#Discharged - from Home Front to War Front

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VI. "Trust Me, Doll..."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

War is hell and every time it seems you and Bucky adapt to your new normal, the game is changed yet again. When at last Victory in Europe is achieved, the pair of you can finally focus on forging the way ahead.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Grief, Mentions of Death, Imprisonment, Pregnancy, Childbirth in Retrospect, Child Rearing, Motherhood, Era-Typical Sexism and Marital Expectations, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Sex While Trying Not to Be Overhead] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note(s): This is it! Oh wow, we made it, kids! Thank you to each and every one of you for your incredible engagement with this series it has truly been an inspiration! I love all of you and have more Bucky thoughts brewing!!!

As always, letters/telegrams have image descriptions that can be accessed by clicking the 'ALT' button. Special thanks to Marina @precious-little-scoundrel for helping me untangle numerous plot points in this series. I could not have done this without you, darling! This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7444

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Your sudden return home in mid-February had been decidedly awkward. Without time to send a letter of warning, you had spent a lot of coins on a phone call in a telephone booth at the hospital in New Jersey while you awaited the arrival of a WAC commanding officer to process your discharge.

To say your mother had been surprised to hear your voice over the line was an understatement. Mercifully, your father had already left for work that day and you had only had to break the news to her. Given the frosty welcome you had received from him by the time you managed to reach the steps of your childhood home, you hated to think what his reaction would have been if you had informed him that his unwed daughter was kicked out of the Women’s Army Corps for being pregnant without the softening interference of your mother.

It was truly disorienting to be back somewhere so very familiar when you were so utterly different. The war had left its marks here too, though. A gold star banner hung proudly in the front window, in honor of your brother, and your mother’s garden out back had mostly been turned over to the growing of vegetables, with a huge stockpile of jarred preserves now overflowing the pantry. But the two bedrooms at the top of the stairs belonging to you and your brother, separated by a small hallway that was really no more than a glorified landing, were exactly as you had left them in 1942. As if they were frozen in time. Dusted and cared for, but ready and waiting for you to pick up your old lives.

Only your brother was never coming home, and you had returned home but entirely changed. After the relentless pace you had maintained since enlisting, the thought of remaining at home in idle leisure was too off-putting to even contemplate. You allowed yourself a few days of adjusting to the violent change in time – at least when you had traveled to England you had been afford several days at sea to transition. Flight across the Atlantic had been utterly jarring, and it had taken great discipline to turn your nighttime back into day.

But once you had re-acclimated to the North American clock, you had promptly ventured out to find yourself gainful employment at a nearby grocery store. The owner, Nick, was a friend of the family. A kind man who did not seem interested in asking too many questions about why you were back early, was simply eager for the help around his store. It was most definitely not as mentally taxing as the work you had previously undertaken as a WAC, but it was money, and that was sorely needed as babies were expensive.

Your mother seemed fretful about you working in your ‘delicate condition,’ but the demands of the position paled in comparison to the one you had just left, and you rarely worked more than six hours a day. There was still plenty of time to sit with her, improving your knitting skills as you started on a baby blanket. Your mother was duly impressed you had picked up such a feminine skill abroad and seemed more than happy to pass along helpful hints.

In all truth she did appear to be struggling, dwelling frequently on memories and nostalgia for happier times. It was difficult to say how your father was coping in the wake of your brother’s passing. Any hours when he was not at work, he was spending behind the closed door of your dead sibling’s room, all manner of noises and the odd curse word seeping through the cracks, but neither you nor your mother were quite certain what he was up to.

You had sent a letter to Bucky immediately upon your arrival, as promised, still not divulging the full extent of the situation, but it had been stocked with reassurances and re-direction. It appeared he had not yet received it based on his letter that reached you in mid-April.

Damn that man, but you did love him so. Baby animals – had he guessed the true nature of your discharge then? Gnawing ruthlessly on your lower lip, you found yourself pacing around your room, one hand rubbing at your lower back, sore from standing all day with the growing weight of your swollen abdomen.

‘Or is he simply fishing for more information, unconvinced?’ You wondered to yourself, sighing heavily.

He was simply too intelligent for his own good. Another man would simply have taken your words at face value and left it at that. But there was a reason you had not fallen in love with another man. Had not given yourself to another man.

With another deep sigh, you dug out your writing supplies and drafted a reply that acknowledged his statements but neither confirmed nor denied them. There was no desire on your part to entrap or obligate him into anything. That was the last thing you wanted – to pin a man who so cherished his freedom down against his will. Particularly after enduring his current stay in a prison camp.

As the weather grew ever warmer, it became increasingly difficult to conceal your predicament – no matter how baggy or oversized your dresses were. Your engagement ring only went so far in polite society to protect you from judgemental stares and by the end of April you were forced to quit your job and confine yourself almost entirely to the house. May seemed to drag on, though you certainly managed to knit a wide variety of nearly perfect baby clothes for different stages.

Perhaps the brightest spot came one evening when your father emerged from the room opposite yours and left the door open for the first time since you came home, revealing not the preserved bedroom of your brother, but a fully prepared nursery, complete with an assembled crib, rocking chair, dresser, and change table. As you stood in your doorway in shock, eyes brimming with tears, he shoved his hands into his pockets and gruffly muttered, “baby needs somewhere to sleep after all,” before trudging down the stairs to the bedroom he shared with your mother.

June burst onto the scene with the Allied invasion of France and the good news only continued with the signing of the GI Bill on the 22nd. Your years of service and honorable discharge earned you, and your very active and rapidly growing baby, subsidized medical care. It could not have been timelier as appointments became more and more frequent, your due date looming at the end of July.

Much like her father, Clara Mae had a mind of her own when it came to her time of arrival. She was born in the middle of the night on July 22nd at the local veteran’s hospital – one of the first GI Bill babies, the nurses informed you.

The choice of her name had been rather easy, derived from Bucky’s middle name - Clarence. While you could not give her his family name, or even list him as her father on the birth certificate without his signature, you could at least give her this for now. He had already given her his mischievous eyes and unmistakable ears. Time would tell what other of his features she would share. If the grey-blue of her eyes would settle in the color of the stormy sea like his. If the slight dusting of fuzz of her head would grow into luscious, dark curls.

Sitting there in sore, stunned exhaustion as they carted her off to the nursery, you looked up as your mother sidled over, the broad grin of a recent grandparenthood still splitting her face.

“We have to write Major Egan right away and let him know. Oh he’ll be so thrilled, a sweet little girl to come home to now!”

The force with which your face crumpled, physically unable to bear to weight of all your falsehoods and desperate attempts at inner strength one moment longer, sent your tears scattering down the front of your hospital gown. Your mother snapped her mouth shut, completely taken aback by the abrupt shift in your mood, before she collected a wad of scratchy hospital tissues and tenderly wiped at your eyes.

“There now, I know. It’s been a tremendous effort, and things are very difficult.” She soothed and cradled your head to her breast, rubbing your back softly.

Despite becoming a mother yourself not a full hour ago, it seemed you were still very much in need of one yourself.

“What if he doesn’t want me, mama?” You gulped and looked up to her pathetically as you finally gave voice to perhaps the greatest fear that had been stalking you since the realization that you were pregnant had come crashing down upon you. “We’re not even…it’s not even real…” Your eyes dropped to the false engagement ring that mockingly glinted up at you from your left hand.

She sighed deeply before her hands grasped your face and forced your gaze to meet hers. “Well, pumpkin, I’d say that a man who writes to you despite the difficulties is one of the good ones. And usually it’s the good ones that do the right things.”

You frowned and shook your head slightly, as much as her tight grip would allow. “But I don’t want him to do the right thing. I want him to marry me because he wants to…”

There was another maternal sigh before you were gathered close in her arms once more. “Let’s hope for the best then. I’ll get Felix from down the street to bring his camera. We’ll send a photo of sweet Clara Mae and see if she can’t work her magic on him.”

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The Allied invasion of Western Europe had felt like a gift from above, flooding Bucky’s life with a new sense of purpose, and shattering the grim monotony that had calcified everything around him. The gnawing hunger, the biting cold, the evasiveness in your letters, the constant worry and uncertainty he felt for both himself and you. There was surely only one explanation, at least only one rational, sane explanation for your early discharge. But he’d had far too much time on his hands to postulate and theorize all manner of possibilities and their catastrophic outcomes.

June 6 had brought an abrupt and decisive end to that, a sharp divide to their life in camp, and a need for preparations now that the Commonwealth forces were closing in from one side and the Russians from the other. It was early September when he received your life changing letter, two small photos tucked securely between your folded, scented pages. One of you, looking so very beautiful it made his heart ache fondly. And the second of a very tiny infant with remarkably familiar ears.

He huffed fondly and turned back to the letter to read it properly as you finally confirmed what he had long suspected.

Shaking the envelope once more produced a square of paper with the stamp of his daughter’s – his daughter’s – footprints on it.

Cradling it in one palm, he could not help but gawk at the small scale of her. She must be truly tiny…only 20 inches.

“Your girl finally explain herself?” Buck leaned over his shoulder, and he nodded, holding up Clara’s photo.

His friend barely contained a snort and Bucky scoffed in return. “I know – poor girl’s got my damn Dumbo ears. Couldn’t even deny she’s mine if I wanted to.”

“She’s beautiful anyway, despite your influence.” Buck smirked and handed the photo back carefully. “Congratulations. What’s her name?”

“Clara Mae.” An involuntary grin of pleasure overtook him as he said it, quite enjoying the way it sounded. You had picked well.

“Your girl did an excellent job. Be sure you tell her so.”

“You know I will.” He replied with a firm nod.

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The twelve weeks it took to hear from Bucky were both a blur and an agony. Clara did her utmost to keep the household, and you in particular, thoroughly occupied. You were somewhat relieved that your parents were sleeping on a different floor than her, that it gave you a chance to dart across the hall and mollify her discordant wails with a fresh diaper or a feeding. But on those nights when even you could not seem to sort out what ailed her, your father stepped in and patiently walked her up and down the length of the porch until she melted into the crook of his arm.

Truly, for such a small being, she had the entirety of her grandfather wrapped around her littlest finger. Clara was the first he greeted upon returning home from work and the last he kissed goodnight. None of this would have been possible without his willing arms, nor your mother’s endless wisdom when it came to washing bottles and diapers and Clara’s vast wardrobe of tiny clothing. But in the quiet moments, when she was busily suckling in your arms or just as you were falling asleep, your thoughts would always fly across the Atlantic to barbwire fences and Bucky.

You hoped your letter reached had him. You hoped it had all of its contents still, that none of them had been lost while being reviewed by the censors and whomever else pried into your mail. His reaction? Well you could not even dare to hope what that might be. It would cause your entire body to tense almost painfully and prevent your lungs from filling with air.

Every day you did your best not to look too eagerly as the postman delivered the mail, flipping through the envelopes calmly, hiding your disappointment when his reply was not there. Your agony came to an end, at last, in mid-October. Hearing your soft gasp, your mother offered to take Clara on her morning walk – it was generous to be sure, but you were also more than aware that she enjoyed the attention warranted by pushing the gorgeous girl through the neighborhood in her pram.

Settling down at the kitchen table once they had left, you sliced open the envelope anxiously.

Tears of relief were tracking down your cheeks by the time you reached the end of his letter, making it difficult to read his words clearly. He had replied. He was not angry, nor dismissive. He called himself Clara’s father. And there was an oblique, very Bucky-like proposal in there. Your watery laugh echoed in the empty kitchen before you sniffled in a very unladylike way. God, you missed him so very much. By the time your mother and Clara returned, your tears of relief had been replaced by sobs of longing that had her tiptoeing through the house, deeply concerned his letter had been one of rejection.

Looking up at her apprehensive face as she peered through the doorway, you smiled through your pain and nodded. “It’s good news.”

“Oh, well…good.” She gave you a somewhat bewildered smile and found a handkerchief for you to once more clean yourself up before you gathered Clara close.

“Your daddy says he loves you, peanut. What do you think of that?”

Clara’s face stretched into one of her toothless grins that came just as easy as Bucky’s did, and you fought the urge to cry again. “Yeah…me too.”

Your reply to Bucky’s letter was accompanied by a holiday card fingerpainted by Clara, now that you were confident in the mailing time of roughly six-weeks, as well as another set of dry goods for him to share with his friends. Time continued to march on and in an effort to better document Clara’s rapid growth, you purchased a user-friendly camera, having Felix give you some lessons.

Mid-January, Clara received a gift from her father – a stunning ink drawing of him done by one of his roommates apparently. It had been over a year since you had looked upon his face and the breathtaking detail captured by the man who drew it, A. Jefferson based on the signature, inflicted an intense barrage of memories. You promptly went to a five-and-dime store to purchase a frame for it, setting it on the dresser in Clara’s room next to a model of a B17. You made a point of showing it to her every day, telling her stories about her daddy – only the appropriate ones of course, wanting her to know him.

That it was also self-soothing was simply a bonus.

That letter was the last one you received from him. As Clara’s features sharpened into Bucky’s, and his dark curls framed her face, it was his gaze staring up at you from your arms as the weeks ticked by with no word. When the abnormally harsh winter yielded to spring once more, there was still no reply to your January letter. The war was all but won, the Germans quite literally surrounded, the Russians in Germany and yet there was nothing.

It was mid-April when the dreaded Western Union vehicle pulled up in front of the house, your heart leaping into your throat.

‘Please let him be alright.’

Your mother had been in the kitchen, working on lunch, but silently appeared at your elbow, ghosts of her own heartbreak etching her features.

“Deep breaths. Anybody can send a telegram, not just the War Department.” She murmured and knelt down beside Clara on the rug to play with her as you forced your leaden feet to move towards the door.

Accepting the yellow envelope from the infuriatingly neutral-faced boy, you confirmed that it was indeed addressed to you before impatiently tearing into it.

Exhaling shakily you smiled in relief. Major Cleven must have escaped. That he would have spent the money to send a telegram to update you on Bucky, and to share a message from the man himself, was quite moving. You could not help the chuckle that escaped you, however, at the fact that this was twice now that Cleven had terrified you in the process of trying to share good news.

“All is well?” Your mother asked softly from the living room, and you turned quickly with a smile.

“Yes, he’s ok, his friend somehow made it back to England and wanted me to know he’s doing alright.”

The smile she gave you in return contained no small amount of relief.

The Russians were in Berlin by the next time Western Union made its second delivery at the beginning of May.

‘Please, when we are so very close to victory, please.’

Even less patient with this envelope than the last, you felt a swell of elation at just the first word.

And he meant it. It was not entirely as soon as either of you would have liked, given that Victory in Europe happened not a week after that telegram, on May 8, 1945, but Bucky certainly did come to you and Clara as soon as it was possible.

It was a hot afternoon in early July, the wind having abandoned everyone when the sun rose that morning. Clara was in a bit of a mood courtesy of the heat and her desire to move about the house independently. Certainly, she had been crawling for months, terrorizing everything and everyone in her path, but as of late she had been pulling herself to her feet and trying desperately to take those first few wobbly steps towards upright freedom. She certainly could manage it while gripping tightly to your fingers for balance, but today her chubby cheeks and granite eyes were screwed tight in consternation as she swatted your hands away to go it alone.

“Alright peanut, off you go then.” You smiled encouragingly, sitting back on your heels as beads of sweat gathered at the nape of your neck.

Letting go of the edge of the coffee table, she wavered and wobbled, overcorrecting her round little infant body before landing heavily onto her bottom with a squawk of frustration.

“So close, so–”

The rapping of knuckles against the wooden frame of the screen door cut off your statement and you scooped her up, perching her against your right hip as you rose to your feet.

“Let’s go see if that’s the postman with Grandma’s package, shall we?” You smiled and tickled her soft tummy with your free hand, earning a giggle accompanied by her gap-toothed grin as you headed over to the front door.

The man standing there in uniform was most certainly not the postman, however.

“Bucky…” You whispered in shock as he stood before you, in the flesh, after nearly two years of constant worry and concern.

All that separated you now was a flimsy screen door, which you lurched forward to shove open. His eyes were wide as he stared at the pair of you, Clara peering at him curiously. The movement of your left hand caught his eye and his brow furrowed as his gaze landed on the ring you had been hiding behind since April of last year, making you swallow painfully.

“It’s not real.” You murmured quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong impression, and stepped back to invite him inside.

The sound of his bag hitting the floor was all the warning you had before he was pulling you tightly against him, burying his face into your hair. Pressing your face against him in return, you clung to the back of his uniform jacket, wondering if he had always smelled this good or if he had bought new cologne since returning stateside. A sudden strangled sound came from his throat, and you straightened quickly to see Clara had a ruthless grip on his tie and a wicked grin on her face.

“Ta.” You said firmly, holding out your hand and she surrendered her stranglehold on the piece of fabric which you carefully tucked back into his jacket.

Bucky smirked down at her slightly, but his eyes were filled with barely concealed wonder. Clara, for her part, did not seem the least bit fazed by him whatsoever. Her chubby little fingers moved to trace the shiny buttons of his jacket before stretching up to brush along the coarse hair on his upper lip.

