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#||THIS IS THE PAIN TRAIN VERSE||

tenfoldrage · 3 months

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@isbrilliant | continued from here

It's a strange feeling, having a bullet lodged in your insides. It's mildly familiar— they've been shot before throughout their lives, but this is the first time it's ever happened to them in this body. The Qhaadrin— the native species of this planet— that shot them had gotten a verbal lashing from their commander once the Doctor, who had stepped between them and Donna just in time to take the bullet for her, brought up the Shadow Proclamation.

And now they'd begun the long trudge back to the TARDIS, with Donna blubbering by their side, fussing over them. Their hand is pressed firmly against their wound, and they groan— they'd really liked this suit! At least they weren't wearing their favorite coat, and even better still, they can tell that their injury isn't fatal. Thank gods for that 'cause they sure as hell aren't ready to change just yet.

"Donna." They groan, stumbling alongside her as deep orange blood seeps through their fingers, soaking their suit. Every single movement they make sends red-hot pain crackling outwards from the hole in their abdomen, blurring their vision. They have to grip onto Donna for support, because if they didn't, they'd surely fall. "It's not... your fault, you just... you didn't know... and... that guy... he was way too trigger-happy! What a... letdown!" They're trying to cheer her up, forcing a smile onto their face because all they want is for her to calm down.

"We just... need to get back... to the TARDIS. I'm not dying, if that's what... you think! We just need... to get this bullet... out of me, 'n then... then I'll heal... right up."

#[ here comes the pain train choo choo lnfkrbejvlghisoj;kf ]#/ in character #/ verse: ten #isbrilliant #gun tw #injury tw #blood tw #gun violence tw

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dojimakaichou · 3 months

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for @stingslikeabee.

★. ―

Daigo couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as he was brought before the prison officials. He was a free man — if the courts were to be believed — but the level of paperwork and administrative approval needed to truly release him had already delayed the process by a full day. The Chairman did not think he could bear another disappointment, so he kept his expectations low ( though his head remained as high as ever ).

Eventually, however, Daigo felt the general mood shift. A guard unlocked the shackles binding him to his chair and walked him to a small, colorless room. Inside, the garments he had worn the day he was arrested sat waiting for him. His personal affects were there as well ; the yakuza's wallet, watch, and cigarettes had been stacked neatly beside his dark suit. Daigo frowned thoughtfully. He remained skeptical until the same man removed his wrist restraints and gestured toward Daigo's things. After, the guard left, closing the door with a snap.

The Chairman massaged his hands, rolled his shoulders, and blew out a long breath. A bit of tentative hope needled its way into his heart. Quietly, he picked up his wallet. Daigo rifled through it, looking for the most important item he always carried : his wife's old hostess card from Shine, poorly laminated and faded. At that, some of the remaining tension in Daigo's body dissipated. He didn't care that the cash was gone. Everything he kept in his pockets normally was replaceable — except for that.

Daigo changed slowly, growing accustomed to the new fabrics on his tired body. He smiled thinly at the realization of how much weight he had lost. The yakuza was still formidable to look at, but the looseness in the sleeves of his well - tailored shirt and jacket confirmed what he had suspected. Once he was finished dressing, the Chairman scratched as his full beard and ran his fingers through his hair. It was all too long, coarse, and messy.

Soon, the guard came to retrieve him, and the rest of the process was a blur. Daigo inevitably gave in to his growing excitement. He wanted nothing more than to kiss his wife and hold his children. Hikari would seem like an entirely different baby after his time away. Daigo wondered if she would remember him. She had been so small when he left, so new to the world ; under his breath, he cursed the powers responsible for robbing of his chance to see her first months.

The yakuza walked out of the prison with long, confident steps ; unfortunately, they faltered a short distance away from the exit. Daigo saw the shapes of a car and a person ahead of him, but his eyes were too pained by the daylight to focus. He stopped, closed them, and raised a hand instinctively to shield his face. Beneath the shadow of his limb, his handsome features looked drawn and exhausted. For a moment, Daigo was not aware of who approached him — only that he was free and that he needed to conquer this demon if he was going to return to his home.

#ooc. PAIN TRAIN CHOO CHOO.#⤿ VERSE. ✕ YAKUZA AU ✕ THE FIRST LADY OF THE TOJO #stingslikeabee

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maskednihilism · 4 months

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@shrineofprophecy

It did eat at the thief. There wasn't a lot he regretted in life. Even when he did some horrible things Sampo took it with stride. But Belobog.. this planet changed him. Ever so slightly.

On quiet evenings like this he would come to the little workshop. He's done this pilgrimage before. But he would always stop short at the corner. Green eyes would stare at the door. Regretfully reminiscing about happier times. Oh how he and the shop owner would laugh and laugh. Sometimes they'd argue over the stupidest things, like how to best fix a heater. Or who swiped the last morsel of roasted olm.

It was always Serval.

Those days seemed like they wouldn't end. At least until he found himself pushed out of the workshop one day.

You wanted info from my brother didn't you?! Am I just a toy to you?! Get out, don't bother me.

The thief did want to use her while he got accustomed to the planet. But those days filled him with joy. It was the closest to true elation this Masked Fool got. He did also commit crimes on the side, that also wasn't untrue. But to turn on her? Goodness he could never. His heart ached when he tried.

But he couldn't fight against her words. Everything she was told about him was true. And it came from her dear little brother. Sampo knew better than to try and fight that bond.

It still hurts however. He still remembers how she looked just as the door shut. She was hurt too. Maybe even more than he was.

This Masked Fool certainly lived up to the name. Here he was, standing and looking listlessly as if something would change. As if she'd walk out that door and accept his untrue nature and let it slide.

He was a fool.

#shrineofprophecy #verse;; canon #ooc. Let's start the pain train 👀

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byanyan · 6 months

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@fcllederage sent 💬 for a starter!ㅤ∘ ˚ ( accepting ) ㅤㅤㅤ— prompt borrowed from this meme

ㅤㅤ" i know you've been havin' a shit time, so i brought some food. "ㅤthe announcement is made in tandem with a dramatic wave of a paper takeout bag before byan drops it unceremoniously onto the nearest flat surface. beginning to dig through the (admittedly stolen) order, they pause for the briefest of moments to cast a glance at hyacinthe, an eyebrow quirked.ㅤ" ...didn't think about this 'til just now, but i hope you're not vegetarian or anythin'. you might be stuck with nothin' but fries if you are, s'all burgers 'n chicken in here from the looks of it. "

#fcllederage #━━ ˟ ⊰ ✰ ic ⋮ we are not just graffiti on a passing train.#━━ ˟ ⊰ ✰ verse: modern ⋮ come on up / bring the pain.#hiii i hope this works!! please feel free to lmk if you'd like something else uvu #also this is me apologizing for being so bad at keeping our threads going!! i'm trying to be better about it ;A;

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pktearsoftazmily · 5 months

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🌻

As quickly as he could, an ice pack is brought out from the freezer, wasting no time in giving it to his caretaker. As he's handing it over, it's then he sees the black eye, gasping at the sight of how nasty it looked.

