisingly I’ve never seen them sleeping with clothes on. For me, I’m just laying on the floor more or less with a high chance of Jesse landing on me. After I crawled to safety I scanned the room for any signs of what really happened yesterday eve. The last thing I remember was me making popcorn for our horror thriller movie night. I keep looking. AHA. I have found the intruder in my memory line. I spotted a bottle of wine hiding behind the armchair. I also spotted some more unidentified bottles partly falling over. Surprisingly enough I didn’t have a headache. I stood up and started cleaning this sort of mess. The previously found bottles revealed themself to be some homemade witch stuff Sarah got from her elderly club members. For being partly or almost dead, these old folks know how to make good and kicking buzz. I mean, it whipped out a few hours of my memory without giving me a headache, barley and drinks were able to do that. However, I collected the bottles and gathered the empty bowls of what used to be popcorn servings and brought them into the kitchen. I took my blanket and threw it above Jesse so they wouldn’t freeze since, well, it is really cold. After I brought everything there, I decided to just sit down on the counter hunting down things in Sarah's fridge, that wouldn’t make any sound to prepare or eat. I found a neutral Greek yoghurt as well as some canned carrots and corn and decided to mix all together with some seasoning. It wasn’t bad to be honest. 

A couple of minutes later, I noticed some movements on the couch, intending that Jesse moved themself up the couch. I’ve seen their head race to the top followed by a mumbled *the fuck*. I just glanced and smiled towards them.

James: So, how’s my little prince doing? Jesse: What? What the hell happened? James: So you’re knocked out too then? Jesse: Yeah but, I’m not feeling wasted, just, just like the concept of time and space where scooped out of my brain and thrown into a garden shredder. James: Mood. Honestly. Zero chance of remembering even the slightest. Jesse: What happened? Where were we drugged? James: Weelll, sort of? Sarah brought out bottles of homemade buzz she got from her friends and well, I collected 4 bottles so I assume we drank all of them. Jesse: Jesus James: Jip Jesse: Is…is Sarah dead? James: What? Jesse: She’s not moving. Wait. Nevermind, she just got up Sarah: Holy hell, that’s been some good stuff haven’t it? James: Say what again now? Jesse: Sarah, do you…do you remember last night? Sarah: Of course I do! Most fun night I had in a while. James: Lucky you. Jesse and I have a complete blackout, nothing, niente, nada. Jesse: How often do you drink those? Sarah: I don’t know, Jeffry always brings bottles for all of us.Maybe three a week? Maybe more, not sure. Jesse: Easy, you must have some tolerance to it by now! James: Haha yeah maybe. Anyways, I’d like to go upstairs now if that’S fine? Kinda still a lot to do. 

Sarah just nodded so Jesse and I went up to my room. Jesse instantly took of their clothes as soon as they gone of the last step and walked towards the bath screaming 

Jesse: SHOWER’S MINE BITCH

I followed them to throw my clothes into the washer machine, before going back and browsing through my wardrobe. I eventually ended up with an extra large pale jumper and some grey Calvin Klein. Luckily, my room is pretty warm so I don’t have to wear that much all the time. I’m kind of a fast freezer so the warmer the happier. Obviously that’s way too warm for other human beings like Jesse, which is why they stepped outside the shower in a white towel, shaking their hair like a dog in the rain. They placed themself on my bed while browsing through their phone. Once more or less dry, they took off the towel and started painting the wall. In the meantime I browsed through the pages of the instalment of those tiles Jesse and I bought yesterday. It wasn’t too complicated but well my gay ass can be confused really fast once holding a tool in my hand but this time I think a hammer will do. I went downstairs to warn Sarah about two hours of hammer tournament before placing the first tiles. Hah, that's rather easy, almost too easy. But nothing to be worried about. I calmful hammered each tile onto the wall while listening to some metal to enhance my powers in hammering, which did some of its intentions. It took awhile but after what could be three hours, all tiles have been successfully installed. Next was going to test it. I waited in the main hallway and messaged Jesse to turn up the echo every thirteen seconds one step. To my surprise, the tiles have proven the description right. And yes, I read through them while trying to understand the instalments. Feedback? The tiles loose soundproof after the echo is on eight, which is crazy. That means that I can blast music as loud as I want without disturbing Sarah or other people. And not only music. I can watch shows, youtube all on such a high sound level which is just amazing. Long story short, Sarah agreed that that has been an addition worth to the hallway. I grabbed all the tools and remaining tiles and got up to my room again. To my surprise, Jesse started to wear some shorts as well as a crop top which was actually one of mine.