“You like my mustache, Miss Clara?” He grinned and pretended to devour her finger as it strayed too close to his mouth, sending his daughter into a fit of giggles and making your cheeks ache from smiling so wide.

An involuntary yawn suddenly overtook her, and you glanced at your watch, nodding as the time confirmed your suspicions. “It’s nap time, I’ll just take her upstairs.”

“Can I come?” He asked softly, making no move to release his hold on you and you nodded quickly, pressing your lips to his cheek softly before leading him to the stairwell at the back of the house.

“This place looks exactly how you described it…” He murmured softly, threading his fingers through yours as he followed.

Looking back to him, startled, you swallowed down the swell of emotion that had been threatening since you had first laid eyes on him. “I told you about it once, in that…hotel room in London…almost two years ago.”

“And I’ve imagined it almost every day since.” He assured you easily as you climbed the stairs, making you shake your head in awe.

Glancing through the open door into your room curiously for a moment, he followed you into Clara’s nursery, grinning softly as his eyes landed on the drawing he had sent.

“You gave it to her.”

Setting Clara into her crib, you turned back to him. “We talk about you every day.”

Bucky’s eyes met yours and he smiled gratefully before reaching out for your left hand, his thumb stroking along the band of the ring there.

“You know, this isn’t very believable, doll.” He muttered and you felt yourself tense as you eyed him, suddenly nervous in his presence after all those months apart. You had been separated longer than you had even known one another. “I’d have bought you a much bigger rock.” His lips curled into a smirk.

Laughter, something that felt so foreign to you after its long absence, bubbled up from your chest while tears simultaneously flooded your eyes. His hands cradled your face as his lips met yours at last, the kiss distinctly salty despite the best efforts of his thumbs to swipe your tears away. Laying your hands atop his, it began to sink in that he was really home, he had truly made it back to you. And Clara. There was no more need for constant fretting and pleading mantras. He was here.

“In fact I did.” His statement, a continuation of his discussion about your fake engagement ring, felt disorienting as it interrupted your inner musings, and you watched in confusion as he sunk to one knee right there in Clara’s bedroom, slipping the piece of costume jewellery from your ring finger before tucking it one of his pockets.

It was not until he produced a much shinier ring, with a larger and very real diamond, that you registered just what was happening. He addressed you properly, by your full name, before asking the question.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes of course I will.” You nodded vigorously, watching him clumsily slide the heavier ring onto your finger before his mouth was on yours once more, demanding and possessive.

Pressing against him, you would have completely forgotten yourself if not for the sound of your mother calling your name from the bottom of the stairs, tone laced with confusion and worry – surely from finding the front door open and a piece of strange luggage in the front hall. Bucky pulled his lips back and pressed his forehead to yours, hot puffs of his breath caressing your face.

“Parents’ house…”

You let out a small laugh of chagrin. “Parents’ house.” You confirmed before pulling back and guiding him out, leaving the door slightly cracked so you would hear when Clara awoke.

Miraculously she had slept through the entire exchange, a superpower she had surely inherited from her father. Descending the stairs, introductions were made, and you did not miss the way you mother’s eyes lit up as she took in the new ring on your finger. Your father was slightly more difficult to win over, still smarting from the perceived mistreatment of his little girl. You were more than a little convinced he might be taking Bucky to the toolshed to shoot him when he asked for the man to accompany him out there for a chat after dinner.

Your aggressive scrubbing of the dishes in the sink as you watched anxiously out the window amused your mother to no end.

“He’s just ensuring Major Egan has your best interests in mind.”

“He’s not gonna kill him, is he, mama?” You worried your lip and she laughed, wiping Clara’s sticky fingers clean after her joyful decimation of a bowl of sliced strawberries.

“He will do no such thing.”

By some miracle, the pair of them immerged unscathed twenty minutes later, shaking hands and sharing a laugh. You rediscovered the ability to exhale and prepared Clara for her evening walk, which Bucky insisted on joining. Even though you assured him you had a perfectly good pram, gestured to where it sat on the front porch, he insisted on carrying Clara on his hip, much to her delight.

Not only was the vantage point much better, but she had unfettered access to all the intriguing bits of his uniform to occupy herself with as the pair of you followed the usual route around the neighborhood. While no one had taken it upon themselves to be overtly rude to you, something about seeing all six foot two inches of Major John Egan carrying his carbon-copy daughter with you on his other arm seemed to go a long way to repairing your somewhat tarnished reputation around town.

People who had politely nodded or offered no more than tight-lipped smiles were now openly waving and calling greetings as you passed.

“Sure are popular around here, doll.”

“I assure you, it’s the pair of you.” You smirked at him and Clara who was busily tugging at the flap of his breast pocket. “Everything alright after your visit to the toolshed?” You asked now that you were far enough away from the house that your father would not hear.

He nodded easily. “Your father and I are of like minds. You and I are going to the registrar’s office tomorrow to get a marriage licence and then we’ll get this little one’s birth certificate sorted as well.”

“He wasn’t…too harsh on you?” You asked with more than a little trepidation.

Bucky looked to you softly. “No more than I deserved.”

“You deserved no harshness, we both know full well how this happened…”

“I sure didn’t stop you. Couldn’t have, even if I had been able to think straight.” He smirked and kissed your temple. “So we did it out of order, that’s fine. It’ll all be how it was meant to very soon.”

Sighing fondly you continued your progress until Clara was slumped against his shoulder, barely able to keep her eyes open. By the time you returned to the house, your mother had set up a small camp bed in the nursery for you and moved Bucky’s things to your room for the night – everyone agreed there was no way he could possibly be expected to sleep on the sofa. He was simply too long. Wishing one another good night in the hallway with a lingering kiss, you pressed your lips together as your mother cleared her throat expectantly from the landing below and slipped into the nursery for the night.

It was difficult to say how long you had been asleep when a faint noise, your ears now well trained to listen out for the smallest of disturbances, woke you. It was most definitely still dark when you raised your head, immediately looking to the crib to see Clara sleeping peacefully on her stomach, index and middle fingers of her right hand suckled soothingly by her full lips. Shifting your gaze in the dimly lit room, you jumped slightly to see Bucky leaning against the doorframe, clad in his boxers and undershirt, silently watching her sleep, expression pensive.

Sliding to your feet as gracefully as the low bed and your thin cotton nightgown would allow, you padded over to him quietly to whisper, “everything ok?”

“She’s just so small…” He replied in a hushed voice, gesturing with his hands, eyes still fixed on Clara’s sleeping form, and you smiled fondly.

Reaching out, you gently manipulated the distance between his palms to represent how small she had been as a newborn. “She was only that big a year ago.”

His eyes tore from the crib to study the small gap between his hands before lifting slightly to drink in how little you were wearing, how thin the material was to try and make sleeping in the summer months bearable. His eyes briefly flicked to yours, revealing the rapid dilation of his pupils before his mouth descended onto yours ravenously.

Sliding one arm around his waist, you pressed with the other against the centre of his chest to guide him back across the hall, closing the door to your bedroom behind you as you quickly surrendered and parted your lips for him. He grunted eagerly, pressing his fully hard length against you through the thin barrier of your clothes, making you gasp at the rapidity of his response.

“The damn sheets smell like you, I’ve been hard all night.” He groaned and you quickly smothered his mouth with yours, well aware just how loud he tended to get.

If you were lucky enough to get away with this, you were going to have to be as quiet as possible.

Rucking the hem of your nightgown up over your hips, he pivoted to deposit you onto the edge of the bed, settling between your thighs as you worked one another’s underwear off. Pressing skin to skin, his head fell back, and you quickly slid your palm over his mouth to smother his eager sighs, rocking your folds along the length of him as you gnawed on your lips and swallowed your own keens. Bucky’s eyes bored into yours hungrily as he mirrored your movements, almost daring you to keep quiet as he continued to moan against your hand.

Silence became impossible for you too as the blunt tip of his cock snagged on your entrance and he rocked his hips forward, slowly sinking into your warmth. Falling back onto the mattress, you slapped the hand that had previously been propping you upright over your own mouth to smother your eager groan as your eyelids fluttered in the struggle to remain open. Shifting forward once he had settled fully inside you, Bucky’s face hovered just above yours, eyes still pinning yours as he began the eager push and pull towards ecstasy.

Desperately trying to keep your hands in place over your mouth and his, your back arched at the long forgotten and very heightened sensation of being so very stretched by him, trembling with each brush of his pelvis against your sensitive bundle of nerves. His hands planted onto the mattress on either side of your head, fisting into the sheets as his hips snapped demandingly into yours, each sharp exhale from his nostrils cascading across your knuckles as you felt the tension building within you.

Sweat glistened on both of your skin, the efforts in the lingering heat of the night only making you both slick as you writhed beneath him, heart hammering inside your ribcage. And still his eyes would not leave yours. The one time you gave into the urge to clench them shut, he sent them flying open once more with a sharp nip to the meat of your palm and you quickly wrapped your legs around his hips, drawing him closer, deeper.

You could feel him clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth, desperately driving into you until your body shattered in release, nearly going limp with the force of it. Bucky nestled his face tighter to your palm as, with two more erratic thrusts, he followed suit with a harsh cry, thankfully still smothered. Slumping forward, utterly spent, you cradled him close a moment before shuffling and maneuvering to rest against the headboard with him properly nuzzled against your neck, and his legs mostly on the bed.

Stroking his hair lovingly, every so often scratching your nails along his scalp, you could not help the fond smile as his harsh breaths evened out and the weight of him grew heavier against you when sleep overtook him. Sighing softly, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to join him in rest.

The next time you opened them you were alone, tucked beneath the sheet, the soft light of dawn filling the room. The distinct sound of Clara’s giggles carried from across the hall, and you sat up, grabbing your summer housecoat and peered into the nursery to find the pair of them perched on the camp bed engaged in a very entertaining game of wooden blocks it seemed. Bucky had retrieved the model of the B17 from the dresser and was frequently swooping it down to destroy whatever Clara’s clumsy little hands built, much to her delight.

“Ah, Mommy’s up.” Bucky’s statement revealed that you had been caught and you smirked, stepping into the room to kneel on the carpet beside them. “Did we wake you?”

Shaking your head softly, you kissed Clara’s head and then Bucky’s cheek. “Did she wake you, though?”

He shrugged. “Probably my turn anyway.”

You smiled tenderly, laughing as Clara clutched at his arm to demonstrate that she had assembled a new construction in need of his attention. Watching fondly, you blinked slightly to see a new addition to the dog tags, crucifix, and medal that he normally wore. Amidst the collection was now the faux engagement ring you had sported for over a year. Reaching out, you traced your finger along it, raising an eyebrow in silent question as his eyes met yours.

“To remind me of that time I was overly reckless.” He murmured and you swallowed painfully, pressing your lips to his firmly.

Sliding his arm around your waist, he pulled you snuggly into his side, continuing to entertain Clara easily.

“We’ll get the licence today but, what kind of wedding would you like, doll?” He asked quietly.

“Just a date at the courthouse is fine.” You assured him with a nod.

“You don’t want a big wedding or anything? Honestly doll, anything you want and it’s yours.” He assured you softly.

You laughed watching your daughter gnaw on the corner of a wooden block. “Seems a bit hypocritical to put me a white gown don’t you think?” You smirked and shook your head when he looked ready to defend your honor. “I don’t need all those fancy things John, I just need you.”

When he finally came up for air, your lips more than a little swollen from his attentions, he huffed a laugh.

“Not sure what I’m going to do with the parachute I smuggled home now, though…”

“Well, Major Cleven’s getting married soon, isn’t he? I’m sure Marge would appreciate it. She seems lovely from the letters we’ve exchanged.”

He turned to you wide-eyed, struck silent, and you could not help but laugh. “Never underestimate the ingenuity of women, John.”

Bucky shook his head in awe. “Trust me, doll…I would never be so foolish as to underestimate you.”

-------------------------

"Trust" Series Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp, @mads-weasley, @xxanaduwrites, @bcon24, @fxxiva, @slowsweetlove, @hockeyboysarehot, @darylas, @carpediem1219, @blueberry-ovaries

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan imagine #john egan fic #john egan #john bucky egan #mota fic #masters of the air fanfic

[levitiquee]

The loss of light. (Levi x blind!reader)

Summary: In the battle held against Eren, reader loses their eyes. And as they finally starts getting used to a life without sight, someone unexpected reaches out. Levi Ackerman asks them to move into Marley with him.

Cw: uh since reader goes blind forever here, it might be kind of uncomfortable to read?

"...nothing we can do..."

"...did our best but..."

"... never see again..."

"...sight is gone..."

Gone, gone, gone….

It echoed in your head.

Soft murmurs reached your ears. You quietly listened, laying on your side, curled into a ball. You wrapped yourself tighter and tighter with every word, seeking comfort and shelter from you don't know what. Your eyelids fluttered as you tried to open them.

Were you in a dark room?

You blinked a couple times, squeezing your eyes shut harder with every press, but it felt strange. There was no difference. The darkness only felt more heavy, more suffocating. But there was no escape. Not a single ray of light.

Ah.

You really have gone blind, haven't you?

-

It had been a week since the war had ended. You had returned home along with everyone else, to Paradis.

And this past week, all you've known about the world is from hushed whispers.

You have only heard about how strange Paradis looked without the walls. About the ruins. About a lot of things. You hadn't seen any of it though.

You haven't seen a single thing this seven days. Not Paradis. Not the hospital room you were kept in. Not the doctors or nurses. Not any of your friends. Not even yourself.

You haven't seen a single ray of light. You haven't seen the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars–nothing.

And you were never going to see it ever again.

Darkness is your home now.

You cried the first day, as the nurse helped you to the bathroom. You cried when you stumbled against your own leg and almost fell down. You cried when they took off the bandage of your eyes, dabbing medicine but you could feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You cried the second day when you accidentally asked the nurse why she kept the lights turned off and she held your shoulder and gently explained to you as if you're a little kid. You hated it when she wiped your tears and didn't let you wipe it yourself in case you damage the eyes even more as if it's not damaged beyond repair already.

You cried the third day when you woke up and was unsure if you've actually opened your eyes because there was no fucking difference. You cried when you tried rubbing your eyes and instead felt the starchy bandage.

You didn't cry the fourth day. Nor the fifth day. Or the sixth.

You stopped crying.

It was a strange week. You woke up, a nurse would help you eat food, take you to the bathroom when necessary, give you meds, then you went back to sleep. Day and night made no difference to you.

Armin and a few others came to see you somewhere between day 2 or 3. Armin held your hand and told you to not feel bad. That you had done enough. That your role would not be forgotten. But now it was time for you to rest.

You had laughed, blinking back the tears. You will not cry in front of the kids, you told yourself. Then you congratulated him and blessed him, told him to do his best. That you were so proud of him.

And you couldn't see faces but you could have sworn it was Connie who sniffled and it was Jean who rubbed your back.

And then, nothing.

No one really told you anything anymore. The first few days, you'd ask whoever you can find about what's happening and the latest news. But then you started noticing the annoyed tones and you stopped.

Now you know nothing.

And no one bothered to tell you. Why should they, you were no longer a captain were you?

You were nothing.

It was 2 more weeks later, when you were almost well enough to be discharged and you were used to this new dark world of yours to do basic things by yourself. You were standing by a window, trying to make up for the lack of sight from the warmth of the sunlight on your hands and the fresh air on your face. And you didn't know how you knew but when you heard the click and whirr of something mechanical enter the room, you turned around and smiled.

"Captain."

"Kid."

And after 3 weeks of not crying, you thought you might just cry then. But you swallowed it down.

"You're still gonna call me that?"

"You're one to talk. You still call me captain." He grumbled.

You laughed. It had been years ago when Levi used to be your commanding officer. And then you became a captain yourself. But that never stopped you from calling him by the title, for no other reason than to see him irritated.

"Lost a leg I heard? That why you on a wheelchair?"

"Appears so." Levi had replied in his usual dry tone. Then it had turned softer. "Those ever going to be okay again?"

Wasn't it strange? You thought. How you saw nothing but darkness and yet you can feel his gaze on you. You can picture the exact expression that must be on his face right now, bored, half-lidded, eyes fixed on you, his mouth a straight line. A flat, emotionless face because oh he'd never show you that he cares. But his eyes would be warm and they'd tell you all that you'd ever needed to know.

"Nah." You replied airily. Did he know how bad you wanted to run away from the room right now? You might've attempted it, had it not been for the fact that you can't see shit and you would most definitely stumble and trip over.

You wondered how unpleasant you looked right now. You knew your hair was a mess, you hadn't bothered really taking care of it. And you bet the scars on your face weren't pretty either.

"...forever?" He asked quietly.

"Forever." You confirmed.

And fuck the sun and the moon and the sky.

But you were never going to see Levi and his scowl ever again.

-

It had been one month and you were finally released from the hospital. A nurse followed you for two days, helping you to get familiar with the routes so you could move by yourself. Then you were left alone.