It's a relief to be told it had been through training, so Lucas didn't feel any anger because of this. Hearing how Raymona had done this by accident, it made him bite his lip, realising not to mess with her in a fight, because she's got some strength behind her.

"My day's been good. Been doing some art again. Boney's asleep on his bed, so I've been occupying myself because I wanted to get better at it. I made sure to feed him today, too. He's had all his basic needs met."

Poor Rayman, his eye looked sore. Poor Raymona, too, no doubt she's feeling guilty. He'd have to check on her later, make sure she'll be okay.

#spoocysgladeofdreams #spoocys glade of dreams #captain laserhawk verse tag #Ouch?? Black eyes are painful #Poor limbless couple hnn #Rest for you young man until you're able to train again

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hyaciiintho · 2 years

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The Hero of Twilight has encountered a familiar Shade... ♡ @ironbloodcd

It’s only after the Hero of Twilight is left alone that the familiar inkling becomes known, first, as the feeling of eyes watching from the brush nearby, only to manifest then as a whole PRESENCE coming into being. The Shade is but a wolf at first, seated patiently by a tree that had been overtaken by vines, only for him to stand and move behind the trunk and come out as a skeletal warrior on the other side.

A bit show off-y, sure, but he didn’t want to risk appearing as something ELSE prematurely. Maintaining any form was a task and a half, after all.

“It has been some time, Link.” The Shade spoke, single eye focused on the Hero of Twilight with great intensity, though holding a sense of SOFTNESS all the same. “How have things fared thus far?”

Surely his presence here would be UNEXPECTED, for after the land had been saved from Ganondorf’s malicious intent, the Shade had left the other in pursuit of peace. There was, however, a storm brewing nearby. Something world-altering was to happen terribly, terribly soon, and the Shade cared far too much to allow the other to endure it ALONE.

A terrible fate was on the horizon, but he didn’t want to WORRY the other too much. It was destiny, after all.

#ironbloodcd #⚘• ᴳᵘᵃʳᵈⁱᵃⁿ ᵒᶠ ᵀⁱᵐᵉ (HERO’S SHADE VERSE)#//I said I would so ଘ(੭ˊ꒳ˋ)੭✧ HERE WE GO ON THE PAIN TRAIN~//#✿• ʸᵒᵘ ᵖˡᵃʸᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ᵒᶠ ᵀⁱᵐᵉ! (Q U E U E)

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mystifiicd · 2 years

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“Do you think we all should die because we’re not...” He’s scared of the answer but 838 Christine said to face his fears and what the House of Oblivion, his own nickname for the most awful aspects of him represented, Strange had said to him about mercy killing had weighed heavily on his mind for awhile. Yes, he shouldn’t have thought about it, but overthinking is his specialty. He wonders if 616 Comic feels the same way at times. “Happy?”.

@xstrange requested a starter from DSitMoM because I love torturing my muse.

#[ are you truly happy Stephen Vincent Strange? DSitMoM / POST DSitMoM verse ]#xstrange #death: tw #remember when they both got in a lizard throwing fight? yeah I miss those days too;;#ds 2 spoilers;;#doctor strange 2 spoilers;;#doctor strange in the multiverse of madness spoilers;;#dsitmom spoilers;;#also welcome to the pain train;;

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byanyan · 5 months

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⋆:°*ㅤ@lee-sol gets a plotted starter

ㅤafter a full minute of fumbling to get the key in the hole, the lock finally clicks, allowing a sleeve-covered hand to reach out to the handle and push the apartment door open. stumbling across the threshold with their hood pulled up over their head, byan shoves the door shut behind themself and for a long moment simply stands there on the doormat, completely still but for the slightest tremble that runs through their body. it's well after four in the morning, and the apartment is not as dark as it had been when they left it but, mind as distant as their gaze is, they don't even notice. despite this lack of awareness when it comes to their surroundings, however, they're all too aware of the wet, sticky feeling which coats their fingers.

for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight, they try to wipe it away on their pants.

for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight, their hands still come away stained with red.

it's not the first time since the attack that they've been out all night without a word to sol, slipping out quietly after he's fallen asleep, but it is the first time that they've come back covered in blood. splashed across their face and coating their hands, the amount of it that's soaked down the front the oversized black hoodie they've donned causes it to cling uncomfortably to their chest and arms and even has a few pieces of hair sticking awkwardly to their cheeks and forehead. desperately, desperately, they want to be rid of it, to wash it all off, to scrub at their skin until it peels away and they can feel clean again, and yet... they remain frozen in place, just inside the door, staring at the floor as they breathe unsteadily.

the violence plays on a loop in their head, over and over and over — it's from their perspective, but it feels as though they're watching a first person view of someone else's hands, just as distant as it had felt in the moment. those were their tattoos on those hands though, their knife in that grip. fist after fist after fist pounding into the guy's head, face, and chest, knife swinging indiscriminately and stabbing with no real precision, sinking deep into flesh... it had all been them. but they hadn't felt in control.

ㅤ...they still don't feel very in control.

a soft mrrrow of greeting is enough to make them stir slightly, to draw their gaze down to where momo brushes against their leg, but the sight of red staining the pink laces of their combat boots pulls them back into a frozen bout of staring. they should reach down, take their shoes off and go clean up... they should, but even in telling themself that, they can't seem to make themself actually move. can't seem to stop staring down like they can still see the puddle of blood at their feet, so much more real in this moment than the soft sound of approaching footsteps or the next nudge from the cat who remains at their side...

they killed someone again. they killed someone again, and this time it hadn't been in self defence. this time, they'd had all the opportunity in the world to turn around and walk away. ...but they didn't.

ㅤㅤㅤ...god, what's sol going to think?

#lee-sol #━━ ˟ ⊰ ✰ ic ⋮ we are not just graffiti on a passing train.#━━ ˟ ⊰ ✰ verse: adulthood.#this is...... not remotely as good as i wanted it to be i'm sorry #still struggling a little to put words together exactly the way i want to #but i also really wanted to FINALLY get this started so!!!! let the pain begin (:

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thebigshotman · 1 year

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* Take it * Take the deal ! * Don't let it escape. Don't let them take her away. * Don't let them- let them- let them- let them-

The items he had collected to give to Eileen were strewn all over the shop’s floor; a gemstone here, bits and pieces of tinfoil there. He had tried to make something halfway decent, but between the doubts going through his head and the constant glitches and twitches of his body, he had just about given up. For now.