James: Getting cold huh? Jesse: Fuck off. I’m sweating like hell. James: Then why are you wearing clothes? Especially mine? Jesse: Well, kind of embarrassing but I may or may not got colour on my skin. James: Soo what’s the big deal? Jesse: I got colour on my D James. James: Ho….HOW? Wait, I don’t wanna know? Maybe. Jesse: nothing special I just squat down on a bucket by accident. James: You did what now? Jesse: I know I know. Also I may have ruined one of your towels, not sure if the colour is waterproof. James: As long as you didn’t touch my UC one. Jesse: James? I would never touch that. James: Good. I value my UC merch. Just like you value your Honkai merch. Jesse: You still have to mention that? James: Bro have you seen your room? Jesse: Okay fair. Also the wall is almost done! James: Yo sick! Can’t wait to see the end of it.

I started to get down on the last boxes to unpack. To be honest, looking at it now I really think I can be ready with everything by the end of the week. I couldn’t have done it without Jesse tho. They kept me motivated for the entire time. We talked a lot during the unboxing and catched up on everything that happened in our lives. I guess I never noticed how much I really have missed their company. 

For Dinner, I made my fave. Chicken with peas and rice. In times like that I am more than happy that Jesse, just like me, is an omniwhore when it comes to food. They have been vegetarian for a while but that didn’t last very long. All in all they still try to avoid meat as best as they can but not always. We had dinner like we had back then. Sitting on the floor, leaned against the bed and watching some shitty episodes of fucked up youtube compilations. We laughed so hard the entire time. The saddest thing is that I noticed that this won't last forever. Within the next day they will be gone. I only have less than forty eight hours with them and the only thing we’ve done is this. I kinda feel like I’ve been using them for so long. But no, not tomorrow. I’ll plan something for tomorrow, something big, and they will love it. After all, I kinda have to get used to life in a rather big city like Brighton. 

I browsed through my phone to get every information I needed. Perfect. My plan works just the way I’ve imagined it. This night will be our night, and no one can make any difference to that. Bad but sad boy James is no more. Now it’s time to be me, to be the version of me I always wanted to, to evolve. I haven’t been that optimistic for a while but now? Brighton, Sarah, Jesse…They all made me feel so much happier and welcomed. Trust me, tomorrow we’ll rearrange the stars and start writing out own stories. But for now it’s just Jesse and me, chilling on the floor, listening to podcasts and waiting till both of us fall asleep.

Tomorrow will be a blast

[askthedarksidersfam]

In the Pines

Chapter 2: Morbid Curiosity

Summary: A first meeting with the new soul, but there is more to this strangely dressed man than you expect. Especially when the Dead Court demands his presence to the King.

A/n: This series is slowly becoming a favorite of mine, but why is plot so hard to make. And apologies for the longest wait ever 😭. The band Ghost do be pulling me out of my writers block bless Life Eternal. Please excuse any typos or format weirdness. It's a much shorter chapter this time y'all.

The method of dying isn’t a stranger to War. It is an unwelcome experience than a closely held fear that all creatures hold close to their chests. He wouldn’t be one to boast about having been through the whole shebang of death, but he wouldn’t shy away from exclaiming he doesn’t fear it.

This time however he can’t ignore the waves of shame that ache like a slug to the gut. Indeed, he’d felt shame when he perished in battle when carrying the Ravaiim relic to safety. But this was beyond what he felt all those eons ago.

A failure to keep a relic away from enemy hands was vastly overshadowed by the obliteration of War’s image, his legendary honor. All knew of War’s pride of being the warrior he was, the oaths he’d made and the extensions he’d reach to see them fulfilled. He’d been a poster child, in a sense, of the perfect enforcer of the Balance.

The favorite of the Council with his diligent work ethic, outshining them all in how he’d throw himself into his duties. As if he’d have something to prove despite the need not to.