But you were a quick learner. You always were. You figured out soon enough how to live without the existence of light in your world.

And you wondered.

Where do you go from here?

-

You stiffened as you reached the hallway leading up to your room, your hands on the wall. Losing your eyesight had only heightened your other senses. And said senses told you somebody was there, at the end of the hallway, right in front of your room.

"Hey."

You relaxed, a smile quirking up. That voice. You knew that voice. You'd always know that voice. That always bored, tired and monotonous tone of his.

"Pleasant surprise, captain."

He sighed. "For the walls sake, please stop calling me that." He said, almost exasperated.

"Oh, why so?" You slowly shuffled your feet, using the walls to draw a mental map and reached the door of your room. You leaned on the wall beside the door where you guessed Levi was right in front of. "It's meant as a term of respect, captain. Maybe if you just stopped taking it personally?"

"Shut up." He grumbled. "We both know exactly why you call me that. Additionally, you are anything but respectful."

"Now that's just offensive. I only mean the best."

"Fuck off. We're the same rank." Levi paused. "Or at least was." He added bitterly.

"Resigned too, have you?" You asked quietly.

"Not much of a choice, was it? I can't do shit in this state. Plus I'm too old and too tired. Arlert did hope for me to be an advisor but I rejected it."

"Figured. You would've done well though."

"Like I said, I've done my part. What happens rest is up to the brats "

"Mhm." You nodded. "Smart brats though, they'll work it out." You reached for the doorknob, twisting it open. Then you guestured him to come in. "Ah, can you move the chair on your own, or do you need help?"

You heard Levi quietly exhale.

You waited a few seconds. Then sighed.

"You need to learn how to ask for help, you know. I know your hand still hasn't healed. So you could just ask." You told him as you walked over, using your intuition and hands to understand his position. Your hands brushed past his hands before it found the metal handles. You walked behind it to push him in.

"I know." Levi said quietly.

"Just your ego or did you feel guilty cause I'm blind now?" You asked casually. "Also tell me if I'm doing it right, might push you against a chair or something."

"That's fine. Leave it here." Levi replied. You reached behind to shut the door, then plopped on the bed.

"Your rooms a fucking stable, what the fuck." Levi muttered, a hint of disgust in his tone. You chuckled. It shouldn't be too messy, you knew, probably just a few clothes out of place. Leave it to Levi to be dramatic.

"Blind kid here remember? Show some sympathy." You said in mock offense.

You could almost hear Levi's eye roll.

"When are you moving out?" He asked.

"Fuck if I know." You sighed. You knew you couldn't stay much longer in the military quarters. Not when you're no longer a soldier. But you had zero fucking idea where you go next. "I mean, I heard someone saying queen Historia was going to arrange like apartments for the war veterans? Maybe I'll ask for one. Pathetically, like a begger." You muttered the last bit under your breath.

You heard Levi shift in his chair. "You're not pathetic." He said calmly.

"Yeah well." You groaned, dragging a arm over your face."What about you?"

Seconds passed. Levi gave no response.

Another thing losing your sight did was make you overthink every little thing that you couldn't see. "Levi?" You called out warily. "You there?"

You heard the whirl of the chair beside you. "..yeah. I'm here."

"God." You slumped back down. "Don't go fucking silent out of nowhere. I don't like it. Specially not when I can't see shit." It was the helplessness really.

"No. Sorry. I didn't mean to worry you." Levi said quietly.

You shifted. The years you spent with Levi had taught you to read Levi like no other. Levi never showed it on his face but..you could always tell when his tone would change.

"What's bothering you?"

Levi shuffled in his seat. Oh something was bothering him alright.

"What's wrong? Seriously." You felt the anxiety rise. You sat up straight. "Please, please don't be quiet like that. It freaks me out now. Was it me? Did I do something wrong? Ask something wrong?–"

"No." You heard some clicking sounds, almost as if he was fidgeting. "No. It's not you."

"Spit it out then, please." You spoke quietly and slowly, carefully choosing the words. There was a strange tension in the room, it made you feel suffocated. And you hated it. As if the darkness wasn't suffocating enough. "What did you want to say Levi?"

Another few seconds passed.

"Come with me."

You froze.

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked away, synchronized with your heartbeat.

"...to where?" You asked softly after a pause.

"Marley. Come with me to Marley."

Heavy, heavy breaths. The pounding in your heart almost ached.

"...I don't understand."

"I.." Levi let out an exasperated breath. "Onyankapon offered me to go to Marley with him. Start new. And I thought.. since there's nothing left for you here either..so you might want to.."

And for a second you forgot to breathe. You could tell the exact moment your heart collapsed and your lungs stopped working. And you felt the exact moment time stopped around you.

"..you want me to go to Marley with you?" You asked in a quiet voice. So quiet you wondered if he could hear it. Perhaps you hoped he wouldn't hear it. He wouldn't hear the crack in your voice.

"..yes."

You felt your fingers clench the bedsheets. Just something to hold on to, anything. Because God damnit.

"Thought you didn't like having me around?"

"I don't."

"Yeah?" You laughed, a little breathless. "Have you considered the fact that now that I'm blind I'd be ten times worse to have around? Since I basically can't do shit."

"That's your concern?" He asked frustratedly.

"A valid concern. I will not be a burden Levi. I refuse to be."

"Shit, no." Levi huffed. "You're not a burden. And you're not pathetic. And before you even go there, no I'm not showing pity on you. So shut up."

You smiled. "No?" No, you knew. Levi was never the type to do things out of pity. And if that's the case.. "And what are we going to be there in Marley, Levi?"

"What?" He asked in a confused voice.

"We're going to live together as in what? Old comrades?" You swallowed, heart hammering against your chest. "Friends?"

Levi stayed quiet.

And you almost choked then, as the realization hit you. The silence gave you your answer. The last answer you thought it'd be. And there was pain, pain, pain. Everywhere. In your head and your heart.

You wanted it. So bad.

But he deserved better than you, didn't he? Someone who could take care of him, not someone who needed to be taken care of.

But he wants me.

The thought sent a fresh wave of pain along your chest. He wants me.

How could someone like him, want me?

But maybe, just maybe…

Just this once. You'll let yourself be greedy.

"I'll go."

"What?" Levi's voice was breathless. There was disbelief in it.

"I'll come with you to Marley, captain."

And for the first time since then, you let yourself cry. You let tears roll down your face and you let the sobs take you. And this time, when your fingers clenched around the bedsheet, his fingers slowly, tentatively wrapped around yours. And it told you everything he never got to say. All the things he didn't dare say.

And when he gently tugged on you, you didn't resist. You let him pull you to him as you wrapped your hands around him, curling up on his lap. And you cried, hands pressed to your face as your shoulders shook, and you cried because it's the first time you felt safe since you woke up in the dark.

It's okay. It was him, wasn't it? How could you not feel safe with him?

He'd die for you.

Levi and you. Levi and you. Isn't that how it always were?

In the battlefields, in trainings, in expeditions..

When have you ever looked over your shoulder and not found him scowling at you?

Levi's hands ever so gently wrapped around your shoulder, another hand smoothing the stray strands of hair out of your face when you felt his lips press to the top of your head. And it was the lightest whisper but you heard it.

"Thank you." He whispered.

And you nodded. Again. And again.

It's okay. You'll be okay.

He'll always be there.

-

"Levi?" You stood by the kitchen doorway, hands planted on the door. Your fingers flexed instinctively, braced for anything unexpected.

"Right here." He called out, and you immediately relaxed at the confirmation of his presence. You reached out your hand, searching for him. He took it, gently tugging you forwards towards him. You grinned when his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

"Hi."

"Good morning to you too."

"I thought I told you to wake me up before you leave the bed?" You pout.

"Sorry. You looked peaceful."

You laughed hearing his answer. But you tipped up to plant a peck on his lips. Missed halfway though, you could never get the kiss right. "Seriously though. I freak out, you know that."

He let you go, ruffling your hair. "Yeah I know, you paranoid little shit. What, did you think I got abducted by aliens or something?"

"One can never know." You say airily. And though it was meant as a joke, you didn't tell him the real answer. It's everyday you're scared that one day, you'll wake up and he won't be there anymore.

"Go sit down, breakfast is almost ready."

"I think I'd stay around here a little while." You listened keenly to the sounds of his steps, the splatter of oil and something being pieced on the cutting board. Your nose perked up.

"Eggs and bacon?" You guessed as you walked over towards the kitchen counter. You used your hands to feel out an empty spot, then heaved yourself to sit there so your legs dangled.

"I'm feeling generous today, so I made pancakes too. Whatever you're in the mood for." He replied, the sound coming just beside you.

"No wonder why I love you." You beamed brightly.

"Because I feed you?" He scoffed.

"Indeed." You winced slightly when he flicked your forehead. "Hey!"

"Brat." He murmered.

You grinned, rubbing your forehead.

"What's the day like Levi?"

It had become an everyday routine of yours to ask the question. And Levi was never very good at making aesthetic descriptions but he tried. For you.

A lot of things had changed in Levi Ackerman's life. One of them was perhaps this.

He never really cared about the appearance of things. Colors were just colors to him, the sky was blue, the trees were green. That's it. It was you who loved it, you'd nitpick every little detail.

"It's not blue, it's like a pastel indigo you know? With a hint of green? Like, like turquoise I don't know-" You'd ramble and he'd scoff.

You loved everything and anything. All of it memerized you. You swooned everytime you saw a rainbow, got giddy everytime it snowed. And it used to be everyday, you forced Levi to look at the sky "cause it's so fucking pretty today!"

Colors didn't matter to Levi much until he met you.

He didn't care about colors but he cared when they were on you.

He liked the color of your eyes, how it'd change shades in the sun and how it went perfect with the color of your skin. He liked the color of your hair, of your lips, of every outfit you ever wore. He liked how the green of Scouts would look on you.

But it was always you who thought colors are the most wonderful thing in the universe.

Sometimes you'd lean uncomfortably close, squinting in concentration as you observed his face.

"What?" He'd cringe.

"You have pretty eyes." You'd mumble.

"It's fucking gray."

"Not quite. It's like silver but with a tinge of blue. Stormy clouds and moonlight."

He found it cruel that the world took away your only source of joy.

So there he was, every morning, trying to explain the exact shades of color that was on the sky today. One time he accidentally called the sunlight yellow and you were mad offended. "It's golden!"

Levi didn't mind though, not really.

Not when he gets to see the way your face brighten up with every little detail.

"Can I help?" You asked after a while.

"Yeah no. You'll burn my kitchen down."

"Please? I'll be careful, promise." You whined, jumping down from the counter. You brought your hands in a pleading gesture.

"Fine." He muttered. "Do the eggs then."

"Oh but I always end up breaking the yolk."

"Well don't break the yolk. Be careful."

He watched you as you cracked an egg in the bowl. You stiffened up immediately.

"Broke the yolk didn't I?"

"Yes" he snorted. "You're eating that one."

"Sorry. I'm such a mess." You mumbled.

Levi sighed. You got insecure when you couldn't help.

"If you want to help you can go wash the dishes."

That cheered you right up.

His eyes followed you as you practically bounced towards the sink.

That was another thing Levi had to get used to. Your energy.

Levi has always been a kept-low person. He's calm and quiet. Never talked unless he had to. Then you came and you were this big ball of pure chaos and he never knew how to quite keep up with you.

He loved it though, he loved how you expressed emotions so freely, how you rambled on about the smallest things so easily. He loved it all and he loved you.

The loss of light in your world had never changed a thing about you.

He often wondered what it must be like, living in the dark like that. At first, it was strange for him, how you'd always seem to notice his presence before he even entered the room. You'd turn around and give the brightest smile. It was strange how your silver orbs looked straight in his eyes yet he was aware you saw nothing. How you'd hear the smallest sounds, notice the barest shifts in the air.

You loved the rain, and you loved the snow. You said it was nice to at least feel the world every once in a while.

But there were things that always broke his heart as well. How you were always so tense, the way you'd start panicking the moment you reach out and can't find him beside you. Sometimes, you'd be so dazed in doing something or perhaps sleeping, and he'd touch you and you'd flinch or jump on your feet. Then on, he learned gently knocking before entering any room you were in so to not startle you.

You were always the careful one. The on your toes one. You never let your guard down. Back in the scouts, your instincts never failed to impress him. So he often wondered what it must be like you for now, now that you lost one of your biggest advantages. When so much of your life you passed relying on your vision. After losing your eyes, you have only become more tense. One little unusual sound and you'd go rigid. He absolutely hated the helpless look that'd take place on your features when you'd struggle with something.

He hated how you never asked for help.

And he hated how sometimes you'd have nightmares in the middle of the night and you'd wake up, overwhelmed when you saw nothing but darkness. You'd forget the loss of your vision and you'd panic when no matter how much you screamed, you can't seem to wake yourself up. And he had to hold you, he had to calm you down, he had to remind you. And he hated, absolutely hated the look that'd take place after the daze passes and you realize there's no escaping the darkness.

Sometimes, you'd ask about your scars. You'd ask if they were hideous. And Levi would press a kiss on your temple, and that'd be an answer in itself. But yet, sometimes he found you going over the torn tissues of your face, expression scrunching with every feel of the ragged surface around your eyes. He'd always take your hand and press it to his own face, as a reminder.

Then you'd trace his ones. You'd go over the scars that ran from his eye to his chin gently. You remember those, you still had your sight when Hange had stiched them up. But it helps you ground yourself.

A reminder that you weren't the only one.

Sometimes you'd go out, you and him. And before Levi had gotten the prosthetic leg, you used to push him around. It was perfect really, Levi were your eyes and so you helped him move.

And then it was Levi's hands entertwined with yours as he'd guide you around the streets. You liked parks, for the feel of bare grass underneath your feet.

Sometimes Gabi and Falco would join. During then, it'd be Gabi who'd enthusiastically tell you little details of the world around you. And she was definitely better than Levi so he'd stay quiet. "A black cat just passed by and it exactly looked like Mr. Levi, like, like with the scowl and everything-"

Sometimes, Reiner, Pieck and Onyankapon would come visit. And those days, nothing could wipe the grin off your face. You liked it when there were people in the house. You liked it when it was loud.

Levi didn't like loud. But he liked that it made you happy. It made you feel safe in that dark world of yours. It reminded you that you weren't stuck in your own head, you were here, with everyone else.

A lot of things had changed in Levi's life, but he didn't mind.

Not really.

He liked how easily you'd reach out to hold him when you'd lose balance or you needed to know where he was. He liked how your kisses were so sloppy and almost always missed and the way you'd get so embarrassed. He liked how your tense shoulders would relax once you realized it was him before you.

How you trusted him with your life.

A lot of things had changed in Levi Ackermans life.

You had brought love into it.

And he doesn't think he'll ever be able to let you go.

#aot #captain levi #snk #levi ackerman #levi heichou #aot fandom #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk levi #levi x you #levi x reader #levi fluff #levi angst #levi aot #levi ackerman fanfic #levi attack on titan #aot levi #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi #levi x yn #kinda fluff #kinda angst #lol idk

[everythingelseisextra]

First Time

Part Ten: Stand Your Ground

Description: After being discharged from the hospital, you and Tommy visit the racetrack. Warnings: Language, brief mention of rape/trafficking Word Count: 2506 Tag List: @ttaechi @theshelbyslimited @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

Days turn into weeks turn into a month. As always, you wake before dawn and start your work up in that subliminal time between night and day, simultaneously both and neither. Your work drives you through the day. Eleven horses, each with different needs, different sensitivities, different opinions, and you, the center of their lives. You care for them accordingly. You don’t get days off or breaks, don’t get the chance to catch your breath, to relax, until dusk, when the cab rolls into your driveway to pick you up. You climb in, smelling of horse and sweat and hay, and rest your head back, eyes on the road ahead of you.

The darkening city flows past you, fluid in the falling night, and something like nostalgia washes over you. You remember the girl you loved, her pale green eyes like the hills that surround your home, her naked body trembling next to you, your exhausted bones leaning against each other for support. It was a broken sense of togetherness that came from a godless place, from being surrounded by cruelty and twisted minds. You found each other, and you helped each other, but in the end, you couldn’t save her. Only avenge her. You remember, before you could define the feelings that boiled inside of you, a sense of home, of feeling exactly in place with her, even though your circumstances were unnatural. 

Love, you think, is like most other predators. It tries to warn you before it bites. 

Before you’ve pieced the ragged bits of yourself back together, you’re walking into the hospital and nodding to the woman at the front desk. She knows you now, knows your alliance, knows the only person you ever visit, so she doesn’t have to ask. You reach his room and knock, receiving the answer to come in.This is his last day in the hospital, and the routine you’ve made is about to end, and neither of you will allow the elephant in the room to speak. And you sit and talk, mostly you, with his quiet eyes watching you with a glint inside of them, tracing the outline of your face, memorizing you. There are some days where he talks, and you listen, and you learn about his war in France, and the battles he endured, and how no one wins war, they just survive it. You learn more about Grace, about Campbell, about the guns and the horses. Tommy tells stories as though you’re sitting by fireside, with the flickering gold and orange light on your faces, an aura fending off the darkness, and evokes a life to his words that you’re not used to. You find yourself hanging on each phrase, completely under his spell. 