As for Spaul himself? He was behind his desk, fingers rubbing his ball-point dot eyes underneath in lieu of any actual tears or crying. What would it take for him to prove himself? To get rid of these voices, to protect them? To protect her?

That’s when he heard the voice telling him to take the deal. He knew all to well what that meant. He knew about how horrible things would become if he did. And yet…

And yet…he did not immediately begin mentally protesting the idea. The garbage noise in his head seemingly becoming just a little less intense as he began to warm up to the idea.

*MAY-MAY-M4YBE…MAYB3 I WILL…

No! You can’t do that!

Spaul, no! You can’t-

The much more reasonable voice in his head was becoming more and more distant with each passing second. And why was it starting to sound like someone else?

#(‘I’m gonna hide what I’m planning for now’ I say. then I do this lol)#(the pain train is turning into the insanity express. choo choo)#WANNA MAKE A [deal]?-asks and submissions #ONE WEIRD TIP-in character #NOTHING MORE THAN A SIMPLE PUPPET-main verse

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familyvideostevie · 3 months

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you have me, you have me only

joel miller x reader you get (minorly) injured on patrol. joel does his best to patch you up and not worry too much. | jackson!joel, hurt/comfort, wound-patching, some blood, a jesse cameo, joel being joel, all that good stuff. | 4.2k a/n: part of the just and just as verse. not too soft but not too angsty, either. just another day after the end of the world, you know? thank you @mrsmando for your eyes on this! <3

___

"Almost there," you mutter. "Fuck."

The icy winter wind dulls the stinging in your palms to a numbness. The leather gloves you've had for half a decade stay tucked in your pockets. You don't want to ruin their lining with dirt and blood.

"How's the head?"

Jesse pulls up alongside you in a trot. The adrenaline from your patrol-gone-wrong pulses heavy at the top of your spine, your vision sharp and the whole world a little too loud around you as Jackson comes into view at the bottom of the hill. Your head, like the rest of you, throbs.

"I'll live."

He scoffs and his horse snorts as if agreeing with him. In truth, you're more pissed than injured, though it certainly looks like you lost a fight. Jesse's cheekbone will no doubt bloom purple tomorrow and his lip is still bleeding sluggishly. His jeans are splattered with gore, same as yours.

"Thanks for back there," he says.

You shrug and wince when it pulls at the skin of your side where you fell.

"You, too," you tell him with a grimace. "That was quick thinking with the brick."

You like him -- he's good at his job and he's a good friend to Ellie. You know Tommy and Maria are not-so-subtly training him to run this place someday if he wants to. As a patrol partner, you can't ask for much better. He knows all the routes and he's a good shot and his mom knows everything there is to know about everyone in town and sometimes he passes tidbits on to you.

But knowing your shit doesn't mean a damn thing in this world, sometimes. You can still get ambushed by infected on patrol and it can still fuck up your day.

He waves you off. "I just can't believe an elk chose our station to fucking die in."

"Tommy is going to shit himself when you tell him," you laugh. It pulls at your ribs. God, is there any part of you that didn't take a beating?

"He'll just be pissed he wasn't here."

Your horses reach the bottom of the hill and Jesse hesitates, the green scrap of cloth in his hand. The red one indicating an injured party peeks out from his pocket.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the clinic?"

"I'm fine," you say firmly. "I can patch up at home."

He eyes the cut on your forehead and your scraped palms but caves under your glare and waves the green flag.

"Joel makes the same face," he mutters. "Ellie does, too. Freaky."

The gates open and you grunt when you get off your horse, palms back to stinging.

"Joel's two expressions are pissed and annoyed," you say. “Not hard to pick one up.” You press the back of your hand to your forehead and it comes back tacky with blood. "Fuck."

"I don't think you'll need a stitch." Jesse holds his hand out for your patrol rifle and pats the neck of your horse. "I'll debrief and get these guys settled. You go home."

Normally, you'd protest. But you really just want to take a hot shower and sleep for twelve hours, so you nod and shoulder your pack carefully.

"Make sure you tell Tommy about beating a stalker to death with a brick," you call over your shoulder. "He'll be impressed."

Jesse laughs.

Snow crunches under your boots on the way home. Fuck, you're exhausted. The adrenaline fades with each step and the aches become sharp pains. There aren't too many people out today on account of the cold but you nod and wave, ignoring the double takes at the blood on your clothes.

It'll be a pain in the ass if you can't patch the ruined knees of your jeans. Maybe you can convince Joel to carve something for the woman down the street who can sew better than anyone in town. Finding new pants is damn near impossible.

You’re practically dragging your feet by the time you reach your house. The mailbox labeled Miller, the wind chimes gently swaying on the porch, all of it puts you at ease. You made it home.

The porch steps groan as you climb them and the front door opens from the inside as you reach the top. Joel steps out, hand still on the knob when he looks up and sees you. His eyes widen.

He was on patrol today, too. You left at the same time but he had a shorter route and must have gotten back a while ago.

"Are you coming to meet me?" you say with a grin that's genuine despite the way your body pulses with pain. He does this sometimes -- milling around the gate, chatting with people on the wall as he waits for you to return. You never really feel like you're home until you see his face.

Joel does not smile back. His eyes rake over you the same way he surveys a room, cataloging all of the important things. The gash on your temple, the rips in your jeans, the way you're favoring your left side. The blood, too -- it's everywhere, you're sure. Palms, knees, collar. Jesse helped you wipe your face before you rode back so that you could see without blood in your eyes, but you must look pretty fucking rough.

"Jesus," he says. His hand twitches like he's going to reach for you. "You okay?"

"I'll be better when I'm not standing out in the cold."

His nostrils flare and he heads back into the house, you on his heels. You dump your pack and sit down heavily on the bench to take off your boots. Joel beats you to it, lowering to one knee with a slight groan, fingers working at your laces.

Normally he'd ask how patrol was, how Jesse did, if you saw anything interesting. Instead, his cheek twitches like he's clenching his jaw so hard it hurts. He unties your double knots with practiced ease and his silence fills the entryway of your house.

In another life, the sight of him on one knee would set your heart aflutter. As it is, you want to run a hand through his hair and smooth the worry lines on his forehead. You know him and this is how he handles it -- he chews on blame that doesn't belong on his shoulders until he can fix it.

"I'm fine," you say softly. You open and close your hands, resting them on your knees. You got most of the gravel out but there's dirt and god knows what else embedded in the tender flesh. Joel pulls off one boot with a firm hand on your calf and then the other before finally looking up at you.

"You wanna explain...this, then?"