How far he’d fallen…

Stripped of his power, thoroughly chewed out by them and put under their chopping block to serve as their punishment for a supposed crime he didn’t commit. After War opened his eyes, he didn’t need to see the sickly green hue clinging to his being to know he’s been transported to the Kingdom of the Dead. The stench of stale air and a musk of the ever decaying souls assaults his nose. Beneath him is a ground devoid of any green, and instead substituted with layers of dust that flutter through the air at the slightest disturbance.

He can still feel the vague wetness of tears that trail his cheeks. The rider never felt more vulnerable than before.

The racing images of the past events came flooding through his mind, from the moment of the call to his arrival. The chance meeting with Abaddon…

Abaddon. He must be here, War vaguely thinks between the onslaught of thoughts that plague his mind. If he can find him here, then he will find out why he was there… one way or another…

But that very thought sends a wave of anger through his chest, as War is only able to reflect on the accusations and confusion that follows. What purpose did the Archangel serve among the ranks, he was leader of the Hellguard, a division dedicated to the protection from Hellish infiltration of protected areas, especially the borders of Heaven. They were not at all meant to march at the front lines of the Apocalypse as it wasn’t their duty.

Yet there they were, among the ranks fighting with just as much ferocity as the summoned legions. The gears in his brain churned at an incomprehensible rate as he tried to key together this mystery.

What purpose did they serve, and what secrets are they hiding?

Something greater was at play here. Abaddon, the Call beckoning him to do his duty, and no sense of his brothers and sister in the Earth.

All at once, the frustrations bubbled and broiled over within the Horseman. The memories that lay bare across his vision began to crumble and branch into webbing cracks as his own wrath, hot as frothing lava, rose in terrible tidal waves, fueling dead veins with his famously irremovable ire.

Then, akin to a weakened dam holding back a tsunami, the images of his mind, and the last of his reserves, explode in an extraordinary display.

Pulling his lips back to unleash terrible canines, War’s prosthetic arm clenched tight enough to nearly break the metal fingers. Eyelids snap open to reveal the blazing glow of glacial blue, near blinding as they’re fueled by his rage. He raises his fist above his head and, in one great swell of strength, swings it down with a terrible velocity as War unleashes an agonized bellow of betrayal. The momentum of his arm stops short, colliding with the ground below, stone beneath shatters upon impact. Dust flies everywhere as the shockwave sends throughout.

War doesn’t need to see the ground to know he’s left a crater.

Though he doesn’t need air, War huffs as greatly as a rhinoceros. The fire within him surges through his body, showing no signs of slowing down soon. The rider can only stare hatefully at the cobblestone below as he tries to ride out this immeasurable wave.

For an immeasurable amount of time, the Nephilim stays motionless, sucking in deep lungfuls of dust laden air before forcefully exhaling. His right arm, the flesh one, shakes with tremors under his gauntlet, before it slowly spreads across his body.

The great injustice of it all enraged War greatly, but he can’t reflect upon what the Council said to Fury of their elder brothers being absent. Strife had been sent out on a mission according to them, but Death’s case had his mind reeling.

The Eldest had done this before, in the distant past. Disappearing for five hundred years without a trace until finally showing his face in the wake of the Council’s urgent summons. He had disappeared, likely for his own sake of solitude after the Nephilim’s fall.

But what reason had he now to disappear? Where could Death go that not even the most sensitive ears or eyes could detect him on the furthest comer of Creation?

He wouldn’t abandon them. Not again…

So caught up in the haze of his muddled thoughts, War doesn’t hear gentle footfalls coming up to his side. His hood, far over his head, obscures his peripheral vision and had he noticed, he’d be ashamed for letting an unknown person get so close.

But he doesn’t scold himself as he’s still caught in the fray. At least, that is until he hears a throat be cleared before asking him a question he’s never been directed to in his eons of existence.

“Hello there sir. Are you alright?”

——

The behemoth of a man doesn’t move when you call out. But you know he’s heard you if the tensing of his body is any indication. His face is obscured by the hulking copper pauldron and blood red hood pulled far over his head, blocking off any view of his features.

There’s a tremble to his figure, albeit faint, you can spot the quivers beneath his strange armor. You’d would’ve guessed him to be a frightened Angel if it weren’t for the lack of wings and the doubt of seeing one so scared. Demon was far out of the question due to the obvious absence of a tail, malformed wings or the faint sulfur stink they possessed (a surprising fact to learn).