Sometimes, there’s a holiness to your conversations, your words quiet and respectful, as if so precious that even the air could damage them. Other times, you’re revelrous, and laughter echoes up through the stone walls and bounces around off the slanted ceiling. Days like this lead to nights full of half-reluctant, half-exuberant movement; tossing and turning, standing up to pace, toying with the knife that lies between you, belonging to both of you and neither of you, now. You spend your days working and spend your nights with a comrade against the battle of loneliness, and for the first time in your life, you feel balanced. 

But, days like today, where you’re quiet and reserved, lead to careful, quiet nights. You lay in bed and stare at his bare back across from you. Even though your fear has diminished, he still insists on starting off facing away from you, out of some form of respect, giving you something like privacy. The night curls in around you, chilly and peaceful, and your eyes trace the graceful curve of his back. You allow time to pass, and, when you’re brave enough, you speak.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?” He responds still facing away from you, but his head tilts upwards, glancing over his shoulder at you. 

“I’ve been thinking about how things change.” You start out slow, then your words cascade out of you, speeding up as you go. “I’ve been thinking about how I used to think I was a terrible person. For loving another girl and for being a victim and for killing a man. I used to think that I had no reason to go on, because I had nothing but skin and bones and muscle and even that didn’t always belong to me. Now I know I was never terrible, I was just fifteen and terrified. Now I think I’m terrible for other reasons. 

“I have this body that doesn’t love me and has never saved me. I have this body that was used against me for years. And I am sorry I was born with it. But I didn’t used to be. When I had her, I used to want to be a body for her. I used to want to give her my shoulder to cry on, used to want to hold her hand as she walked me to the next hotel room or alleyway or basement, used to want to cradle her in the dark. I was thinking about her and it made me realize my body isn’t just for sex, or being abused. But, these days, all I do with it is work. And that made me think of you. Because what’s the point if it’s just work? What’s the point if you’re still being pushed to the brink, even when you’re not supposed to be?”

He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want to keep autopsying the body of who I used to be. I want to take this new shape and run with it. I— I want to be, unapologetically, without being held back by the fear of scarring myself again.” You take a deep, shuddering breath. “And I want— I want to do this.”

Slowly, with the awkward tenderness of someone who’s forgotten what it’s like to touch another person, you move towards him, hesitant, and lightly drape your arm over his side, so nervous that you barely touch him. 

He takes a short breath, then his hand reaches up to take yours and gently pulls you closer. Your lungs seize and you fight the urge to pull away. Instead, with a streak of bravery you didn’t know you had in you, you bury your face in his back and tighten your hold, almost clinging to him. His bare skin is warm against you, soft and unburdened, not like yours. His hand stays resolutely over yours. 

You stay like that, fighting with yourself, talking back to the fear in your mind that tells you he’ll take it too far. You know he won’t. You trust that he won’t. You will break the habit of being afraid. You will face the gargantuan monster of your past and insist that you will not become it. 

A lump forms in your throat. Your heart beats hard against your chest, and you think he can probably feel it against his back. He’s warm. He’s holding you and asking you for nothing else. His hand tightens around yours, then relaxes, a silent communication; I am here. It’s been years. Only the sun has been this close to you. Only the sun. You close your eyes and a tear rolls out, and you don’t understand it but you think it’s relief. 

“Don’t need to force your—”

“I’ve been thinking,” you say, voice slightly choked. “About what you said. About not having enough time.” 

“And what have you been thinking?” His words are soft, gentle. 

“I think that that makes this more valuable. We’ll never be here again. We’re just a moment, and then we’re gone.” You press your forehead against his back, closing your eyes. “And that’s comforting, isn’t it? We matter so much that we don’t matter at all.” 

“I don’t want to be a moment. I don’t want to be limited.” 

You smile faintly. “Thomas Shelby will live forever, won’t he?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe I will, too. The horses and you and I. Maybe there’s some kind of forever there.” 

There’s a smile in his voice. “You’re dreaming.”

“Yeah, well, I never got to before.” Your breathing evens out, the lump in your throat begins to dissipate. “This is my first time.”

A few days later, you stare at the open stall in your barn, the weak morning light seeping slowly through the rafters. You cross your arms, then turn and head to your house, pushing the door open and going straight to the phone. 

He picks up almost right away and you smile to yourself. “Hey, you up for an outing?” 

“Where?” 

“I still need to keep my promise to you, and I have an open stall.” In your mind, you’re begging him to say yes. You got used to seeing him daily, to spending your nights with him, and you’re starved of his attention. 

“You want to do that today?” 

“Are you doing anything else?”

He sighs. “Charlie asked for me this morning. Not Grace. For the first time.”

You nod. “Spend time with your son. There’s always tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow morning, then.” 

“I’ll see you then. Bye, Tom.” 

“Goodbye.” 

The rest of the day passes agonizingly slowly, and you sleep badly that night, finding yourself in the hazy half-dream state of sticky thoughts and flashing images. You’re grateful when the morning comes, when you can rise and head out in the brisk air to feed your horses. They’ll get the day off from work, a rare treat for them. You’re almost done with their grain when Tommy’s car rumbles towards you. You nod at him, then continue your work. He steps out of the car and comes towards you, head slightly bowed to avoid the fresh brightness of the morning. You look him over once, noting that he’s back to being constantly impeccably dressed, back to the mask of professionalism. 

“You need help?” 

“No,” you chuckle. “I’ve got it. Thanks, though.” 

He watches you as you walk from stall to stall, dumping the grain into the corner bins, the horses calling to you as you approach. 

When you return, his eyes flick over your face, shadowed by his cap. “You spoil them.” 

“I do.” You walk past him, heading towards the car. “They’re the only thing between me and the world, of course I spoil them.” 

He tsks, following you. “Not the only thing.” 

“No?” You glance back at him as you open the passenger door and slip inside. 

“No.” 

You nod vaguely, something like pride welling up in you. “Good to know.” 

He sits down beside you and starts the car, deftly maneuvering out of the craggy driveway. “Pol wants to meet you.”

You let out a short breath. “How fucked am I?”

A small smile appears on his lips. “Depends on the kind of mood she’s in.”

“I can handle a thousand pound animal, but I assure you, I won’t be able to get a word out when she talks to me.” You shake your head. “At least she’s not a man.”

“It would be a tragedy for you to meet a man.”

You grin and look over at him. “Devastating.” 

The rest of the car ride continues in the same manner. You reach the racetrack with a smile on your lips. You’re closer to the city, and the air leaves a residue on your skin, faint smog in every breeze. After you park, you lead the way inside, keeping your head down and on a swivel, and your attention on everything around you. Tommy follows close behind you, his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders back and head held high. You feel safer with him around, braver, more willing to glance up and acknowledge the people around you.

Under the arching gates, you walk into the general area of the racetrack. On either side of you, standards sit sentinel, completely empty, almost ghostlike in the overcast gray. Tommy pauses for a moment, and you notice him take a deep breath, his hands moving slightly in his pockets, flexing and clenching. 

“What?” You stop, turning to look at him. 

He shakes his head, a small movement. “Last time I was here…” 

“You don’t have to tell me.” You step back to stand by his side. “There’s barely anyone here. We’ll be alright. I’m keeping an eye out, too. You’re not on your own.”

He glances at you, then inclines his head, suggesting you move on. You start walking, and this time, he falls into step with you, side by side. 

You reach the stables. You pull one of the workers aside, and, as quietly as you can, explain who you are. She nods, says she’s heard of you, and goes to retrieve her supervisor to bring some horses out. 

There’s a lull. You glance at Tommy. His eyes wander around the track, catching on the wooden standards, the makeshift bathrooms not far off, then to the entrance of the stables. 

You nudge him with your elbow. “Where’s your mind going?”

“Nowhere good.” He looks down at you, blue eyes searching. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” You chuckle. “It matters to me where you’re at. I can tell you’re drifting off somewhere.” 

“I am.” His eyes flick to a few horses, tucked-up waists and gleaming coats, being led towards you. 

“Just… try to be here. With me. Don’t go running off to play with the dead while you still have living to do.” 

He nods, then gestures at the horses. “Let’s take a look.”

There’s a sleek black gelding with a star and four socks, flashy and brave, according to his handlers. He has a bone chip and would require surgery, which you can afford. There’s a bay mare with kind eyes and a blaze, with a deep tissue wound in her stifle, with a daisy-cutter trot and swift, clean legs. You see Tommy’s eyes narrow slightly when a small gray stallion is brought out, pink nose and pale body glistening. He stands with his head and tail up, alert and watchful. He broke his leg, they say, but stayed standing, not so severe as to shoot him on the spot. 

“That one has spirit,” Tommy murmurs as they walk him past. 

“Stallions tend to.” You look up at him, trying to read his expression. “The gelding would be the safer choice. Bone chips are easy.” 

“They’ll shoot him if you don’t take him.” 

You nod vaguely, eyes traveling over the compact white horse, getting an idea of conformation, of sturdiness. Then, your eyes fall on a man at the entrance of the racetrack, and your blood goes cold. You waver on your feet and Tommy looks down at you, confused. You grab his arm to steady yourself.

“We have to go.” Your breath hitches in your throat, your lungs contract, and you pant like a dog. “Please, Tom, we have to go now.”

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #peaky blinders imagine #peaker blinders fandom #peaky blinder imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

[d0wnb4df0rf1cm3n]

Let me

Anthony Lockwood x F!Reader

Summary: You got hurt. It was his fault. And he feels absolutely awful.

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Angst, Claustrophobia, Near-death situations, Some lightly mentioned family issues, Arguing, Couples? Quarrels, ANGST.

AN: The summary is awful - I feel like I say this every time. Idk if Reader and Lockwood are a couple, they don't have to be, but they can be if you want to. Love you all! (BTW I have not read the books in years so creative liberties were taken - I'm sorry for any and all book inaccuracies.)

The body of one 'Sergeant M. Bowers' floated precariously towards Lockwood. He backed up against the door of the bedroom, eyes darting between you and Bowers, rapier extended in front of him. You rifled through the bedroom, looking for anything precious or valuable. You had to find the source for Lockwood.

Lockwood had taken the case of this particular house out of pure greed. Mrs. Miller was willing to pay a pretty price to take care of her 'little problem' as she called it. You had warned him against it - the Bowers' manor was about a mile outside of the town you grew up in and you'd heard almost every story there was to hear about the house. About the family that inhabited the house. Lockwood hadn't listened.

He'd convinced you to come, saying the stories were 'probably just stories told to children to scare them away.' He assured you they weren't true. After George had done his research, you were more confident - apparently, reports of apparitions of children predated the problem and were therefore hoaxes.

The Bowers were an affluential aristocratic family before the war - the First World War, that is. "They were known for hosting Gatsby-esque parties to celebrate the most menial of affairs - like their dog turning one." George had rolled his eyes at that pushing the picture of the newspaper your way. April 6th, 1912. A week before the Titanic sank.

The sinking of the Titanic began a series of unfortunate events for the Bowers family, starting with the death of the youngest son, James. James and his to-be wife, Miranda, died aboard the ship, thrusting the family into a long period of mourning. In the following two years, 6 of the 12 members who lived in the house had passed away, forcing the rest to flee the countryside manor, claiming it had been cursed - which brought about the misfortune of the family.

The last of the family to inherit the manor was Sergeant Michael James Bowers, who was the youngest nephew of James. He had lost his life in the second World War; after being shot in the arm and leg, he had been honourably discharged and sent home. He succumbed to sepsis not long after, surrounded by empty halls and unhappy memories. Apparently, he had never left.

You shook your head in discomfort - dispelling the dark feeling that had crept over you since reading about the family's terrible fate. Something seemed off about this case - something seemed to have been omitted from all the research you and George had done.

At first, you disregarded it as nerves. The Bowers manor was big - bigger than any other case you had taken. Plus, it was close to home, which was full of unpleasant memories. Maybe the added pressure was playing on your mind. You tried to explain yourself to Lockwood, who dismissed you. Apparently, Lucy had to help Kipps with some research, and George was working on another case. There was no point in arguing with Lockwood when he had made up his mind, and he was not going to budge on this case.

Which led you to your current predicament.

There were many ghosts haunting the halls of the Bowers manor. It seemed that everyone who had died here didn't want to leave. You had rid the house of most of the ghosts - sealing almost ten sources in different iron boxes. Lockwood had danced his way through the Type Ones that he was dealing with - he was evidently the better agent out of the two of you. You had lucked out - you came face to face with a Type Two. The small girl kept repeating about her teddy which you had found in an upstairs bedroom covered in filth and cobwebs. You threw an iron net over it before leaning against a wall to catch your breath. You were exhausted - and you hadn't even dealt with the real problem.

Sergeant Bowers.

Sergeant M. Bowers was a lot more tortured than you had initially thought. His wife left him when he left for the war, leaving to follow her true love into the country - countless correspondences scattered across the rooms told you as much.

Then came the matter of a child - Timothy. Pictures of him were littered through the halls - toys left to rot in the hallways. Clearly, no one had cleaned it until Mrs. Miller bought it at that country house auction. Except the trace of him ended there. There was nothing in your research to tell you about him, nor any sign of him outside the walls of this home.

It was peculiar.

You had tried to tell Lockwood, but he brushed you off. "The kid must have died - explains the tortured relationship between his parents."

It seemed odd to you. What kind of mother would run off without her child?

A glint caught your eye. A small jewellery box lay on the vanity, dust laid over it as if it hadn't been touched in decades. You dashed towards it, opening it quickly to find a simple silver band inside. A wedding band. A source.

You placed the ring in a small iron box - one of your many engineering feats that made your job safer and easier to do. Bowers disappeared from over Lockwood and you ran over to help him up.

"See? Not too bad, was it?" Lockwood joked, taking the box from your hand and putting it in his bag with the rest of them.

"The only reason I'm glad we don't work with Fittes is the paperwork. We'd be drowning in it after tonight. Can you imagine? With all those Type Ones and the two Type Twos. I'd be crying into my pillow for weeks." You grabbed the rest of your equipment and headed towards the stairs. Lockwood's fingers wrapped around your arm, pulling you back sharply.

He pulled out his rapier and pointed it toward the woman - an apparition of a young woman, dressed in a maid's uniform and carrying a basket, seemingly full of laundry.

"Another Type Two. Great." Lockwood sighed, "You check downstairs and I'll check upstairs. She's a maid. Look for... maid things? I don't know." You nodded before hopping downstairs, armed with your rapier.

You went down to the servants' quarters, which you had seen on the blueprints of the house. The room was small, just off the side of the kitchen - and was perhaps the cleanest room in the house. The maids had been let go long before Sergeant Bowers had inherited the house. Clearly, they had taken the cleanliness with them.

You looked around for anything that could be a source. Why would staff die here, you thought, when the Bowers were known for treating staff well? And why would she choose to stay? You walked around the room, running your fingers over the sparse wooden furniture around the room, leaving trails in the dust in your wake. You tripped by the door to the bathroom, cutting your hand on a small loose nail by the door - probably used for hanging coats or aprons. You winced as you stretched your hand, closing your fist to stop the blood from dripping all over the floor.

You heard footsteps coming down the stairs. "Did you find anything, Lockwood?" No response. "Lockwood?" The door to the servants' quarters slammed shut. You pressed up against the door, trying to force it open. "LOCKWOOD? LOCKWOOD, HELP!" You screamed, trying to push the door hard. "LOCKWOOD, PLEASE! I NEED YOU!"

Lockwood called to you from the landing, telling you he's found something interesting. You tried screaming for him again, but he was too far away to hear you, just like you were too far away to help. Ghostly yelling startled you as you turned around. The maid was here, clearly oblivious to you in the room. She was humming softly as the ghostly yelling continued.

You watched her from a distance as she folded some invisible clothes, her humming still ringing out around the room. She laughed at nothing, before turning towards the door, expectantly. You turned towards the door, expecting to see some other apparition in the doorway but there was nothing. She seemed to get frantically worried by the lack of whatever presence she is expecting, her humming becoming erratic and eerier by the second.

Her eyes grazed over you, and she seemed to relax. She spoke to you gently, reaching her hand out to you, "Come, Elizabeth. There's no need to be scared." You felt the effects of Ghost-lock wash over you, as lethargy numbs your senses. You saw her drifting toward you, but you had no energy to run or even to poise your rapier in front of you. And she seems so nice.

You heard the door fly open and felt someone grab your arm, tightly. You were pulled out of the room and back into the kitchen. "Thanks, Anthony." You whispered, resting on the kitchen counters.

"Anthony? Who's Anthony?" You looked up, unamused by Lockwood's attempt at a joke.

Your jaw dropped. In front of you was a man that you thought you may never see again, "Grandpa? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I heard you screaming. Just wanted to make sure you're okay?" He said, eyes looking you over, searching for injuries. You hid your arm further behind your back, not wanting to worry him more.