His hand waves up in your general direction. There's no tremble in his palm but his brows are furrowed, his shoulders set in that way of his, like he's bracing for bad news. You have a rule about not lying to each other. So if you say you're fine, you're fine. Achey, bloody, and gross, sure. But you made it home in one piece and now you'll let him take care of you and he has to be okay with that.

But you don't mind reassuring him. He worries, and you know the feeling.

You shrug and fail to hide your wince. Joel wraps a hand around your ankle and squeezes lightly.

"I've had worse," you say. "I'll tell you about it if you patch me up."

He softens a little and sighs. It won't do anything to remind him that he can't go back in time and stop you from getting hurt. Joel knows he can't fix everything, can't keep everyone he loves away from harm, can't save the world. Won't, if it comes at the expense of the people in his heart.

But you can give him something to do -- a way to make it better. You could probably bandage your hands and your forehead and the rest on your own but it'll help him just as much as you if he does it.

Life in this world is a constant give and take. You have to be okay with some things, with cuts and bruises and ruined clothes if it means you survived. There's no safety, not anymore.

"Alright, c'mon," he says, standing with a groan. "Upstairs, 'fore you bleed on the furniture."

He holds out a hand for you to stand but you show him your mangled palm. Joel clicks his tongue and grips your forearm gently instead as you rise.

"Gotta clean that," he says.

"That's the plan." You leave your coat and pack behind in a heap and head for the stairs. "A hot shower sounds so fucking good right now."

Joel stops you with a hand on your elbow and you turn on the bottom step. He traces the cut on your forehead with light fingers and you try not to wince.

"Shower," he says. "I'll patch you up after." His tone leaves no room for argument.

You ghost your fingertips along his jaw and smile at him.

"Yes sir, Mr. Miller, sir."

More tension melts from his shoulders and he rolls his eyes at you. You laugh all the way to the bathroom, even though it hurts a little.

It's been a while since one of you returned from patrol with any sort of injury. Winter means the hoards are sluggish and easy to track and tends to keep groups of people from coming to the valley and making trouble. Today was bad luck and could have been much worse.

You both know how quickly all of the good in your lives can be snatched away. Everyone does.

But you just can't dwell on it. Joel knows it, too, and letting him fuss over you in that way of his will remind him. You're home. You're okay.

You leave the bathroom door cracked as you shower under the gentle spray. Your various injuries sting but you manage to clean the scrapes on your knees and hands and wash the blood from your skin and hair, the water rusty brown as it swirls around the drain.

Joel knocks when you're almost done and the hinges groan when he steps into the bathroom.

"Leavin' you clothes," he says, voice raised so you hear over the spray. "You okay?"

"Still alive," you call back. "Almost done."

The water starts to turn lukewarm so you switch off the stream and drag back the curtain. Joel is nowhere to be found but he's left you loose shorts so your knees are exposed and a big, faded graphic t-shirt that you brought home for him as a joke last year as well as fresh underwear and warm socks. You gently pat your skin dry with an old and scratchy towel and do your best with your hair before sliding them on.

Joel knocks again and this time he has the bag with all of your first aid stuff in his hands. The steam from your shower rushes out into your bedroom and you shiver.

He jerks his chin at the counter. "Wanna get up there?"

You haul yourself up with a groan and he stands between your knees, arms crossed and head cocked.

"What're we dealin' with, here?"

You look down at your messy palms and rattle off what hurts.

"Cut on my forehead, bruised rib, probably, fucked up hands and knees, and..." You look up and find Joel running a hand down his face. "That's it."

"You sure?"

You glare at him. He glares back. His eyes drift to your forehead gash.

"Cut could use a stitch."

He's still tense, you can tell, probably will be until he wakes up tomorrow and you're still next to him in bed. Until the wounds turn to scabs turn to scars. Maybe not even then.

"I think I've had enough cuts over the years to know what needs a stitch."

His eyebrows rise just a little bit, turning his expression from interrogative to exasperated, but he knows better than to tell you to do something when you’ve set your mind against it.

"They're offerin' medical degrees on the Creek Trails, now?"

"Joel."

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Fine," he says. "Let me feel your ribs."

You raise your arms a little and he slides his palms under your shirt and up your torso, pressing gently as he goes. Braless as you are, he brushes the underside of your breast, and your breath hitches. His eyes are soft with quiet amusement but he doesn't tease you.

"Your hands are warm," you murmur. He reaches the place on your side that took the brunt of the impact and you hiss.

"Sorry," he says. "Doin' real good. Deep breath for me." You obey and he withdraws, satisfied.

"Nothin' broken," he says.

"Told you."

He hums and pulls out the precious few disinfectant wipes from your first aid kid. You can get Joel to do a lot of things just by asking, but arguing with him about wasting supplies on you never works. He washes his hands in the sink and glares are you like he knows what you’re thinking.

"Forehead first, then hands, then knees," he says. "Okay?'

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. He grips your face with gentle fingertips to keep you still.

"How was your patrol?" you ask him.

He makes a noise low in his throat that's halfway to being a laugh.

"C'mon," he says. "You don't want to hear about mine. I know you're dyin' to tell me what happened."

The alcohol wipe stings as he swabs at your forehead and you tense. Joel's thumb rubs slow circles at the corner of your mouth and you press your knees into his hips.

Funny how you've had broken bones, been stabbed, shot, pretty much everything over the last twenty years but it's the small stuff that hurts the most. Stubbed toes, sliced fingers, alcohol wipes on shallow wounds. Some things just don't change.

"Okay," you say. "Well, you'll never believe it, but a damn elk decided to die in the station where the logbook is."

You tell him how you and Jesse rode up and saw the blood trail immediately and heard the moans and groans. You kept the horses on the other side of the fence and checked the first floor and the overlook, but the elk had weaseled its way under the collapsed staircase.

It smelled like death, rust and decay heavy in the air. The animal must have died just after the last patrol.

But it wasn't the problem. It was the group of Infected it attracted -- two runners and four stalkers. You have no idea where they came from but, since you were on patrol, the priority was eliminating them. The runners were easier, although one of them was responsible for the gash on your forehead when it managed to push you into the wall. You and Jesse cleared them quickly, one bullet each.

You thought you got all of the stalkers. One of them was munching on the carcass and went down fairly easily with your good aim. Jesse helped you clean your forehead so you both could clear the passage to get to the upper level and sign the logbook. The corpses went over the side of the station into the forest below. The Infected had eaten so much of the elk that it wasn't too heavy, though you both were sweating and dirty by the time you finished.

"Lemme guess," Joel says. You open your eyes as he carefully pulls the wound closed with two butterfly bandages before he gestures for your hand. He holds your wrist gently and tilts your palm side to side, looking for dirt. "There were infected inside the station, too."