Was this stranger human? The question rattled in your head as you took in his huge figure, the apex of his shoulders were equal to yours at your full height. But the sheer size of him alone suggested Maker, but even this beast of a man would be minuscule compared to Engri.

But it didn’t matter who or what he was, but rather, the shaking that didn’t cease even as you both stood in silence. A pang of sympathy wells in your chest, remembering how you were just as frightened when you first arrived.

‘He could probably use a hand, after who knows what he went through.’ You shudder at the thought of the untold horrors that he must’ve endured at his death.

‘Friendly face…’ you remind yourself as you clear your throat and try again.

“Sir, are you alright?”

This time you get a reaction. The man’s head whips around in record time, near startling you as you’re suddenly stared down by the mysterious newcomer.

Behind the copper pauldron and his hood, you spot two bright eyes staring you down, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. They’re pupilless, glowing like sulfur fire with just as much intensity. The twin flames stare you down like a wrathful lion roused from slumber, and you the culprit.

You can’t help but find yourself lost in the void, sinking further into the crashing storm of anger and despair. It’s too powerful to pull away now, and you can’t gather the strength to as you spot something within him.

For just a moment, in the moment that time was creeping between the two of you, there was the slightest hint of fear swimming beneath the surface. As quick as you caught it, it was dashed away as those wild and raw eyes hardened. It was not unlike watching the surface of magma cool into solid rock, but beneath did the liquid fire still burn.

Caught up in the swirling hues of burning blue, you failed to catch the stranger’s face contort into something more offensive. If you did, you would’ve wisely backed away instead of gawk dumbly as lips pulled back to reveal glimmering teeth.

“What?” He snarls the question at you, the deepness of his breathy tone pulling you in like a magnet. You still don't give an answer, caught between the urge to swallow up your concern and run and to stay and comfort the man. If you could call him that.

Quicker than you’d expect a man his size to move, the stranger throws himself backwards. Adopting a protective stance, his left arm is poised to cover his body more effectively as he bares his teeth warningly. Simultaneously, you jolt back instinctively putting distance between you and him.

How ironic.

Dead as dust trying to keep alive as if you still possessed a beating heart and blood in your viscera. Even more so considering how you’d been so adamant on approaching him first.

Briefly, there’s a thought that comes into mind, asking if this was a wise idea. But what could one soul do to another when both are dead?

You doubt the dead can be killed again. With that logic you feel less insecure about an attack. So you gulp down your nerves and clear your throat.

“Everything‘s okay,” you begin, arms held up placatingly as the man eyes you warily, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Not that you could even land a single blow on your best day.

The man thinks the same, as his lips pull into a deeper scowl as his nose curls. Though he has no discernible pupil, you can feel him sizing you up. Definitely determining you to be as much of a threat to him as a fly is to a lion.

Seconds tick by like eons, neither one of you twitching a muscle as you stare each other down. One with barely restrained apprehension, the other suspicion and lingering animosity.

Until finally, the man curls his nose with a huff.

Completely unimpressed, he motions to leave you in the dust, metaphorically and literally as he spins on his heel and makes his way out of the tiny pocket of room off the road. The ground below shudders with a muffled tromp, displacing dust to flutter into the air and stray pebbles to rock.

If you’d a moment to think about his sheer impact on the ground, you probably wouldn’t have so brazenly charged forward to meet with him again. Hellbent on trying to understand what was his grand plan here.

Maybe you would’ve wisely backed off, especially when you were so hesitant to approach due to the very threat of bodily harm. Even beyond the grave. You’d definitely be reflecting on this tonight to find the answer to this crazy ass decision. But the only answer you’d receive after racking your brain to find is probably “whoopsie” or “I’m not fucking up my first day of Soul Guiding”.

Just as your hand is about to make contact with the man’s armored arm, there’s a great flash of gray as the world suddenly spins on it’s axis. Roughly your back slams into the ground as the beanie hugging your head jostles loose, half handing to your skull. If you’d any breath it’d be knocked clean out, but all you do is gawk, breathless regardless.