He brought his hand up to brush your cheek, staring down at you lovingly. "I'm sorry about this, kiddo."

You felt hands pulling you up off the floor, and a strangely familiar voice whispering soothing words in your ear. You struggled in the grasp of this strange person, trying - unsuccessfully - to flee. They held you firmly, arms tucked neatly beneath you.

Tired from your busy night, you gave up, resting your head against the person's chest. You knew this cologne. It was Anthony's - you teased him for putting on too much and the scent lingers in the hallways some mornings. You settled, seeking his warmth and his comfort.

"Nice to have you back. You worried me for a minute back there."

"Lockwood? Worried? God, are there pigs in the sky?" You bantered back, your voice weak with exhaustion. He laid you down on the stairs, running back to grab your rapier and your flares. You must have dropped them when your Grandpa showed up. Grandpa?

Where did he go? You stood up trying to walk back to the kitchen. Grandpa couldn't see any apparitions - if one came for him, he'd be as good as dead.

"Whoa, slow down, Usain Bolt." Lockwood caught you as your legs folded beneath you. "You took a nasty hit to the head, plus you might have had a bit of ghost-lock as well."

"Lockwood, my grandpa," You said, looking past him, and back at the kitchen door, "He can't see them. We have to help him."

"Your grandpa? Honey, there's no one here." The nickname fell on deaf ears. You tried to scramble back towards the room, but Lockwood held you tightly.

He walked with you back to the kitchen - to prove there was no one there. There was no sign of anyone being there - nothing at all.

"Look - there's no one else here. You must have hit your head while getting away from the maid. Just," He huffed, pulling you closer to him, "let me get you home. Let me check you over - make sure you're alright."

You let Lockwood drag you towards the taxi and push you inside. You let him maneuver your body so that your head is resting on his chest and your legs dangle over his. You let him carry you like a rag doll into the house and set you down in the kitchen.

You shivered slightly - involuntarily - but Lockwood noticed. He draped a large blanket over you, boiling some water for hot tea. He grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and sat down in front of you.

He held out his hand for yours, "Let me clean it for you." So you do.

He spent the better part of the next hour meticulously cleaning every scratch and scrape he can find - only slowing down when you wince, or to pour you more tea. He makes it how you like it - a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk

Once he's done, he lifts you again and carries you to bed, tucking you in like a mother would their child. He turns out the lights with a soft goodnight and crosses the landing to his own bedroom. The first floor is plunged into darkness, but you stare up at the ceiling.

Sleep doesn't come to you easily. When you close your eyes, the maid's face is above yours - her hand reaching out to you, beckoning you. You want to take it. You see her holding Elizabeth, cradling her as she cries. Your grandpa's face comes up next to the maid and you see your grandpa die. How he screams for you to help him as the plasm burns through his skin. Your mother blames you - tells you that she should never have let you go to Fittes. The maid shields Elizabeth from the loud arguing coming from upstairs. No, not from upstairs. The arguing is happening below you. You shake yourself awake from your restless night, wincing as you contort your bruised body. You slip on your Fittes hoodie and creep downstairs.

Lucy and Lockwood are facing off in the kitchen. Again. You sit on the step, listening in.

"She told you she didn't want to go! And now, there's a chance she won't be able to go into the field."

"She'll be fine. She's tough, she'll get through it."

"You don't know that, Lockwood! You can't just assume that everything will be fine just because you want it to be." You could hear Lucy's voice breaking as she fought back tears.

"Maybe, she won't want to go on missions anymore," George piped up. Clearly, he'd been forced to sit there through breakfast and listen to the argument, "After all, you didn't listen to her doubts when she said she was scared."

"No, she didn't. She just had nerves."

"No, Lockwood. I was terrified. And you didn't hear me out."

"You're awake!" Lucy threw her arms around you, hugging you tightly. "God, I'm so happy you're okay!" You smiled at her warmly, hugging her back. She moved past you, saying something about needing to meet Kipps to finish their case.

"I'd hug you too, but you should probably shower first. Who knows what kind of bacteria fester in hundred-year-old manors? I'll see you after lunch - heading to the archives." George walked out quickly, almost as if he was being chased out by rats.

Lockwood stood in front of you, straight as a board, "You look like you've been electrocuted. Sit down. I'm not going to bite." Lockwood sent a weak smile in your direction.

You poured yourself a mug of tea and put some bread in the toaster. You made a mental note to send George a shopping list before he came back.

"So..." Lockwood started, and you wanted to laugh. In the almost three years you'd lived with him, you'd never seen him so nervous.

"So?"

"We should probably talk about what happened back there." Ah. He wanted to do this now.

"Yeah. We probably should."

"What happened? I mean, one minute you were fine, the next you were unconscious in the kitchen?" Lockwood said, leaning back in his chair slightly.

You grabbed your mug and sat in the chair opposite him, "Was I, though?" Lockwood raised his eyebrows, "Was I really fine, Lockwood, or did you just want me to be fine?"

"I don't understand?"

"Lockwood, I voiced my doubts to you! I told you to let it go! That this was a case we didn't have to take! That we'd find something better." You were standing now, leaning over the table, staring Lockwood down.

"Worth more than 90 grand? Do you have any concept of how much money that is?"

"YES! YES, LOCKWOOD, I DO! IT'S NOT NEARLY ENOUGH MONEY! We fought how many ghosts? 10? 12? Do you even consider that?"

"14, actually."

"YOU ARE NOT HELPING YOURSELF. YOU MAY BE THE LITTLE PRODIGY OF FITTES, BUT SOME OF US ARE NORMAL. SOME OF US ARE AVERAGE." You sat back down, your legs shaking. You were still too weak to force this argument. Your voice trembled, "I can't keep up with you, Lockwood, none of us can. Lucy, maybe, but even she needs a break. Hell, even you need a break sometimes."

"We're fine, aren't we? We're all alive and kicking, still fighting ghosts another day?"

"Yeah, but for how long? How long do we keep getting to cheat death?" How long until one of us gets buried for the unnecessary risks we keep taking? You didn't say it but the question took root in the back of your mind.

Lockwood sighed, "I don't know where this is even coming from. We survived. We did the job. We got our money. Aren't you happy-"

"HAPPY! HOW CAN I BE HAPPY, LOCKWOOD? I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN THAT HOUSE YESTERDAY! One minute, we were sealing up a source, the next I was being lured in by a Type Two, ghost-locked and bleeding. Somehow, my GRANDPA WAS THERE, AND THEN I'M UNCONCIOUS ON THE FLOOR. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE, nothing - nothing makes sense. I feel - I feel like my brain's been scrambled. It just - I can't - I don't-" Lockwood kneeled next to you, his palm gently cradling your face, and let you cry. You stayed there for a few seconds before you looked up into his face, eyes brimming with tears, "You know what the - what the worst part was?"

"What was the worst part, honey?" There it was again, the nickname. Your heart skipped slightly at the sound of it.

"That you couldn't hear me." Lockwood looked at you, pain sweeping over his expression. "I called for you. In the servants' quarters. I needed you, but you couldn't hear me. I screamed and I cried and I begged and I- I needed you, Lockwood."

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his lap, before stroking your hair. You cried into his shirt, the white fabric turning translucent in the dampness.

"I will always come." He whispered to you, eyes bright with determination. "I may not have always been there before, but I will be now. I promise. No matter where or when, if you call, I will come to you." He cradled your face in his hands again, thumbs gently rubbing away your tears, "I will listen to you - and George, and Lucy. If you tell me you're scared, I'll hear you. I won't take jobs out of greed, we'll make decisions together. We're a team. I'm sorry I haven't been acting like it."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tucking yourself into his neck, "I like the sound of that."

You felt Lockwood smile against your neck. "I'll take care of you. If you'll let me."

You pulled back, "Taking care of each other goes both ways. You have to let me take care of you too." He scoffed lightly, but you knew that he had agreed. He couldn't ever say no to you. Not even at Fittes.

"As much as I hate to ruin the moment, George was right. I don't want to think about how much bacteria was probably growing in that house." Lockwood helped you up, "You should probably shower." You nodded your head, chuckling lightly. You grabbed Lockwood's phone from the table and before he could steal it back, you sent a text on the group chat.

"We need food. PLS. WE HAVE NOTHING." You threw him his phone as you ran up the stairs. Lockwood laughed at the text.

"They'll know it's you." He said waving his phone as you grabbed your towel.

"Or they'll have a heart attack knowing that Frosty can change his mind."

fin.

#ali hadji heshmati #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood fluff #anthony lockwood imagine #anthony lockwood oneshot #anthony lockwood x reader #cameron chapman #george karim #lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood fic #anthony lockwood angst #lockwood and co oneshot #lockwood and co fic #lockwood and co x you #lockwood and co season 2 #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co imagines #lockwood and co fluff #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood netflix #anthony bloody lockwood #lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x y/n #george cubbins #ruby stokes #lucy carlyle

[arlo1611]

Welcome home (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Male Reader)

Being married to someone who works in the armed forces might just be the hardest thing a couple can go through. Only seeing your loved one a few times a year, constantly worrying about them and most off all… the very real possibility that they won’t come home.

Y/N knew all of this when he married Simon Riley. Yet, I don’t think anyone can fully prepare to watch their husband go into war zones. Y/N tried to live a happy live when Simon was not present, but it was hard. Very hard. He kept the house clean, took care of their dogs and even opened up a small bookstore attached to their home. He tried his best to stay busy, because he knew if he didn’t, all he would think about is Simon. He never even took his wedding ring off, not when he worked or when he slept.

It was around 11am and Y/N was working in the bookstore, like every other day. It was a Tuesday and business was slow, but that didn’t stop the regulars from paying their usual visit. He was in the middle of reorganising some shelves, when he heard the gentle bell ring of the front door opening.

“Just a Minute.” He called out, assuming it was an ordinary customer. Y/N turned around and headed to the front of the store only to see Simon. He was dressed in civilian clothes, silver wedding ring on and had a backpack on, clearly having just returned from the military. Oddly, he wasn’t wearing his signature skull mask either. Maybe it was because they lived in a small town in the middle of rural Dartmoor, or maybe he just wanted his husband to see his face. Y/N stood in a stunned silence for a moment, before he dropped the books he was holding and swiftly walking to Simon and hugged him tightly. He didn’t know what to say, he just wanted to be near his husband after so many months of being separated.

“Hello love.” Simon whispered softly as he held Y/N tightly and gently stroked his head. They stood together in silence for a few moments, held firmly in each others embrace. So many things were running through Y/N’s head. He was shocked and very happy. “Your back.” Y/N said quietly, still not letting go of his husband for even a second. Simon chuckled and kissed his head. “Yeah, and I’m staying this time.” He answered, knowing this would raise some questions.

Y/N looked at Simon and asked what he meant by that. “I’ve been medically discharged from the service. Don’t panic but I, I got myself shot. I’m fine, really. but it left some permanent damage to my shoulder. So they discharged me, which, now that I’m here with you, doesn’t bother me at all.” Simon answered, with a smile. Y/N’s face lit up, it was clear he was happy that Simon was going to be staying at home. Y/N cupped Simon’s face and kissed him lovingly.

They spoke together in the bookstore for hours, catching up and acting like no time had passed since they last saw each other. The sun began to set, so they headed home. After some dinner and some more conversation, they headed to bed. Y/N and Simon laid down together in bed facing each other. Y/N smiled sweetly.

“Welcome home.”

#call of duty #fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost #male reader #ghost x reader #mlm #gay #gay men #simon riley x reader #marriage #married men

[downbadf0rficppl]

let me

Anthony Lockwood x F!Reader

Summary: You got hurt. It was his fault. And he feels absolutely awful.

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Angst, Claustrophobia, Near-death situations, Some lightly mentioned family issues, Arguing, Couples? Quarrels, ANGST.

AN: The summary is awful - I feel like I say this every time. Idk if Reader and Lockwood are a couple, they don't have to be, but they can be if you want to. Love you all! (BTW I have not read the books in years so creative liberties were taken - I'm sorry for any and all book inaccuracies.)

Repost

The body of one 'Sergeant M. Bowers' floated precariously towards Lockwood. He backed up against the door of the bedroom, eyes darting between you and Bowers, rapier extended in front of him. You rifled through the bedroom, looking for anything precious or valuable. You had to find the source for Lockwood.

Lockwood had taken the case of this particular house out of pure greed. Mrs. Miller was willing to pay a pretty price to take care of her 'little problem' as she called it. You had warned him against it - the Bowers' manor was about a mile outside of the town you grew up in and you'd heard almost every story there was to hear about the house. About the family that inhabited the house. Lockwood hadn't listened.

He'd convinced you to come, saying the stories were 'probably just stories told to children to scare them away.' He assured you they weren't true. After George had done his research, you were more confident - apparently, reports of apparitions of children predated the problem and were therefore hoaxes.

The Bowers were an affluential aristocratic family before the war - the First World War, that is. "They were known for hosting Gatsby-esque parties to celebrate the most menial of affairs - like their dog turning one." George had rolled his eyes at that pushing the picture of the newspaper your way. April 6th, 1912. A week before the Titanic sank.

The sinking of the Titanic began a series of unfortunate events for the Bowers family, starting with the death of the youngest son, James. James and his to-be wife, Miranda, died aboard the ship, thrusting the family into a long period of mourning. In the following two years, 6 of the 12 members who lived in the house had passed away, forcing the rest to flee the countryside manor, claiming it had been cursed - which brought about the misfortune of the family.

The last of the family to inherit the manor was Sergeant Michael James Bowers, who was the youngest nephew of James. He had lost his life in the second World War; after being shot in the arm and leg, he had been honourably discharged and sent home. He succumbed to sepsis not long after, surrounded by empty halls and unhappy memories. Apparently, he had never left.

You shook your head in discomfort - dispelling the dark feeling that had crept over you since reading about the family's terrible fate. Something seemed off about this case - something seemed to have been omitted from all the research you and George had done.

At first, you disregarded it as nerves. The Bowers manor was big - bigger than any other case you had taken. Plus, it was close to home, which was full of unpleasant memories. Maybe the added pressure was playing on your mind. You tried to explain yourself to Lockwood, who dismissed you. Apparently, Lucy had to help Kipps with some research, and George was working on another case. There was no point in arguing with Lockwood when he had made up his mind, and he was not going to budge on this case.

Which led you to your current predicament.

There were many ghosts haunting the halls of the Bowers manor. It seemed that everyone who had died here didn't want to leave. You had rid the house of most of the ghosts - sealing almost ten sources in different iron boxes. Lockwood had danced his way through the Type Ones that he was dealing with - he was evidently the better agent out of the two of you. You had lucked out - you came face to face with a Type Two. The small girl kept repeating about her teddy which you had found in an upstairs bedroom covered in filth and cobwebs. You threw an iron net over it before leaning against a wall to catch your breath. You were exhausted - and you hadn't even dealt with the real problem.

Sergeant Bowers.

Sergeant M. Bowers was a lot more tortured than you had initially thought. His wife left him when he left for the war, leaving to follow her true love into the country - countless correspondences scattered across the rooms told you as much.

Then came the matter of a child - Timothy. Pictures of him were littered through the halls - toys left to rot in the hallways. Clearly, no one had cleaned it until Mrs. Miller bought it at that country house auction. Except the trace of him ended there. There was nothing in your research to tell you about him, nor any sign of him outside the walls of this home.

It was peculiar.

You had tried to tell Lockwood, but he brushed you off. "The kid must have died - explains the tortured relationship between his parents."

It seemed odd to you. What kind of mother would run off without her child?

A glint caught your eye. A small jewellery box lay on the vanity, dust laid over it as if it hadn't been touched in decades. You dashed towards it, opening it quickly to find a simple silver band inside. A wedding band. A source.

You placed the ring in a small iron box - one of your many engineering feats that made your job safer and easier to do. Bowers disappeared from over Lockwood and you ran over to help him up.

"See? Not too bad, was it?" Lockwood joked, taking the box from your hand and putting it in his bag with the rest of them.

"The only reason I'm glad we don't work with Fittes is the paperwork. We'd be drowning in it after tonight. Can you imagine? With all those Type Ones and the two Type Twos. I'd be crying into my pillow for weeks." You grabbed the rest of your equipment and headed towards the stairs. Lockwood's fingers wrapped around your arm, pulling you back sharply.

He pulled out his rapier and pointed it toward the woman - an apparition of a young woman, dressed in a maid's uniform and carrying a basket, seemingly full of laundry.

"Another Type Two. Great." Lockwood sighed, "You check downstairs and I'll check upstairs. She's a maid. Look for... maid things? I don't know." You nodded before hopping downstairs, armed with your rapier.

You went down to the servants' quarters, which you had seen on the blueprints of the house. The room was small, just off the side of the kitchen - and was perhaps the cleanest room in the house. The maids had been let go long before Sergeant Bowers had inherited the house. Clearly, they had taken the cleanliness with them.