"Look at you," you tease. His eyes flick to yours for just a second, intense as always. "It's like you were there."

"Smartass," he grumbles. The disinfectant stings on your palm, too, but you keep talking and keep your gaze on his face.

"Jesse climbed the rope up to the control room first but had to fend off a stalker at the top so he didn't see when another one grabbed my ankle and pulled me down mid-climb, which fucked my hands. The fall is how my rib got bruised and I tore up my knees fending it off."

Joel's cheek twitches. He wraps one of your palms in gauze and turns his attention to the other.

"Fuckin' hate those things."

"Me, too. When I got to the top, finally, Jesse was tugging a pipe from the head of a corpse. There was one more -- it jumped out of that supply room on the side, the one where Ellie found a bong, once, I think. I dodged it but my gun jammed and my hands were bleeding."

"Should've been wearing gloves."

You tap his leg with your foot and ignore him. Not taking your bait about the bong means he’s still pissed. "And then Jesse killed it with a brick."

"I taught him that," Joel grumbles.

He ties off your other palm and as soon as he's done you frame his face. Joel allows it, allows you to stare at him for a few seconds like you're memorizing him. You're telling the story like it was a fun adventure -- and it was. You're plenty capable and he knows it, too.

But you were scared. You don't tell him that right now, instead grounding yourself in the man in front of you. His hands are rough and dangerous to most, but tender and careful to you. The broad, firm line of his shoulders, always braced for the next hit.

The gash on the bridge of his nose, the lines at the corners of his eyes. His beard, greyer every year. You swipe your thumbs along his cheekbones and he sighs.

"Lucky me," you say softly.

You lean in to kiss him, just a light press of your lips to his. His wide palms rest on your bare thighs and he kisses back with a kind of desperate firmness, as if he's proving to himself that you're real. That you're here in front of him, under his hands, in his care.

Joel drags his lips along your cheek.

"Knees," he says.

He steps back and releases your thighs with a squeeze. He treats more of your torn skin, a frown back on his face.

"I do want to hear about your patrol, by the way."

He shrugs. "Not much to tell," he says. "Didn't even get to shoot anythin’.”

You swing your foot back and forth, tapping the side of his thigh with every pass.

"But you had the nice route," you whine. "Tell me what the lake looked like."

"Quit distracting me," he grumbles.

"Like you don't have the steadiest hands in all of Jackson," you say softly.

He snorts. "Are you flirtin' with me?"

"I'm always flirting with you, Joel Miller."

You lied to Jesse earlier -- Joel has hundreds of expressions. He just keeps most of them for you. For Ellie, and Tommy, too. You know every one of them by now.

The look on his face now says he's thinking about kissing you again, maybe just to shut you up.

You grin at him. "Tell me about your patrol, now, seriously. Unless talking and using your hands at the same time is too much for you."

He smirks back. "Think we both know that ain't true."

"Now who's flirting?"

Lazy heat curls in your belly but fatigue stops it from turning into anything. Joel must see that in your eyes because he simply taps your chin with a knuckle and starts talking.

You start to slump as his Texas drawl wraps around you. He tells you how the lake was still, how he and Astrid saw bear tracks but no bear. How he found a tape for Ellie that he's going to give her tomorrow, how he wore his gloves today like you've been telling him to.

Some people might say that Joel is a man of few words. You thought he was the quiet type when you first met him, another stoic survivor in a world that demands hardness of everyone. But not shy, never shy. Just...waiting. Watching.

He and Ellie can shoot the shit for hours -- a dynamic they've fallen back into easily enough since they started spending time together again. He's funny, he's clever, he's annoying as shit when he wants to be.

And Joel is quite the storyteller. If you had to guess you'd say it comes from having to entertain Tommy when they were kids, from getting Sarah into bed on his own over and over. Keeping Ellie occupied, keeping her talking when things were scary and hard and fucking awful.

It's just another way he takes care of people.

"Still with me?" he says. You realize your eyes have closed. When you open them you find Joel looking at you with tenderness and a spark of amusement. The tense line of his shoulders is nowhere to be seen. "All done. Tired?"

"And hungry."

He washes his hands and throws away the various wrappers and blood-stained wipes.

"Sure you're awake enough to eat?" he teases.

You roll your eyes at him. He laughs.

"Joel," you say, catching his elbow. "Thank you."

"C'mon, now."

He looks like he wants to argue with you for saying it but reaches for you instead. He traces the cut on your forehead just like he did at the bottom of the stairs, brow drawn again. You can't tell what he's thinking as he drags his thumb down and around your eye, cupping your cheek fully for just a breath before releasing you and stepping towards the door.

"I'll heat some soup."

Dinner is quick and quiet, your energy sapped from you to the point of exhaustion. Everything aches, despite Joel's thorough care. When he suggests turning in early you don't protest.

He takes longer than you to get ready for bed. You slide under the worn duvet and wait, trying very hard to keep your eyes open. Your bruised ribs throb in time with your heartbeat and when Joel finally turns off the light and gets in bed next to you in his threadbare sleep pants he practically hauls you into his embrace.

You go willingly, tangling your legs and laying your head on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You press your palm to his chest, fingers threading in the coarse hair. His heart thuds and it grounds you.

"I didn't get any good gossip off Jesse," you whisper. "On account of the whole surprise-infected thing."

He yawns. "S'pose it's a good excuse."

"Can I tell you something else?" you whisper. "A secret?"

Joel hums, lips brushing your temple as his hand snakes up your sleep shirt to press against your lower back.

Even though you know each other down to the bones, some things remain inexplicable. Parts of your pasts that linger in the darkest parts of you, the parts that stay shrouded until the moments like this. You don't have to be brave in the quiet hours of the night, entwined with him as you are. It's the safest place you'll ever be. Safe enough that you can crack open and let Joel in, let those steady and worn hands keep you together.

"I was scared today," you say into his neck. "When the stalker dragged me off the rope. I panicked, I --"

You don't tell him how your initial thought when you hit the ground was of him, how you closed your eyes tight and thought of your name from his mouth, of his smile when you come through the door. The stalker had its bony fingers digging into your ankle and you wondered if you'd ever feel Joel's hands on you again.

Death will come for you sooner or later and when it does it'll be Joel's face that you hold in your mind before it all ends.

But today, you kicked death until its stupid fucking mushroom skull caved in.

Joel presses his lips to your temple. You can feel his heart beating faster, as fast as yours. It's the only thing that betrays his own fear.

Wounds in this life often go deeper than the skin. When Joel comes home with bloody knuckles and shuttered eyes it's one thing to stop the bleeding, to bandage him and get him to eat something. It's another to hold him, to coax out the story, the fear. To follow him downstairs when he has a nightmare, to look for him in every room. It's all part of what you do as partners, as lovers, as people in this world. You take care of each other.