In one swift motion you’d been slammed into the ground with the giant of a man hovering over you. Enormous legs cage you in as he keeps a grip so ironclad on your guilty arm you can legitimately feel the pressure near breaking. You fear he’d break your bones had you not been so caught up in staring him down, dead heart lurching in your throat.

Pinned, outsized and far in over your head, the only plausible thing your panic riddled mind can do is teeter on the precipice of two options. Gather the last remnants of human survival and urge you to break loose or relive the last moments of your life cornered in that concrete trap like you are now. The only difference you felt was no roaring of blood into your ears nor the stir of a certain pounding cardiac organ.

You swear in this very moment this man was really those hound monsters in disguise, ready for a part two in their revenge.

Get off.

You see those hungry eyes through the cracks. Blues bleed into fiery orange, the shadows eclipse into coal black leathery skin.

Get off.

Pulled back lips contort into snarling maws like permanent grins. Bare gums glinting with teeth bigger than your arm. A heavy pant like laughter among the prowling pack that close in on their prey.

GET O F F !

The crushing grip melds into the pain of your arm — your missing arm —

You can taste the blood, feel it running down your throat and flood your lungs-

G E T O F F !

The proximity between him and you is near atoms apart. You feel the wisps of breath he exhales, fluttering over your cheeks like ghosts in the wind. There is no heat, unlike the breath of the hounds whose felt hotter than the pits of Hell. A complete antithesis-

“GET OFF ME!”

The shriek echoes across the empty field, rattling the naked limbs of a nearby tree and disturbing the dust to flutter around the air. Dancing between the two of you carelessly.

The man above you does not move as you demanded, instead he keeps his grip steady, the only indication of him listening to you are his raised brows and slightly widened eyes. Clearly surprised by the outburst. But he still doesn’t make a single move, instead vying to keep you pinned as his lips form words that your brain fails to comprehend. It’s only after a few seconds of silence after his words have passed his mouth did your brain catch it like a delayed echo.

“Who are you?! What is the meaning of this?” Though he near splits your ears with his bellow, the demand sounds as if you’re hearing him with cotton stuffed in your ears. And underwater.

When you don’t give an immediate answer, his patience seems to wear thin, given by the deepening furrow of his brow. Vaguely you think how it’s even physically possible before your ears pick up on a voice ring through the air.

“I-I just-!”

“It will do you good to let them go boy!”

Both you and the man’s head swivel to the origin of the newcomer. Poised for attack, the stranger is dressed in armored regalia, finely detailed with bone imagery long since worn down. He carries a glaive, or at least an imitation of the weapon due to its dramatic length of the blade. It’s pointed in your general direction, but not at you. But the head of the man above you.

He stares you down with well worn eyes, cataracts cloudy yet sharply focused on you.

The stranger doesn’t give away what he feels about the situation, but from the pinching of his brows and snarling of teeth, he doesn’t like what he sees.

The soldier jabs the weapon, the edge near kidding the red hood of the man above. He merely grunts at the proffer of the metal blade, unphased about this. Which was rather ironic given his need to attack weaponless you.

“I will not ask again! Let the ‘uman go.” He snarls, dripping with authority to make you rigid upon hearing. The man above you snaps his head between you and the newcomer, brows pinched together as you shoot him a weary grin, silently begging he’d listen.

“Yeah, uh, please let the human go…” you say weakly, struggling under his grip as you feel an atom more confident with this stranger. Though that is promptly squashed when the man glares daggers into you, sending a wave of cold dread shooting through your chest. The crushing grip tightening even more.

“I am not asking you again boy! 'ave you no sense o’ honor that you’d attack one without a weapon?!”

That gets his attention.

His ironclad hold violently wrenches free, and you immediately scramble out from underneath him. You drag yourself away from the man and put some distance between you and him, with the stranger as a barrier. Despite not knowing either, you’d take your chances with the soldier rather than the goliath.

The guard shuffles until he’s blocked the view of the red hooded behemoth, weapon poised at his head. He tilts his head back to eye you as he calls out. “You alright ‘uman?” Dazed, you can only offer an unsure grunt, grasping at the arm with fresh indents in the dead skin. You wince as you doubt there’s a chance it’ll recover.

“Y-yeah.” Is the feeble answer.