You looked around for anything that could be a source. Why would staff die here, you thought, when the Bowers were known for treating staff well? And why would she choose to stay? You walked around the room, running your fingers over the sparse wooden furniture around the room, leaving trails in the dust in your wake. You tripped by the door to the bathroom, cutting your hand on a small loose nail by the door - probably used for hanging coats or aprons. You winced as you stretched your hand, closing your fist to stop the blood from dripping all over the floor.

You heard footsteps coming down the stairs. "Did you find anything, Lockwood?" No response. "Lockwood?" The door to the servants' quarters slammed shut. You pressed up against the door, trying to force it open. "LOCKWOOD? LOCKWOOD, HELP!" You screamed, trying to push the door hard. "LOCKWOOD, PLEASE! I NEED YOU!"

Lockwood called to you from the landing, telling you he's found something interesting. You tried screaming for him again, but he was too far away to hear you, just like you were too far away to help. Ghostly yelling startled you as you turned around. The maid was here, clearly oblivious to you in the room. She was humming softly as the ghostly yelling continued.

You watched her from a distance as she folded some invisible clothes, her humming still ringing out around the room. She laughed at nothing, before turning towards the door, expectantly. You turned towards the door, expecting to see some other apparition in the doorway but there was nothing. She seemed to get frantically worried by the lack of whatever presence she is expecting, her humming becoming erratic and eerier by the second.

Her eyes grazed over you, and she seemed to relax. She spoke to you gently, reaching her hand out to you, "Come, Elizabeth. There's no need to be scared." You felt the effects of Ghost-lock wash over you, as lethargy numbs your senses. You saw her drifting toward you, but you had no energy to run or even to poise your rapier in front of you. And she seems so nice.

You heard the door fly open and felt someone grab your arm, tightly. You were pulled out of the room and back into the kitchen. "Thanks, Anthony." You whispered, resting on the kitchen counters.

"Anthony? Who's Anthony?" You looked up, unamused by Lockwood's attempt at a joke.

Your jaw dropped. In front of you was a man that you thought you may never see again, "Grandpa? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I heard you screaming. Just wanted to make sure you're okay?" He said, eyes looking you over, searching for injuries. You hid your arm further behind your back, not wanting to worry him more.

He brought his hand up to brush your cheek, staring down at you lovingly. "I'm sorry about this, kiddo."

You felt hands pulling you up off the floor, and a strangely familiar voice whispering soothing words in your ear. You struggled in the grasp of this strange person, trying - unsuccessfully - to flee. They held you firmly, arms tucked neatly beneath you.

Tired from your busy night, you gave up, resting your head against the person's chest. You knew this cologne. It was Anthony's - you teased him for putting on too much and the scent lingers in the hallways some mornings. You settled, seeking his warmth and his comfort.

"Nice to have you back. You worried me for a minute back there."

"Lockwood? Worried? God, are there pigs in the sky?" You bantered back, your voice weak with exhaustion. He laid you down on the stairs, running back to grab your rapier and your flares. You must have dropped them when your Grandpa showed up. Grandpa?

Where did he go? You stood up trying to walk back to the kitchen. Grandpa couldn't see any apparitions - if one came for him, he'd be as good as dead.

"Whoa, slow down, Usain Bolt." Lockwood caught you as your legs folded beneath you. "You took a nasty hit to the head, plus you might have had a bit of ghost-lock as well."

"Lockwood, my grandpa," You said, looking past him, and back at the kitchen door, "He can't see them. We have to help him."

"Your grandpa? Honey, there's no one here." The nickname fell on deaf ears. You tried to scramble back towards the room, but Lockwood held you tightly.

He walked with you back to the kitchen - to prove there was no one there. There was no sign of anyone being there - nothing at all.

"Look - there's no one else here. You must have hit your head while getting away from the maid. Just," He huffed, pulling you closer to him, "let me get you home. Let me check you over - make sure you're alright."

You let Lockwood drag you towards the taxi and push you inside. You let him maneuver your body so that your head is resting on his chest and your legs dangle over his. You let him carry you like a rag doll into the house and set you down in the kitchen.

You shivered slightly - involuntarily - but Lockwood noticed. He draped a large blanket over you, boiling some water for hot tea. He grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and sat down in front of you.

He held out his hand for yours, "Let me clean it for you." So you do.

He spent the better part of the next hour meticulously cleaning every scratch and scrape he can find - only slowing down when you wince, or to pour you more tea. He makes it how you like it - a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk

Once he's done, he lifts you again and carries you to bed, tucking you in like a mother would their child. He turns out the lights with a soft goodnight and crosses the landing to his own bedroom. The first floor is plunged into darkness, but you stare up at the ceiling.

Sleep doesn't come to you easily. When you close your eyes, the maid's face is above yours - her hand reaching out to you, beckoning you. You want to take it. You see her holding Elizabeth, cradling her as she cries. Your grandpa's face comes up next to the maid and you see your grandpa die. How he screams for you to help him as the plasm burns through his skin. Your mother blames you - tells you that she should never have let you go to Fittes. The maid shields Elizabeth from the loud arguing coming from upstairs. No, not from upstairs. The arguing is happening below you. You shake yourself awake from your restless night, wincing as you contort your bruised body. You slip on your Fittes hoodie and creep downstairs.

Lucy and Lockwood are facing off in the kitchen. Again. You sit on the step, listening in.

"She told you she didn't want to go! And now, there's a chance she won't be able to go into the field."

"She'll be fine. She's tough, she'll get through it."

"You don't know that, Lockwood! You can't just assume that everything will be fine just because you want it to be." You could hear Lucy's voice breaking as she fought back tears.

"Maybe, she won't want to go on missions anymore," George piped up. Clearly, he'd been forced to sit there through breakfast and listen to the argument, "After all, you didn't listen to her doubts when she said she was scared."

"No, she didn't. She just had nerves."

"No, Lockwood. I was terrified. And you didn't hear me out."

"You're awake!" Lucy threw her arms around you, hugging you tightly. "God, I'm so happy you're okay!" You smiled at her warmly, hugging her back. She moved past you, saying something about needing to meet Kipps to finish their case.

"I'd hug you too, but you should probably shower first. Who knows what kind of bacteria fester in hundred-year-old manors? I'll see you after lunch - heading to the archives." George walked out quickly, almost as if he was being chased out by rats.

Lockwood stood in front of you, straight as a board, "You look like you've been electrocuted. Sit down. I'm not going to bite." Lockwood sent a weak smile in your direction.

You poured yourself a mug of tea and put some bread in the toaster. You made a mental note to send George a shopping list before he came back.

"So..." Lockwood started, and you wanted to laugh. In the almost three years you'd lived with him, you'd never seen him so nervous.

"So?"

"We should probably talk about what happened back there." Ah. He wanted to do this now.

"Yeah. We probably should."

"What happened? I mean, one minute you were fine, the next you were unconscious in the kitchen?" Lockwood said, leaning back in his chair slightly.

You grabbed your mug and sat in the chair opposite him, "Was I, though?" Lockwood raised his eyebrows, "Was I really fine, Lockwood, or did you just want me to be fine?"

"I don't understand?"

"Lockwood, I voiced my doubts to you! I told you to let it go! That this was a case we didn't have to take! That we'd find something better." You were standing now, leaning over the table, staring Lockwood down.

"Worth more than 90 grand? Do you have any concept of how much money that is?"

"YES! YES, LOCKWOOD, I DO! IT'S NOT NEARLY ENOUGH MONEY! We fought how many ghosts? 10? 12? Do you even consider that?"

"14, actually."

"YOU ARE NOT HELPING YOURSELF. YOU MAY BE THE LITTLE PRODIGY OF FITTES, BUT SOME OF US ARE NORMAL. SOME OF US ARE AVERAGE." You sat back down, your legs shaking. You were still too weak to force this argument. Your voice trembled, "I can't keep up with you, Lockwood, none of us can. Lucy, maybe, but even she needs a break. Hell, even you need a break sometimes."

"We're fine, aren't we? We're all alive and kicking, still fighting ghosts another day?"

"Yeah, but for how long? How long do we keep getting to cheat death?" How long until one of us gets buried for the unnecessary risks we keep taking? You didn't say it but the question took root in the back of your mind.

Lockwood sighed, "I don't know where this is even coming from. We survived. We did the job. We got our money. Aren't you happy-"

"HAPPY! HOW CAN I BE HAPPY, LOCKWOOD? I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN THAT HOUSE YESTERDAY! One minute, we were sealing up a source, the next I was being lured in by a Type Two, ghost-locked and bleeding. Somehow, my GRANDPA WAS THERE, AND THEN I'M UNCONCIOUS ON THE FLOOR. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE, nothing - nothing makes sense. I feel - I feel like my brain's been scrambled. It just - I can't - I don't-" Lockwood kneeled next to you, his palm gently cradling your face, and let you cry. You stayed there for a few seconds before you looked up into his face, eyes brimming with tears, "You know what the - what the worst part was?"

"What was the worst part, honey?" There it was again, the nickname. Your heart skipped slightly at the sound of it.

"That you couldn't hear me." Lockwood looked at you, pain sweeping over his expression. "I called for you. In the servants' quarters. I needed you, but you couldn't hear me. I screamed and I cried and I begged and I- I needed you, Lockwood."

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his lap, before stroking your hair. You cried into his shirt, the white fabric turning translucent in the dampness.

"I will always come." He whispered to you, eyes bright with determination. "I may not have always been there before, but I will be now. I promise. No matter where or when, if you call, I will come to you." He cradled your face in his hands again, thumbs gently rubbing away your tears, "I will listen to you - and George, and Lucy. If you tell me you're scared, I'll hear you. I won't take jobs out of greed, we'll make decisions together. We're a team. I'm sorry I haven't been acting like it."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tucking yourself into his neck, "I like the sound of that."

You felt Lockwood smile against your neck. "I'll take care of you. If you'll let me."

You pulled back, "Taking care of each other goes both ways. You have to let me take care of you too." He scoffed lightly, but you knew that he had agreed. He couldn't ever say no to you. Not even at Fittes.

"As much as I hate to ruin the moment, George was right. I don't want to think about how much bacteria was probably growing in that house." Lockwood helped you up, "You should probably shower." You nodded your head, chuckling lightly. You grabbed Lockwood's phone from the table and before he could steal it back, you sent a text on the group chat.

"We need food. PLS. WE HAVE NOTHING." You threw him his phone as you ran up the stairs. Lockwood laughed at the text.

"They'll know it's you." He said waving his phone as you grabbed your towel.

"Or they'll have a heart attack knowing that Frosty can change his mind."

fin.

buy me a coffee

#ali hadji heshmati #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood fluff #anthony lockwood imagine #anthony lockwood oneshot #anthony lockwood x reader #cameron chapman #george karim #lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood fic #anthony lockwood angst #lockwood and co oneshot #lockwood and co fic #lockwood and co x you #lockwood and co season 2 #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co imagines #lockwood and co fluff #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood netflix #anthony bloody lockwood #lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x y/n #george cubbins #ruby stokes #lucy carlyle

[tokusho]

Cooking From The Heart

WC-1.8K

Warnings: Mentions of minor injury basically fluff

Notes: Reader has tinnitus, GN! Reader, no use of Y/N, established relationship with John Price

Placing the key into the ignition your car roars to life, your hand moves to the console to turn up the music for the radio preparing yourself for a long day. The car is piled to the brim with groceries ready to cook a feast for four hungry men. Pulling out of the parking lot you start to drive from London to the English countryside where the lone military base sits. As you drive you can’t help but reminisce on the past and how fortunate you are to have such an amazing life.

Joining the military at the ripe age of eighteen you met John Price, your rival, a man that always got on your nerves. Despite how good of a soldier he was he constantly had to outshine you whilst being blunt, hard headed, and a little cocky. You rose through the ranks with him, each promotion with him standing by your side getting the same title much to your dismay. As years pass you both set aside your differences becoming friends despite past bickering, soon after that John took your hand into his on a warm summer night in a safe house asking you to be his girlfriend. 

A long loud ring reverberates from your ears as the radio cuts out pulling you out of your memories, out of the past. A memory rushes through your mind reminding you of the bitter memory as to what changed your life for the better or worse.You and the boys were out fighting the cartel in Las Almas when a stun grenade rolled right to your feet. The flash blinded you and the ringing in your ears was deafening, but unlike the others the ringing in your ears never ceased. Due to tinnitus you were honorably discharged from the military cutting your career short. As you sat home alone you felt as though your life, your family was ripped away, it was hard not having the harsh routine of war in your life. The others and John tried their best to support you but nothing seemed to pull you out from the pit. But it all changed when you decided to go back to your old base to make home cooked meals for the men you loved. It made you feel connected again with those who fought by your side, it filled the hole in your heart. Since then you made it a weekly ritual when they were at base to cook for them.

Driving up to the guards of the base you smile pulling out your ID as usual despite how they were once under your command and how you visit weekly. You park your car and pick up a couple bags of groceries to bring into the community kitchen to start making dinner, it takes a couple trips to bring in all the bags due to the sheer amount of food you bought. You look at the analog clock to see it's only noon but it's essential to start early, needing every precious minute to cook or else they’d be eating at midnight. Turning on the radio you start to prep all the ingredients making sure to wash every vegetable there is, you mix the sauces and cut the herbs so the food will taste immaculate. 

Your mind drifts again, smiling softly as you remember the best day of your life. John held your hand softly guiding you through a small park nearby your shared flat until you saw the soft glow of candle lights illuminating the path ahead. Walking together hand in hand along the glowing trail until you reached a clearing where the moon was bright reflecting off the pond in front of you. You admired the scene getting lost in the moment until you looked back at John who was on his knee with a ring asking if you’d be his one and only.

Looking outside of the window you see the sun setting along with the sounds of boots shuffling against the floor, low playful banter echo through the halls and their baritone voices seem to shake the thin walls of the base. The voices become more clear as the men slowly enter the rec room, Soap's iconic accent rings out after a dramatic sniff of the air.

“Smells delicious charaid I oughta get tha’ recipe from you onea these day”, the scot says with an infectious smile. He moves in close attempting to dip his finger into the soup to have a taste. Before he could even attempt it you lightly smack his hand with a wooden spoon shaking your head as you continue to prep dinner, “Nuh uh Mactavish you’re not having a taste of the soup until it's done and all of you get washed up.”

A chuckle comes from Gaz as he grabs Soap by the collar dragging him away from the delectable pot of soup in front of them saying teasingly, “Y’know that our former Captain will never let you have a taste before its done, and they are right we’re pretty gross from training last one to the showers has to organize the armory”. With that the two sergeants sprint out of the rec room jeering and poking fun at each other. 

You chuckle at the childish sight feeling a familiar pair of eyes staring at you from the corner of the room. Without you even looking up to see who it is you say softly, “Hello Simon'', there's a moment of silence before the mans gruff voice responds quietly, “How are you holdin’ up captain?” disguised to know if you were ok mentally, a sign that he cared.

A small smile forms on your lips as you turn to look at the man that many fear, the ghost of 141. His eyes soften slightly as he sees the smile on your lips. “I’ve been good, sometimes it gets lonely back at the flat without you guys running around it but I've been waiting all week to see you guys again”, he nods before leaving the rec room getting the answer he wanted to hear heading to the showers just like his sergeants.

A single pair of boots walk towards you stopping right behind you, without any fear you lean back into the man's chest looking up at him. His beard is perfectly groomed as usual and his beautiful blue eyes look into yours. A small tired smile appears on his face as he leans down to kiss the crown of your head mumbling, “I missed you love”, his strong arms snake their way around your waist pulling you in closer. You turn your head to  the side of his cheek before returning to cooking dinner, enjoying the feeling of your husband holding you close. “I missed you to lovie”. Despite him seeing you every morning and everynight back at home, any time away from you was painful for him.

He stands behind you holding you close for a while enjoying your presence against his tired body. Slowly one of his hands reaches out to grab a piece of food still cooking before you take his hand into yours, stopping his attempt. Squeezing his hand before bringing it up to your lips to kiss softly you say teasingly, “You may be the Captain of this team but that doesn’t make you exempt from the rules big man”, he only laughs and kisses your cheek responding with a cheeky grin “We both know you can’t stay angry at me for long and who is the one that always got in trouble for breaking the rules while we were privates? Oh wait I think it was you”. You can’t help but roll your eyes playfully before playful shoving him off of your body, “I’m sorry love but you're drenched in sweat and smell bad, you need to go head to the showers or else I’m not saving you a plate. Dinner should be ready by the time everyones out.” John chuckles before kissing your cheek softly saying softly in his gruff voice, “Roger that captain I’ll go take a shower you better save me a plate”, he shuffles away leaving you alone in the kitchen yet again. 

The soft music from the radio playing in the background dulls the ringing in your ears and fills the lonely space. Searching through the many bags you brought to the base you finally  find the nice tablecloth, you spread it out and place it over the rickety old dining room table. As the music flows you place each plate, fork, and knife with care despite knowing it’ll be used to destroy the table cloth underneath them. You place the food onto the kitchen table due to the sheer amount of food there is, as you set down some vegetables you hear the jovial conversations of the team coming in ready to eat. 