Neither of you can fix a lot of things. But you can ensure the scars heal into something light, something you can barely see.

You can hold each other in the dark.

"Scared me, too," he rasps. A secret for a secret. "Lotta damn blood."

You kiss the underside of his jaw. "Can't get rid of me that easy."

Joel pulls you closer, somehow, mindful of your side.

"Rest, now," he says. "You ain’t goin' anywhere."

It's a command, a promise. You hum your agreement and let sleep drag you under.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #just and just as

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darklordofthesimp · 1 year

Text

Anything II (König x Reader)

The 2nd instalment in the Anything-Verse

Main Masterlist

Part 1 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Like the characters? Read their fics below!

Sunshine Masterlist || Saint Masterlist

Series Summary: A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

A/N: As requested by literally fucking everyone.

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Forced Proximity || Enemies to ?

Warnings: Graphic language || graphic description of PTSD episode || graphic description of unintentional self-inflicted injury

You had thrown up. Twice.

Pressure snaked its way from your chest to your throat and nausea gripped your stomach. You felt deeply unsettled. Your fingers shook, your face was gaunt- you hadn’t slept properly in days. You were a mess.

All because of him.

You cussed beneath your breath, bouncing on your toes lightly. You were due for another training session and considering you’d bailed on the last one, you couldn’t afford to skip it again. You’d received an earful from Price for walking out after your conversation with König.

That fucker had reported back to the Captain that you’d simply ‘discussed the terms of the agreement.’

You slapped your thighs. Then, you hit them harder. The sharp pain jolted your system, and you used the distraction to force yourself out the door. The more you dwelled on it, the more you needed to vomit again.

This time, König was waiting for you.

He sat on the bench, legs spread and his head down. He was fidgeting with his gloves and, had you not known any better, you’d have thought that maybe you’d snuck up on him. But you did know better. König was aware of your presence the second you entered the hallway.

You sucked in a breath as he finally looked up, pretending that he’d only just noticed you. His features were obscured by his hood, giving you no indication of his reaction. He felt inhuman, there was no tug of his lips or twitch in his cheek- only an emerald gaze that stripped you of your courage.

“Birdy,” König tipped his head in greeting, your name soft on his lips. Your chest tightened at the sound of his voice. You hated when he spoke like that, low and from his chest. You wished he would yell, you wished he would be boisterous— anything to drown his promises of death in your ear.

“Your fight is finished.”

You didn’t acknowledge him. You didn’t say his name. Instead, you slowly entered the room and moved to the farthest side from him. Your heart beat wildly against your ribs and the nausea you’d felt earlier was back in full swing.

“The sooner we start, the sooner you can leave,” König reminded you, flicking his gaze across your attire.

“Then start,” you snapped. The man blinked at your aggression and his fidgeting fingers fell still. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. That emerald gaze was pinned to your figure, steady and inquisitive and terrifying. He straightened up from where he was slouched over, his seated form already taller than you standing.

“What can I do to make you more comfortable with this arrangement?” König spoke slowly, each word enunciated with careful control over his tone. Your heart dropped to your stomach, he was getting frustrated.

You wanted to spit at him that the only way you’d ever be comfortable was if he were to leave. You wanted to shout at him to fuck right off back to KorTac and never show his face again; that’s what would ease your mind.

But, as he held his body deathly still, that stare trained on yours- you reminded yourself of what he was capable of.

“The mask,” you whispered, cursing yourself for the way your voice shook.

König finally moved, leaning back into the bench as he took in a long breath. He waited for you to continue, to pitch your proposition, but your mouth had gone dry and your tongue had fallen limp. When he realized that you weren’t going to offer anything more, he nodded his head, clasping his hands together tightly.

“You want me to…” König bounced his leg, clearing his throat as he sat up straight. “You want me to take it off?”

You nodded your head. König said nothing. The sinking feeling that he just might reject your request began to worry you. He could say no and there would be nothing you could do to argue that, you were still required by order to do these training sessions regardless of whether he agreed to your requests or not.

You swallowed thickly, scrubbing your nose to break the eye contact between you both. You couldn't stand it.

"I can't do this if you're wearing that thing," you waved vaguely at his face, keeping your eyes low. "It- I just-"

Frustration burned in your chest as you flailed to articulate your feelings. You couldn't tell him outright that his stupid fucking mask plagued your dreams every night. You couldn't tell him about the terror that gripped you by the throat whenever you laid eyes on it.

König didn't let you finish, anyway. He reached for his hood, swiftly pulling it from his head and, again, you were thrown off kilter by his appearance.

His brows were furrowed as he observed you from beneath his lashes. "I know."

He knew what you were trying to say.

"Shall we start?" He asked, slowly standing to his feet. And, despite it being painfully obvious that he was keeping his body language open, you still took an inadvertent step back. You cursed beneath your breath when he straightened up to his full height, the urge to run from the room was almost overwhelming. König triggered your fight or flight response and your body was a slave to its survival instincts.

You sucked in a breath, forcing yourself to stay still as he approached.

"What are we doing?" You forced the question from your throat, trying to distract yourself from the hulking figure moving closer.

"Ground defence."

Your heart seized in your chest.

"I don't want to do this," you said as calmly as you could. Your pulse climbed rapidly as König's gaze softened.

"I know," he murmured. "But neither of us has a choice."

You didn't give a fuck about him or his choices. You couldn't care less whether he was here of his own volition or if he'd been ordered to take care of your training; you only cared about the fact that he was twice your size and had nearly murdered you once before.

You couldn't believe that Price was allowing this.

Betrayal stung in your chest.

Actually, what you really couldn't believe was how this cunt was even allowed to be here.

Clearly, you were dispensable.

Maybe you had overestimated your importance to the team, maybe you had misunderstood the bond between you all. You'd been replaced by your own aggressor and Price had allowed it.

Clearly, you hadn't meant as much as you thought to the 141.

“Birdy.”

You jumped, tripping backward into the bench behind you. You stared wide-eyed at König who was equally as startled by your reaction.

“What?”You snapped, straightening up as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t almost frightened you out of your skin.

He hesitated before continuing, the side eye he shot you was clearly one of concern. Disgusting. “I need you to lie on your stomach.”

“No.” The word fell from your mouth before you’d even realized it.

König raised a single brow. “You want this to happen again?”

He gestured at your swollen cheeks, the fresh scarring from your stitches that littered your face. The man referenced you like an artist would show off their masterpiece.

“Only to you,” you said, your voice sickly sweet as you forced a bitter smile to your lips. The fluid in your cheeks felt like liquid fire beneath your skin at the movement, but the way his expression fell made the pain worth it.