He grunts before turning his attention to your attacker, whose face is twisted into a vicious snarl half hidden by his hood. Those blue eyes are pure murderous as he glares at your savior. However, he is completely unaffected, instead vying to puff his chest out and raise his shoulders. Immediately, the man becomes larger than he already is, the armor assisting him as the oversized pauldrons that sweep towards the air flare out like boney wings.

The tension growing between the two is heavy, like a thick fog and tingling with electricity. Though you’re not caught in the middle of it, you can feel the sharp sting that leaves you dizzy.

Just when you’re sure the fog will stretch out to you and wrap you in the static blanket, it’s so abruptly interrupted.

“I do not know why you attack this ‘uman, but know that this will not go unnoticed by me. However that is not why I am ‘ere,” the man straightened his posture as he keeps his glaive pointed straight at the man, “I am ‘ere to escort you, Red Rider, to the King, for you are hereby summoned to appear ‘fore the Dead Court.”

That gets your attention.

Engri had spoken of the monarchy and his exclusivity on the few to no guests he harbors in his Court. In fact, practically no one has made company with the king in the last century other than his guards and royal advisors and overseers.

Not that making company was as simple as approaching the throne room and waltzing in to share your grievances. Between the tales of the men of the Arena who’s battle prowess could match that of the aged Maker and cynical advisors, you’d heard of one such obstacle to meet the king.

The Arena and its heralded unbeatable Champion.

Engri had shared the stories of the Champion, a creature of bone and sinew nigh invincible. How she’d faced the beast before in boast, promising to bring the skull to the Court not for an audience, but to wipe the smirk off their smug faces when they claimed she’d be unsuccessful as the others. And they’d been right.

The monster was unpredictable in its attacks and twice as formidable in strength, even against a seasoned warrior as Engri. In the end, the battle mage decided it best to abandon her quest and turn tail to save herself the near severed limbs during the excursion.

That was the only ticket to meet the king.

And this guy gets a free fucking pass.

A trickling sensation of horror and suspicion runs up your spine as you wearily eye the stranger. What had he done to warrant the king’s audience per his demand?

Probably something terrible. Right?

The “Red Rider” or he’s been addressed, near snarls at the soldier whilst rising to an impossible height. Your eyes shamelessly bugle from their sockets as your jaw fails to keep itself hinged while you wordlessly gawk.

You knew he was tall from how he nearly reached your shoulder on his knees, but not like this. He towers over the soldier who himself boasts an impressive height, and his glaive stands taller than his helmet which adds a few extra inches. You doubt your head even reaches the bottom of his sternum if you stood on your toes.

“What would your king,” he spits the word out like rot on his tongue, “want with me? I am no stranger to this realm nor am I a foe.”

The soldier doesn’t stop the scoff, making the taller shoot a nasty glare. “Do you think us so shut in from the world of the living we do not know o’ your affairs?” The hooded man immediately stiffens, your head tilts as you questioningly stare at the accused wondering if-

“I've done nothing of the sort. I am not guilty of the crimes the Council accuses me of!” He bellows, voice so powerful you can feel it punch you in the chest. Though the other male seems completely unaffected, not even a flinch.

“Whatever those slags o’ molten rocks decide is not my concern. I am here merely to escort you to the Court.” He cooly says.

Council? Crimes? Molten rocks?! What in fuck’s name are they talking about?!

Too caught up in the haze, you shake your head in efforts to clear the very muddled thoughts you’re trying to piece together. You don’t even register their conversation.

Yeah, the man straight up attacked you, but he hadn’t seemed to do so blindly. Though the whole parameters of why he’d think of you as a threat doesn’t click.

But beforehand, prior to his… lashing out, he seemed completely caught up in himself. The scream you’d heard, how the raw bellow was pained, opposite to his aloof attitude. How he sounded so… betrayed?

Scared.

Like when you first opened your eyes on the cobblestone road.

A pang of sympathy worms it’s way through your chest, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of the past. A frown stretches across your lips, remembering that wretched feeling.

Why should you not extend that mercy to him? Because of some self preservation to your corpse? A guard claiming he’s to be punished for a possible crime? Your survival instincts screamed not to, and logic dictated that this was none of your own business.

But the man’s protests of innocence were too heartfelt. Too… fervent.