Gaz lets out a low whistle, “Damn you really cooked your ass off huh”, you wipe your hands off on a towel before saying with a smile, “Only for my boys no one else gets the pleasure of having a taste”. The men start to gather around before you say, “Before everyone eats, no weapons at the table. Other soldiers can worry about war but right now it's dinner time, time for you to be men and not soldiers”

They place the weapons on a table nearby, their knives and pistols sit neatly so they can easily grab them just in case.  Soap looks up at you and says curiously, “We all know tha’ you don’t want knives at tha table but is there a reason as ta why?”. You look up at him and say frankly with a smile, “well I just want you guys to be relaxed for once, letting your worries go enjoying a nice dinner. Along with the time you tried to do a knife trick at the table and almost sliced off your finger” the men around Soap laugh. Ghost slaps Soap’s back playfully, “You were cryin’ like a baby Johnny, screamin’ out for the medic running around like a chicken without a head”.You join in with the laughter feeling the stresses of the week melt off your shoulders.

With a wide smile you announce happily, “Alright guys dig in”, Soap is the first to pick up his plate piling his food up onto the plate with the others right behind him doing exactly the same. John walks up to you with two plates, handing one of them to you, “Thank you love for making all of this food” you look up at him with a smile, “it's nothing John, I love doing this. It's the highlight of my week.” John allows you to go in front of him to get your food. You sit down at the table and John sits next to you, carefree conversations are made between the men and you as they start to eat their food. Their smiles and laughter are as precious as gold to you. This is your family, this is home and there is no greater joy in your life than to be eating dinner with the people you love most.

#modern warfare 2 #modern warfare 2 x reader #mw2 #mw2 x reader #John Price #Price x Reader #John x Reader #John Price x Reader #Mw2 fluff #modern warfare 2 fluff #fluff #tf141 #141 #task force 141

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

Insurgency: Utopia

Summary: A totalitarian regime reigns over a South American country in which the virus is being distributed to its citizens at the pretense of a “cure.” Leon was sent to retrieve a sample of the virus mutation when he stumbled upon a group of anti-government activists whose main goal is to overthrow their government. Will Leon help the cause or will he fall down with the government as well?

Warning: Mentions of mature themes. Read at your own discretion. Slow burn. Age gap (Leon is 38 and reader is 21+). Reader is female.

Word count: 1,680

A/N: this is the last chapter. next chapter is just a bonus :) anyways guys I’m so glad next week is my last week of school. I’m tired of ts alr

[part one][part two][part three][part four][part five][part six][part seven][part eight][bonus]

“Accept suffering and achieve atonement through it - that is what you must do." - Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

Days passed ever since the victory of Pruye. People began to work on the reconstruction of the fallen cities. People finally returned to their homes and it felt like a weight had been lifted off everyone’s shoulders. No more dictator, no more law.

Leon stayed in the base, sitting on a chair near your hospital bed as he waited for you to wake up. It’s been three days since you’ve been in the infirmary. Doctors and nurses would come in and check up on you, occasionally updating your charts.

He never left your side- only to use the restroom or get some food.

“Argh…” you groaned as you woke up, catching Leon’s attention. He quickly rested his hand on your shoulder, “Hey take it easy,” his voice soft and quiet.

You opened your eyes and met them adjust to the light, “Where am I? What happened?”

“You’ve been out for about three days…” he responded.

Your eyes widened at the revelation and then everything had started crashing down on you.

The battle.

The president.

Falling.

Blackness.

That was all you remembered. It didn’t take time for you to connect the dots.

You looked over at him, “Did we win?”

He took a deep breath and nodded, “You sure did.. President Mendez died and so did the soldiers.”

“So… it’s over? Everything is finally over?” You asked weakly.

Leon nodded once again and you sighed in relief.

Your efforts weren’t in vain. If someone were to ask the younger version of yourself that one day you’d lead a rebellion to victory, you’d probably laugh in their face.

But that was the truth. No matter what, you did this. You brought freedom to a land that had long forgotten what that felt like.

-

Recovery was easy. You stayed a few more days before you could get discharged. Leon and some insurgents would visit you and catch you up on things.

The cities had been rebuilt, there is no sole leader anymore. The country became an anarchy.

But that didn’t matter to you.

No one told you the effects of being a war veteran.

Nightmares kept you up, certain sounds made you remember those bloody days- it was true hell. You weren’t okay and maybe it was time to finally acknowledge that.

You found yourself on a building- a memorial building for the fallen insurgents and other victims from the battle.

The building contained the history of when everything first started to when things ended. As you walked through the halls, you saw objects laying around. The guns that were used, the uniforms from both sides. It felt like a museum more than a memorial but maybe that was just you.

Behind the building was a cemetery. You walked through the grass until you stopped in front of two gravestones.

Esme and Franco.

It felt weird standing in front of the remnants of your friends. It was like they were there but also weren’t.

Death was a real mystery. You rest but you leave behind pain to others. That’s such a cruel thing to do. Death was nothing near comfort. It was unfair and cruel. But there was nothing anyone can do. We all have a countdown to our death.

You could die in the next five minutes. Maybe tomorrow or maybe in ten years. No one knows but everyone knows that death is inevitable.

War messed up with your concept of death. Death was something to be meant with meaning. Something that was supposed to be relieving and beautiful. But now? Now you see it as punishment.

Life is sanctity. There is no reason why someone should take someone else’s life. It’s not just. It’s not right. But yet human kind still finds ways to bend the beauty of nature and contaminate everything with the greed for power.

As you stood in front of the gravestones, you felt bitter. Not at them for dying but for leaving you alone.

But it was not their fault. No ones at fault for dying and yet you couldn’t pin point the cause of your emotions. And what better way to feel better about yourself than projecting it into inanimate things? It’s not like Esme and Franco are coming back from the dead.

Because they won’t. They’re gone. Forever.

All they are now, are just fragments of memories and pieces of what was.

You didn’t cry, you couldn’t. Because if you did then it be confirmation that they were gone.

Their presence was gone. Their voices were gone. They no longer existed and that is a pain no one should go through.

Life is supposed to be a blessing but now it all felt like it was just a curse.

If there is a god then you’d understand why humans were cursed with such small lifespans. We are evil, even if we claim to be otherwise. No one is purely good, no one is innocent. We all bear the bearings of sin and evil.

Because you finally understood that the world is nothing like the novels. At all.

You walked up to Yarina’s grave. It was the biggest one with an Athena statue. Fitting, you thought.

No one is prepared for the death of someone. What are you supposed to do? Forget that your friend no longer exists within the same universe as you?

And yet you were. People move on and soon they’ll forget their dead friends, including you. It’s not bad, per say, but it’s saddening. To let go of the last piece you have of them- a memory.

A memory is what they became. A distant one because you wanted to forget everything already.

Esme, Franco, and Yarina… they’re all a distant fragment of the memories you tried to forget.

-

Leon had to go back to the U.S. and it made you sad. You were getting used to him.

The helicopter landed on the helipad, prompting Leon to get on it. But he stopped mid walk to look at you. He seemed hesitant.

“Come with me,” he blurted out.

“What?”

“Come with me. Live with me in America.”

Your mouth gaped open as you tried to speak but nothing came out. He walked up to you and held your hands in his, “C’mon Y/n… we both know you don’t want to be here anymore. Come back home with me. I’ll let you stay at my place until you settled in. I’ll show you around. We can build a new life together… away from all of this. Just you and me.”

You stared up at his blue eyes and nodded slowly, “Okay… I will.”

He smiled softly and leaned down to kiss you softly. You hummed in response and kissed him back, just a softly as well. He pulled back and interlocked his fingers with yours as you two walked towards the helicopter.

A new life. Away from Pruye. Away from the memories.

A new life with Leon, the man who understood you inside and out. He has you all figured out and he didn’t leave. He stayed. That was all you needed to follow him to his home country.

You didn’t care that you left all your belongings behind. It would only remind you of the constant pain. Plus, Leon offered that you two should go shopping and spend time like normal people.

Like a normal couple.

A normal life.

And you couldn’t agree more. Leon was the blessing in disguise that you needed. And you were his ray of hope at being normal.

Trauma bonding works wonders. You two can’t seem to let each other go as your bond grows deeper than anything else.

-

Once you reached the state of Pennsylvania, he called an Uber for the two of you.

Leon’s house was modest. Being an agent brought financial stability yet he was humble and didn’t want to splurge all his money- he was too busy fighting anyway.

His house was two stories but small in size. You can’t blame him, Pennsylvania has had some housing problems lately but that was not of your concerns. You just got here.

He refused to let you sleep on the couch so you reluctantly agreed to sleep with him on his bed.

Leon let you borrow some of his pajamas- sweatpants and a tee. They fit big on you but it was okay. Loose clothing was more comfortable to sleep in anyway.

He laid behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. Your back was pressed against his chest and for once you felt like you could finally sleep without waking up from the nightmares.

Leon brought you comfort. Leon was comfort.

And you were his comfort too. Leon didn’t need help falling asleep, he’s been dealing with this way longer than you but you clearly needed someone to be there for you. And he wanted to be that person.

Leon may be sarcastic and cocky at times but he’s a dedicated man with a heart. He cares a lot and would do anything for the betterment of the world. He’d do anything for you.

The age gap wasn’t something you two seemed to mind. What you two felt was not superficial and it went beyond just dating. It was as if your souls found each other after traveling through space and time.

Home. It was as if your souls were finally home together.

-

Leon kept his promise and the next day he took you out to see the city. He took you to the mall, where he offered to pay for your new clothes. You two went to eat at his favorite restaurant, you two visited the park near a river- it felt like you could breathe again.

You were glad to be away from Pruye and everything that had happened.

Slowly but surely you began to get better, and Leon was there to support you. You rebuilt your life- got a job, decided to apply to school, got your citizenship thanks to Leon’s connections. Life was finally beginning to look amazing for you.

You and Leon made life amazing together.

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #id leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #death island leon #di leon

[theresthesnitch]

AO3 is down, so here's a snippet for your entertainment. This is from a fic I'm working on for @r33sespieces 's birthday. Some of the details (like the ranks) may change, but I think you'll get the picture....

~*~

“Lord Black, he’s here.”

Sirius looked up from the map spread out in front of him, the little figurines laying out the troop movements in front of him. He was glad for the break—the battle strategies were giving him a headache.

“Bring him in.”

Sirius moved to sit at his seat behind the desk. The desk was large and ornate and, frankly, ridiculous for a tent at the edge of the battlefield in the middle of a war, but Mother insisted that the Heir of the Most Ancient and Nobel House of Black needed to have it to impress upon his subordinates of who he was.

Sirius rolled his eyes. At least the thing could be shrunk and carried with a weightless charm. Imagine if they were muggles and had to actually carry it out.

A young soldier was pushed into the tent. He stumbled slightly, barely managing to catch himself before falling to the ground. He stood up mostly upright, straightening the uniform that hung loosely from his body while a light blush spread across his cheeks, before looking at Sirius.

Sirius sat back in his chair, arm draped over the back and chin resting in his hand. didn’t speak right away, giving himself a chance to look the soldier over. He was gangly, all arms and legs and feet that seemed disproportionately large to the rest of his body. Despite that, Sirius had the impression that the man was quite short. If Sirius stood, he suspected he’d be a full head taller than the man.

He was thin, too. Thin enough that Sirius wanted to check if the rations for the troops were sufficient. His hair was curly, but it hung limp like it needed a good wash and hair potion. His eyes were a dull muddy green, his face was covered in freckles, and Sirius could just see that his right incisor was crooked when he bit his lip nervously.

Frankly, Sirius thought he was gorgeous.

“What is your name?” Sirius asked.

The man jumped at Sirius’s voice, and his eyes went wide. “Uh, Lupin, sir. Ensign Lupin.”

Sirius had to bite back his smile to maintain his composure. “And your first name?”

His blush deepened, nearly covering his freckles. “Remus, sir.”

“Remus.” Sirius stood, moving around his table until he was standing in front of Remus. He was right. Remus barely came up to his shoulder, though his hunched posture might have been part of that problem. Sirius began to slowly walk around him. “Why are you in my tent, Ensign Remus Lupin?”

Remus looked down, and Sirius watched him swallow hard. “They want to send me home, sir.”

“And you don’t want to go home?” Sirius asked, coming around his back in time to see the way his eyelashes lay against his cheek as he closed his eyes.

“No, sir.”

“Why not?” Sirius asked. “I thought everyone was looking for an excuse to be discharged. Soldier isn’t exactly a popular occupation.”

“I can’t go home, sir.”

Sirius was standing in front of him again, resisting the urge to put a finger under his chin and raise his head. “Why not, Ensign?”

Remus sighed. “I’m my father’s only son, sir, and he’s not fit to come serve himself.”

Sirius furrowed his brow. “You do know that compulsory family service is excused if you’re discharged, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Remus raised his head to look Sirius in the eye—a bold move, most soldiers wouldn’t meet his eye. “But my family needs the money, and I don’t know what they’ll do if I come home.”

“Oh.” Sirius considered him, nodding. He didn’t really know what that was like—couldn’t really know. He was the first son of the King, next in line to rule the kingdom, and he had never known what it was like to want for money. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, sir, but my family is relying on me.” He looked away again, and Sirius felt his heart tug with the desire to help him, somehow. “I need to be able to help them, and I don’t know how I can do that if I go home. So I need to stay.”

Sirius moved back a few feet, leaning against the table with the maps and troop figurines. “From what I hear, your physical performance is substandard, and you’re not improving.”

Remus glanced up at him, and Sirius could tell that he hadn’t expected Sirius to know about that. He looked away again. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. I’ll spend my free time running drills and working out so that I get stronger. I can do it.”

“Can you?” Sirius crossed his arms over his chest. “From what I’ve heard, you haven’t gained any weight since coming here, and that will inhibit your ability to get stronger.”

Remus’s face fell. “Sorry, I’m just not used to the food. I’ll do better. I’ll eat more.”

Sirius shook his head. “I’m sorry, Remus, but I can’t let you continue. It’s a risk to you and to your mates on the field.”

Remus bit his lip, looking like he might cry. “Please, sir. Is there something else I can do? I know I’m not cut out for this, but maybe I can do something else?”

“Something else?” Sirius raised an eyebrow at him. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, sir, but please.” Remus took a step closer, pleading look on his face. “I’ll do anything to stay.”

“Anything?” Sirius asked, eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lip. Remus inhaled sharply and his blush deepened.

#snitches get snippets #wolfstar #snitchwrites #AO3 is down again

[newtonsheffield]

Could we? Perhaps? See Anthony gift Kate her very own secret garden?

Oh Lieutenant Bridgerton raises many an eyebrow when he buys the cottage at the far end of the lane at the end of the high street. He’s newly discharged, newly engaged to Kate Sharma which has caused a bit of a stir because several of the local boys are harbouring a little crush on the Sharma girls but Kate’s never given them the time of day. And Anthony’s also purchased a shop that’s sat empty since it closed near the beginning of the war. When the man went away and never came back.

They see Anthony, trundling back down the high street the the strangest assortment of things at least twice a day. He’s got some of the local boys setting up his shop for him and books are arriving from god knows where though most of them are secondhand at the moment. What they’re curious about are the renovations he’s making to the cottage. He’s been making enquires about where he can get stone, of all things. The paint he trundles back with in his little cart leaning heavily on his cane while Miss Edwina Sharma calls out to him.

“If Kate finds out you’re doing that you’re going to be in rather a lot of trouble.”

Anthony waved her off, adjusting his hat, “Are you going to tell her?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Then I suppose I needn’t worry!” And he trundled off with his wagon full of supplies.

He paints the entire house, inside and out. Sometimes Simon is on the ladder with him, looking very irritated as Anthony gives directions, Sometimes it’s Kate with her hair neatly tied back from her face in her father’s old trousers and shirts as they build their home together. But one day, Lieutenant Bridgerton is seen, before dawn with a whole squadron of the young lads from the village, each of them promised an entire pound for their troubles. Cart after cart pulls up and at first, everyone assumes he’s building a reinforced air raid shelter. Everyone has one of those, these days. But he’s not. It’s curious. He’s building the stone wall higher in one corner of their garden, then squaring it off. By the end of the day a quarter of their large garden’s been walled off completed and a door placed in one wall. And no one, for the life of them can figure out why.

Anthony feels guilty, more than a little, that he told Kate she can’t visit him for a few days. But he just needs to get the walls built and the plants put in and then he should be right. And she’ll love it. He knows she will. And finally, with his back aching and sweat soaking his shirt, he’s done. And he can’t wait to show her.

His heart feels like it’s going to explode as he walks over to Kate’s home, leaning a little more heavily against his cane thinking, not for the first time that he’ll be glad when his car’s ready to be picked up and he doesn’t have to walk absolutely everywhere. His chest’s heaving when he raps on the front door and smiles at Mrs Sharma when she opens it, smiling at him.