“Then get on the floor so I can teach you how,” König crossed his arms, carefully schooling his features to give away nothing- but it was too late. You saw that you’d hurt him with the comment, or at least affected him enough to feel satisfied.

Your small victory gave you enough courage to lie down.

Your logic reminded you to immediately regret it.

Konig’s knee came into your vision as he knelt by your prone body. You couldn’t see his upper body, you couldn’t see where his hands were. He made no noise to indicate what he was going to do and your spine seized along our back.

You didn’t want to do this.

Not again.

“König,” you rasped, pressing your hands into the floor. “König, I don’t want to do this.”

Your breath was too fast, you felt like you were channelling air in through your mouth just to be sent right back out. It was as though you were rapidly suffocating, not getting any oxygen to fill your lungs, the room spinning from where you lay.

“Birdy, you need this,” König reminded you from above. The words sounded distant and muffled like someone had placed their hands over your ears and spoken softly.

You gasped loudly as the man behind you straddled your back, the mass of his body resting against the lower half of your extremely fragile spine. You wanted to buck and kick and scream until he was forced off of you but your mouth was dry and words evaded you.

“I want to teach you how to spin onto your back first,” König said, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “You can’t win from your stomach.”

You couldn’t win on your back either.

“No,” you said firmly, twisting experimentally from beneath him. “No, get off. I’m not doing this.”

There was a sharp sigh from behind you and instead of moving from his position, König began applying pressure. Your chest sunk into the ground as he leant just a fraction of his weight onto your body.

“Then get me off.”

The floor was hard against your body, it felt like your ribs were collapsing from beneath you. You could barely breathe as it was and now you were gasping like a fish out of water. There were so many things he could do to you from this position, so many ways he could torture you and you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself.

You tried to press upwards with your hands in an attempt to relieve the pressure from your chest. It was fruitless considering the 130 kilograms of muscle pressing your face into the floor, but you tried again. Then again.

You were beginning to sweat, your palms slipping on the floor. Your arms shook from the exertion and you could feel your resolve slipping, your control spiralling from your grasp.

“Get the fuck off me,” you wheezed, that same ugly pressure clawing its way up your ribs and into your throat. “König, I’m serious. Get off.”

“Listen to me and I’ll teach you how to get out of this yourself,” König’s voice was firm. There was no room to argue, the bite in his tone enough to put the fear of God into you. “Pull your knee up beside you, slide forward to get up onto your knees and roll me off to the side.”

You followed his instruction, forcing yourself to breathe as evenly as you could. Your skin burned where he touched, your body screaming at his presence atop of you.

Get him off, off, off.

The weight of his body eased as he let you perform the maneuver. He was too heavy and you were too tired to pull that move off without his help, but you didn’t care anymore. You’d do anything for him to get the fuck away from you, you’d do anything for him to never touch you again.

Konig rested his weight back down, straddling your hips as you lay on your back now, facing upward.

The exact same position of that night.

Your breathing picked up and your hands began to tremble. The sensation of excess adrenaline flooding your body, a feeling that you were familiar with, rendering you shaking but incapacitated.

The hood was on his face again and his eyes were wild and manic. You’d never seen that look in a mans eyes before, you knew then that he was going to kill you. The emerald glint of his psychotic glare was all that you could see. It was so dark and he was so fast, you weren’t able to predict his moves because you couldn’t fucking see them. He was a shadow, he was death incarnate. Your body was on fire, your lungs screaming from within your chest.

The monster’s eyes drifted to your chest and you followed his gaze. The handle of a knife jutted from above your breast bone and you snap your eyes back to his. Blood sprayed in the space between the both of you as he twisted the knife in your chest. You’d forgotten the noise that it had made, your punctured lung sucking air from the bloody wound with a wet gasp.

König’s eyes were hard as he reached for your face, fingers outstretched and closing in across your vision.

Not again.

“Birdy!”

You bucked, you heaved, you fought off his grip. You knew what was going to happen, you knew what came next. This time, your brain matter would be smeared across the floor, this time he would finish you off.

You clawed at the fingers wrapped across your face desperately, trying to draw enough blood for him to flinch away. You ripped at his skin as hard as you could manage, screaming against his palm.

“Birdy, stop!”

Nothing was working, nothing could stop him. You dragged your nails across his fingers, driving them into the divots of his cuticles in an attempt to deglove his skin from bone.

“Jesus Christ, get a fucking sedative!”

When König smashed your head into the concrete, you were grateful for the darkness that ensued.

You didn’t have that privilege last time.

____

The first sense you regained was smell.

And, by God, did you fucking hate that smell.

The scent of disinfectant flooded your olfactory system so viciously that you were forced up in your seat. You scrubbed at your eyes desperately, praying to whoever the fuck was listening that you weren’t where you thought you were.

White lights flooded your vision and you cringed back into the cushions, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“Easy, Birdy. Easy.”

That familiar cockney accent served as a warning. Gloved hands tugged your fists down from your face and you tried to regain control of your breathing, eyes squeezed shut.

“Ghost?” You rasped. Your voice was barely a squeak, and you realized with a frown that you’d lost it somehow.

“Thought I’d come pay you a visit.”

You slowly attempted to regain your sight, blinking away the blurriness and the harshness of the down lights. You gingerly observed your surroundings, heart sinking to your stomach as you recognised the room.

You’d been on this bed for weeks during your recovery from the incident.

Same hospital, same room, same bed.

You felt nauseas.

Swallowing the bile threatening to make an appearance, you dragged your gaze to the seat by your bed. Ghost sat so still you could have mistaken him for a piece of furniture had you not been actively looking for him.

The man watched you carefully, his hoodie raised over his head and the balaclava perched firmly over the lower half of his features.

“When did you get back?” You asked, cringing at the broken sound of your voice. Ghost exhaled through his nose and his eyes softened under your scrutiny, an expression you’d never seen before flickering across his gaze. You were disoriented, still unsure of how he had gotten there or what you were doing there.

“Yesterday.”

You froze, eyes widening as Ghost waited for you to come to the realization.

“How long have I been in here?” You cried, the words gutted by your vocal fatigue. “What the fuck happened?”

“You need to take a breath,” Ghost leaned forward, his hand pressing lightly against your shoulder, prompting you to lay back into the cushions.

“No, you need to tell me what happened, Simon,” you reinforced, throwing a hand to your chest. You pressed against the skin, as though you could force your lungs to slow down with just a touch.

Ghost made a noise from the back of his throat, strangled and uncomfortable. You could tell that he hadn’t expected you to wake up while he was there.

“You…” And for the first time in nearly a decade, you heard Simon Riley hesitate.