Unlike the aged corpse of a soldier, you listen to those cries. You know them well. Distant wails that cut through the ears of the endlessly noisy city like a gunshot. Too many times you lie awake on your bed, listening helplessly to the sound.

You once burst out of your room with an urgent desperation to quell those cries. Tirelessly searching for the endless laments, overwhelmed to find the city overrun with souls that scream for a life stolen away, of being lost with this insufferably ceaseless city.

Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help anyone. It seemed as if the screams were not from souls, but part of the very ambience of the city.

You barely slept a week after that, regardless of your exhaustion.

This man, this soul- you can’t bear the thought of leaving him to his fate. It’s selfish but you don't want to bear another moment in the city after the day is done. Returning to that unshakable tune. Maybe this once, you could quell this one’s cries so he wouldn’t join that accursed choir.

Leaving him to go to the Court did not sit right in your gut. You couldn’t stop it, but maybe you could sway them.

Engri’s talk of the King did not soothe your nerves however. But in spite of that, you do not stop yourself from the words that spill out your mouth just as the soldier was about to escort the soul out.

“Uhm,” you scramble to your feet, something more dignified if it weren’t for the dust and beanie falling out of place, “wait right there! I’m coming along!”

The soldier snorts, actually snorts before he can cover his mouth with a hand. That near permanent grin of a half rotted skull seems to widen as he attempts to collect himself. You scarcely notice curious blue eyes drift your way as you pull your beanie back over your scalp, suddenly bashful.

“You ‘ave no business with the King,” he declares, tone trembling with barely held back chuckles, “it’s ‘im that the King wants, ‘uman. You’ve no idea of what magnitude the offense this one has committed.” The Red Rider shoots him a poisonous glare from behind.

“Well, I don’t happen to believe that!” You lamely retort, chest clenching at your weak protest that makes both men take pause. The soldier eyes you with suspicion while Red remains otherwise impassable, other than the slightest widening of his eyes behind his hood.

You absently wonder if he is even affected by your protest. Something within your dead chest screams that it does, that he is in fact, thinking about what you’re doing, but your head seems to think otherwise, filled with doubt.

Your brain weighs the outcomes of both possibilities at blink-fast speed, considering both extremes that could come to haunt you. Either one, this man is indeed what the guard claims, to have committed the worst of crimes, hiding behind a red hood and devastatingly convincing face to trick the bleeding hearts into his scheming and letting him roam free.

Though the worst possible crimes he can commit in this godforsaken realm such as murder was null and void, that didn’t make him less of a threat. You could let him walk free, unpunished and unforgiving into this world, here forever if you can even convince the Court.

Or…

This man is indeed innocent. A victim of circumstance, or even a setup if his protests have any hint of what had happened. You could save him from taking the fall and being wrongly punished for someone else’s crimes. You couldn’t imagine living, or rather, continuing on this dead life with that on your conscience for eternity. Not even after a million years could you imagine that the guilt would even erode in the slightest.

Then, you think about when you first laid eyes on him, how frightened he was, that scream, and those wild eyes that you almost drowned in. There was a deep powerlessness that you recognized that you couldn’t forget.

You’ve seen that look in the eyes of your fellow humans as they were slaughtered on the streets, hopelessly overpowered in the eyes of Angels and Demons. Pure, unadulterated terror soaking into the very bone, leaving no atom unmarred. Then, a ringing in your ear turns into his scream and it blends in with hundreds more you hear a familiar voice come through.

“‘M off tae take ‘em to the city,” It’s Engri’s voice from hours ago, “I doubt there won’ be any other souls while ‘m gone,” you had decided to stay behind, using the excuse of wanting to help ferry souls as a reason not to go back to that wailing city. You did want to help, but you never expected, well, this.

“Well, what should I do if someone comes and they won’t go with me?” You asked, unsure of what to expect, to which she had answered simply.

“Then follow ‘em wherever they go. With time, they’ll go with you.”

Sucking in a breath, you hope this won’t be the biggest mistake of your undead life. Squaring your shoulders and straightening your spine, you boldly stare the guard in the back as you unsteadily declare,

“Take me with him to the King’s Court, I am acting as his voucher of character.”

Sometimes, the heart is bigger than the head.