Your mouth was dry as you realised the severity of what had happened, the anxiety of not knowing what you’d done ripping at your chest. Your eyes were pleading now, begging him to just come out with it, to tell you the truth.

That stormy gaze was sympathetic. It made you tremble.

“You had an incident, Birdy.” Ghost said slowly, deliberating over his words carefully. “An episode.”

“An episode?” You questioned, narrowing your gaze. “The fuck do you mean an episode?”

Ghost didn’t shift in his seat the way König did when under pressure, he didn’t fidget or bounce his leg. Simon Riley sat still like a cold-blooded creature, watching you from the darkest corner of the room with a cool, steady gaze.

“PTSD, Birdy.”

You blinked slowly.

“During your ‘training’ with that cunt,” Ghost spat the words, his eyes shifting to the side as he centred himself. “We heard your screaming as we were on the way back in.”

“We?’ You rasped, dread settling in your stomach.

“Me and Johnny,” Ghost clarified. He exhaled softly, shaking his head. “You had to be sedated, kid.”

The skin on your cheek stung sharply before you could process that bombshell. You frowned, attempting to ignore it in favour of uncovering what had happened. Ghost was never one to beat around the bush, always outright and as ‘blunt as a cunt’, in Soap’s words.

So, why was he now omitting a key part of the story?

The skin beneath your eyes stung again, this time demanding your attention. You began to sweat at the sudden severity of the pain, hands flying to your face to diagnose the issue.

Ghost moved before you could blink, striking out like a cobra. His hands gripped your wrists, keeping them from scouring over the skin. Your eyes were wide as you appraised him, bent over your bed, your hands suspended in his grip between the both of you.

Your eyes narrowed. He mimicked the expression.

You shoved at his body, ripping your hands from his hold. You needed to get to a mirror. Throwing yourself off the side of the bed, you gasped as your knees buckled from their sudden use. Simon gripped your bicep, pulling you upright with ease, but you tugged against him immediately.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

He retracted his hand as though he’d been burned.

You stormed into the bathroom, the door smashing against the rubber stop glued to the wall. The lights flickered to life as you bashed the switch with the bottom of your closed fist.

You could have thrown up.

Gauze pads covered both your cheeks, stained pink from what you realized was blood. Your face was bleeding. A whimper fell from your lips as you reached for the dressing, peeling it slowly from your skin. Your mouth fell open at the slow reveal of what hid beneath the gauze.

A strangled cry ripped from your throat.

Claw marks.

Jagged, deep wounds, tearing down the length of your face; raw, bleeding and fresh.

You couldn’t breathe.

Distantly, you could see Ghost standing behind you in the mirror, his gaze solemn and his hands clenched. You couldn’t ask the question, couldn’t form the words but you didn’t have to. Simon had understood you back when you were eating from a straw, your eyes so puffy you couldn’t open them for days.

His hand came to rest on your shoulder, the only comfort he could offer as you stared at your mangled reflection, yet again.

“You were screaming for him to get off,” Ghost began, his fingers tightening against your burning skin. “The fucker was standing next to me.”

Blood dribbled down the distinct lines engraved into your flesh, tracing the length of your throat and disappearing down your hospital gown. The both of you watched it trail your prickled skin, but you couldn’t move, suspended in time and trapped with the image before you.

Simon’s voice was barely a whisper when he spoke.

“You thought his hands were on your face.”

_____

NEXT CHAPTER

____

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imagine-shenanigans · 4 months

Text

werewolf soap who was raised in a pack/healthy dynamics etc etc and is very very well versed in wolf life because hes got neices and nephews and he's got cousins who had partners turn... and he discovers freshly turned werewolf reader

maybe a victim of one of the enemies, but werewolves and creatures and such are still largely hidden from the public eye so he scoops reader up and reader imprints on him without realizjng it but Soap just knows. Immediately uses all his knowledge to make it worse, make reader more dependent on him, his poor sweet pup :( Doesn't know anything about the world. No matter he'll teach them :)

And reader KNOWS something is wrong but the wires in their brain from not being helped by a sire and imprinting on Soap are all crossed and mangled in the early stages of their transformation. Most wolves nowadays are born into it, because it takes a signifcant effort to turn someone (not just a bite in this case. I'm imagining like. exchange of blood of varying amounts but typically a couple cups worth at least bc lycanthropy tends to be blood-bound like vampirism) so his poor baby is just so confused and distraught, all sickly and needy and confused :(

He's more than happy to help of course, and poor reader KNOWS that Soap isn't being normal about it, some gut instinct says this can't be right, and he's way too into this, but they also didn't know werewolves were real until like. a week ago when some douchebag kidnapped them.

So reader is trying to be understanding but can't because they're also feverish and the longer the month goes on the worse it gets as they get closer to becoming an actual werewolf.

By the time reader has any inclination that Soap has been treating them like a mate, not even courting, jsut straight into it, it's FAR too late for them, his metaphorical and literal jaws have snapped around their neck and he's never letting them go.

and if we're throwing a lil ghoap x reader into it, ghost as a vampire or some other creature who also knows jack shit abt werewolves other than Johnny (who is a bad example and has also been taking advantage of his ignorance to press Ghost's boundaries until Ghost asserts dominance. Soap swears one day he'll win, even if it means losing. Ghost thinks it's cute but narrows his eyes at Johnny anyway.)

And Soap is using this cute, disoriented civillian who he's got on him at all times to brush right past Ghost's boundaries because rhwy were ALL given the order to keep an eye on them. So Soap just walks up to Ghost and tucks reader into his arms with a blanket wrapped around them and presses reader's nose to Ghost's pulse point so they'll get used to his scent. Says soemthing about training recruits, and Ghost thinks its awfully cute the way reader sniffs so curiously like a new puppy at him, memorizing his scent. Thinks the smug way Soap looks when Ghost lets reader sleep on his chest is cute too, but instead of coddling Soap like he does reader a bit, Ghost wants to make Soap beg for forgiveness, the man grinding up into the sole of his boot desperately.

Ghost just snorts and says "Pushing it, MacTavish." and continues to let reader sleep on his chest, aware only that Soap is up to soemthing but hasn't quite figured out what yet. (He's not up to that chapter in the book about werewolves he's been reading, but Ghost decides he'll put in extra time later.)

Meanwhile poor reader who is literally in constant pain/feeling sick/etc is now undergoing a significantly more painful process of imprinting on TWO people, and the poor wires in their brain are so jumbled they'll never escape (which is what Soap wants)

#mod strawberry #soap cod #cod #strawberry writing #god damnit #if i had a nickel for every werewolf soap idea i was writing id have two #which isnt a lot #but says something abt me #ghost cod #monster au #sighs #im at work too #god damnit im gonna have to write it arent i

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