“Anthony, are you staying for dinner?”

“Ah… no, Mrs Sharma not… tonight I only… wondered if I might take Kate to the cottage. I’ll have her back straight away.”

“Will you?” He heard Kate’s voice before her head appeared around the corner, “Are you finally ready to show me the mystery project that’s got everyone talking?”

“I am indeed.”

Kate grabbed her coat, tucking it around herself as she made her way out, kissing her mother’s cheek. “He will be back for dinner, Mama.”

She watched him as they took off back down the lane and he could tell she was assessing the way he was walking, eying him. “What have you done to your back?”

“Nothing.” Anthony huffed, “I slept oddly.”

“No you didn’t.”

Anthony sighed, leaning over to kiss her. “Kate, Darling, it’s part of the surprise. Can you not be cross with me, please?”

She eyed him, “I need to see what the surprise is before I know whether or not to be cross.”

“Must you always spoil my romantic gestures?” Anthony sighed as they approached the house and he spun towards her in the fading light. “I’m going to have to ask you to close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Kate,” Anthony sighed, leaning forward to kiss her again, “Please.”

She sighed and covered her eyes dramatically letting herself be lead into the garden. Anthony could hear his heart pounding in his chest as he lead her through the garden, the key weighing heavily in his pocket and he took a deep breath as he stopped. “Hold out your hand.”

He pressed the key into her palm “open your eyes.”

She stared down at the key, and her brow furrowed as she looked up at him and then her lips parted in surprise and her eyes widened. “Anthony, is this… what I think it is?”

“Open it and see.”

Her hand shook as she stepped forward, her fingers running over the rough wood of the door as she slid the key in and the door swung open.

“Anthony.”

He’d built around the old oak tree and planted several other trees, and rows and rows of freshly tilled earth stood around them where flowers would spring to life eventually.

“I um… I planted vines around the walls and eventually they’ll be covered and I’ve put flowers in here and here so the whole ground will be covered with them eventually. And I’m getting Simon to help me with a swing on the oak tree but I wanted to show you now.”

She didn’t say anything. Only stared around her, her hand stilled pressed against the wall.

“Kate do you…?”

“I love you.”

She darted forward and her arms were tight around his waist as her lips found his.

“I love you too.” He said as he pulled back, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“So this is why all the boys in town have been running around with their pockets full of sweets.”

“I’m… trying to support local shops.”

“You’re such a sweetheart.”

#till forever falls apart au #kathony #anthony x kate #kate sharma #kate sheffield #anthony bridgerton #molly’s asks and answers

[blurredcolour]

You Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under | Epilogue

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Dick Winters x Female SOE Agent!Reader

The end of the war is just the beginning of the rest of your lives.

Photo Credit: East Islip Historical Society

Warnings: Discussion of War Hardships, Permanent Injury/Disability, Holiday Party Setting, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Language, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal of Dick Winters by Damian Lewis. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within. Non-English is denoted in italics.

Word Count: 1244

-------------------------

Nixon, New Jersey – December 20, 1946

The sprawling home of Stanhope Nixon was overflowing with guests, alcohol, and music as the annual Nixon Nitration Works holiday party was in full swing. Catering staff were milling about with silver trays of canapés and champagne while the management staff and their wives ate, drank, and made merry amongst the millwork and art that adorned Lewis’s father’s New Jersey home.

Lewis himself was busy playing host alongside his father, with his British war bride Irene in tow, as Dick kindly introduced you to his immediate supervisor. The modest diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band on your left ring finger refracted the light against the glass of champagne Lewis had planted in your hand upon your arrival, snagging your attention as it still tended to do, even eight months on.

The end of the war had come around the same time for you and Dick, with the Japanese surrender for him and with your discharge from Major Wilke’s command upon the arrival of the Allied prosecutorial team in Nuremberg furnished with a fleet of translators freshly released from Bletchley Park and other frontline duties. It had been bittersweet to be no longer needed, but as you had admitted to Dick that dreamy summer day in Austria, you were quite finished with your time in Europe.

It had taken over five months for Europe to let you go, however. Returning to England had been the easy part, your uncle’s widow in Oxford welcoming you back with open arms. With your more ambiguous service record under CWAC, however, return to Canada had taken rather longer. Priority on troop ships was naturally given to the boys in uniform, and then the girls who had enlisted in Canada. You had waited impatiently for your turn, working with your aunt to alter the wedding gown she had squirreled away from her own marriage in 1936. It had been her hope for her own daughter to wear it someday, but she had insisted as you were the closest thing she would ever have to such a person now, you ought to have it. So, it had become your joint project to turn it into something more modern for whenever you could find yourself standing in front of Dick Winters again.

That chance had not presented itself until March of 1946. Dick had arrived by train in your hometown in Canada, insistent on asking your father’s permission to marry you in person. He brought a ring, as promised, and married you one week later. Immigration paperwork had taken six weeks to clear, but you were grateful that it was nothing like the delay women from overseas endured. By the time you arrived in Nixon, New Jersey, Dick had a modest house and a car waiting for you, true to his word again. By the fall, you’d started offering private French lessons and you and Dick were seriously discussing whether or not you would attend vocational school to become a public-school teacher. Life was good, better than you could have ever imagined.

This party, however, had begun to drag on. Your feet were beginning to hurt as you stood around in your heels and you were feeling the strain of trying keep up with the myriad of conversations swirling around you amid the din of music and laughter. Dick’s hand on your lower back had you turning to him as he leaned into your left ear. “Let me show you the library.” His thumb swept along the fabric of your dress soothingly and you nodded gratefully as he excused you both.

Leading you down the hallway confidently, you wondered how many times he had been in this house, but felt your shoulders relax as the oppressive wall of sound faded away behind you. Guiding you around a corner, you couldn’t help but gasp as you stepped into a room filled with an expansive collection of leatherbound books, a fire laid in a stone hearth with a cozy seating area in front anchoring the space.

“Did we just find heaven?” You whispered conspiratorially and he chuckled as he kissed your temple, leading you to sit on an overstuffed leather sofa.

Setting down your now-empty glass on the low table in front of you, you sighed as you pressed a thumb between your brows. “I’m sorry it was so obvious I was having a hard time in there.” You apologized softly.

Sliding an arm around your shoulders, he gave a gentle squeeze. “Only to me, honey.” He assured you.

The sound of footsteps in the hall had both your heads turning sharply, concerned your sanctuary was about to be disrupted, but it was only Lewis who appeared in the doorway. “I thought I saw you two sneak off here.” He smirked, a glass of whisky in one hand and a bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale in the other. Kicking the door shut behind him, he came to sit in one of the armchairs across from the pair of you.

“Apparently we were not as subtle as we hoped.” You laughed as he poured half the bottle into your empty glass before handing the remainder to Dick, raising his own glass of amber liquid in a toast.

“Happy Holidays.”

“Happy Holidays, Lew.” Dick replied before your glassware came together in an awkward symphony of mismatched ‘clinks’ before you each took an appreciative sip.

“And to think we spent the last few scattered hither and yon.” Lewis remarked.

“Eating potatoes…” you muttered.

“Or nothing at all.” Dick added thoughtfully.

“Couldn’t get beef, Vat 69…nylons…” Lewis gave a nod in your direction, and you glanced at the closed door before eyeing him over the rim of your glass.

“Oh, I suppose it was a bit of a nuisance, but I honestly did appreciate having silk in my parachutes.” You took a leisurely sip, waiting for his reaction.

It unfolded slowly, his eyes widening before he sucked in a breath laced with droplets of his treasured whisky before coughing violently, pointing at you. “I knew it.” He wheezed eventually as you tried not to laugh too brightly at his expense. Dick held no such qualms, laughing richly beside you.

“Of course you did, you saw my last day firsthand.”

“But you finally admitted it! Please, you have to tell me everything…” He leaned forward eagerly, and you swallowed, wishing more than anything that you could.

There was still a great deal you hadn’t even shared with Dick; The Official Secrets Act preventing you from divulging anything. How you longed to share everything with them – the training schools in Scotland, the slosh of an aggressive amount of rum in your belly as you had fallen no more than ten seconds to hit the ground outside Lyon, your harrowing journey across the Andorra mountains into Spain to find passage back to England with your fresh side wound nagging at every step. The determination that had driven you back to Normandy just weeks after you return to London, and the eight months of exhausting, tension-laced work that had preceded their arrival. How you longed to share everything, to commiserate and to laugh. To be honest.

“Someday, Lewis. Someday it won’t be treason to talk about it and I will tell you everything.” You promised.

“To someday, then.” He grinned, raising his glass in another toast. “And believe me I will hold you to that.”

Laughing warmly, you raised yours in return. “To someday.”

-------------------------

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Tag list: @allthingsimagines, @bcon24

#dick winters x reader #dick winters #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers

[garbinge]

Country Shit

Gilly Lopez x F!Reader (Soldier Reader) Summary: Pre-canon fic where you think the worst as a black town car approaches your home but are pleasantly surprised by whose home.

A/N: Posting this fic I've had in my docs finished for a while now. I hope to start getting back in the swing of things soon. I know a lot of people have been commenting/messaging/reaching out about my Bear series and I promise I'll update that soon, but for now enjoy my first Gilly fic from Mayans :)

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Cursing, mentions of war, bootcamp, training, army, army rangers, PTSD, trauma, death, grief, dishonorable discharge. Lightly angsty? Or maybe I'm numb to angst and its like medium-angst level lol. Light fluff.

Mayans Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @narcolini @danzer8705 @keyweegirlie

The clouds were rolling in, you heard the thunder in the distance as you sat on the back of your wrap around porch staring out at the ranch in your backyard. You pulled your cardigan tight around you out of instinct as the breeze from the storm on its way in, blew past you. The dark clouds casted a shadow on the large land of property that made up your backyard, the free-range chickens you owned had retreated into their coup, the two horses you took care of were nestled safely in the barn you had just 500 feet away from the house, and your dog was alert on your left hand side as he stared up at the rumbling sky. 

“Come on, boy, let’s get inside before it starts coming down.” You stood up and opened the back door and nodded for your dog to go inside. 

Your timing was impeccable, just as you closed the screen door, the rain started. The living room walls were filled with windows, you could see the droplets throughout every window on every window that surrounded the room. The sound of the water pelting against the roof and the deck filled the house, it was loud and mixed with the rumbling of the thunder. It needed to be drowned out, so you moved over to the record player you had set up by the front of the living room. 

The memory of the last time you used the record player was coming up short, but seeing the Sam Hunt record in the player made you smile. Placing the needle on the record, it scratched for a minute before the music started playing. It brought you back to a time in your life, there wasn’t much other way to describe it besides a time. It wasn’t something you’d describe as the best time in your life, not in the slightest, but there were some moments that weren’t completely horrible. 

“Come on! Grab your drink!” 

Those were the famous last words your bunkmate said before she dragged you onto the dance floor. You remember the beat of the banjo playing so loudly as you moved to the beat. It was the last night of Ranger School, you had graduated earlier in the day, your friends and family had come and gone already to wish you well before they shipped you off to your assignments.

You weren’t alone on the dance floor, you were in Georgia, so when Sam Hunt was playing, the crowd tended to thicken up a bit. The noise got louder from people singing along, and although it wasn’t your go-to selection, it was fun in comparison to everything training had put you through. You remember feeling beer dripping down your jeans as you jumped up and down with the mix of Ranger graduates and town locals, but you didn’t mind one second of it. You just loved having the excuse to wear something other than your green service uniform. 

As the song reached its last minute, you had started to sing along to the lyrics, your laugh was contagious by those around you as you enjoyed the celebration. You were drunk, there was no two ways about it, and you weren’t alone in that, everyone around you was too. Some people attempted to line dance, because choreographed moves were the perfect thing for a bunch of drunks, but everyone seemed to make it work. Except him. And you heard his voice in your ear as you were trying to keep up with those around you in the last moments of the song. 

“Can you show me how to do this shit so I don’t make a total fucking ass of myself?” 

You smiled at the comment, and turned to him. Lopez. You had worked with him over your summer of training, but to say you knew him well would have been an exaggeration. 

“And you think I know what I’m doing?” You chuckled as you looked back at him. “I’m just following everyone else. It’s like a kick kick step step turn thing.” 

“Right.” Gilly was trying to catch up as he moved next to you. It was hilarious to watch but it was also nice, having someone else with you that didn’t exactly know what was happening. “Man, I wish they’d turn this country shit off.” He whispered to himself as he tried to follow along with his feet.

As the song came to a close, you spoke up to him. “Didn’t peg you as the line dancing type.” 

“I’m running a bet with the guys.” He pointed back to his group of friends. “Longest one to stay out on the dance floor, actually trying, gets their tab taken care of.” 

“You do realize we’re in a bar full of locals who love buying drinks for anyone in the service?” You frowned at him. 

“Yea but there’s just something really fulfilling about Timmer paying my tab off for me, you know?” He was laughing back with you. 

Now that, you understood. Timmer was a real asshole, said things that got under everyone’s skin so if that was what was on the line, you’d help Lopez out. The song changed, it slowed down. A crowd of people left the dance floor, while a new crowd also filled it. Gilly looked around and saw just one person he was in on the bet with left on the floor with someone in their arms. 

“Need a partner?” You spoke up, hand extended out to him. Out of nerves, he laughed and took your hand in his, your other arm moved to hang around his shoulder loosely as you both began swaying to the music. 

“Thanks for helping me out.” Gilly said to break the silent tension. 

“Look, anything to make Timmer get the shit end of a stick, but I’m thinking I should negotiate something out of this deal for myself.” You made a face as if you were thinking. 

“I mean, fair is fair.” Gilly said as he took the lead and moved you around the dance floor. “What’d you have in mind.” 

It was a tactic, but it worked, it had you shocked for a minute that he had taken the lead. 

“I want my tab covered, too.” There were likely a million other things you could have negotiated from this, his dessert during meal time, laundry, literally anything but you were so caught off-guard you just said something quickly. 

“Deal.” He agreed quickly. 

Both of you stopped talking and continued to move slowly, swaying back and forth, the silence between you both allowed you to hear the lyrics of the song. 

“You and me, wild and free. Way out in the woods, nobody for miles.” 

Those lyrics brought you back to the present moment, in your shared home with Gilly that way out in the woods, nobody for miles. Now, some probably would have said that was the night that started it all between you, but after those dances, and a few drinks, both of you went back to your respective bunks and didn’t speak to each other until a week later when you were both deployed to the 2nd battalion in the 75th Ranger Regiment, and well, that bonded you two differently. Those two months on the home base in Washington is where the both of you fell in love, whatever that meant for two active duty Rangers. After those 2 months, they shipped you out to your tour assignment, where things got dark. 

You stood there, getting lost in your thoughts as your brain wrapped itself around a new set of memories, ones that were heavy and hard to even think of. The memories of being on combat duty, seeing things that were burned in your mind as a souvenir of your two tours, and the one that constantly replayed in your head. The memory of being dishonorably discharged because you refused to follow orders. Before you could think further on it, you jumped at the sound of your dog barking. Your eyes moved to the driveway, the sound of the gravel crunching was mumbled under the music and the rain but it was still prevalent. The rain distorted the view out of the window, but you could see the black town car rolling down your driveway, which was otherwise empty. You lived easily 30 minutes from town or any person, neighbor, or establishment, and that was purposeful. When you got discharged, Gilly got sent backshortly after on leave with you for a week. The two of you were already married but had no place to call home and with you being done with the military, it was time to set down roots. Roots that wouldn’t push you into a PTSD fit constantly, you liked being off the beaten path, you liked being unbothered, on your own. On your own. Those three words instantly meant something completely different now as you stared at the black car in the driveway. Everyone knew the black town car pulling up, unexpected, to the home was the news. The news no one wanted to get, but being deployed yourself prepared you for it in a way that explained the solitude in your heart and lack of panic. You moved away from the window before anyone exited the car, you took the few minutes you knew you had before someone rang the bell to kneel down and be eye to eye with your pup. 

“I wish you were going to understand what was about to happen, buddy.” Your hand scratched behind his ears. You saw his nose wiggle as he sniffed the air, and he let out a little whine while looking at you. 

You let out a sigh, and closed your eyes. That’s when the doorbell rang. As your dog ran to the door, you knelt there for 30 more seconds, preparing yourself mentally to hear the news. 

The words rattled in your brain before anyone even said them to you, it was your brain's way of preparing you before you got up to answer the door. The commandant of the Army Rangers 75th Regiment and Second Battalion has entrusted me to express his deepest regrets that your husband, Gilberto Lopez, was killed in action. It was then that you realized you’d find out when and how, and that’s when you held your breath. It’d affect you differently, because you knew the logistics of things, how to read between the lines of what was told to you. Before another thought filled your head, you were standing up and making your way to the door and opening it wide. 

Immediately your dog was out the door whining and jumping on the person in front of you. You thought you felt your breath hitch, I mean you were seeing a dead man, or what you convinced yourself in the last 5 minutes was a dead man, standing in front of you but you were frozen, until he spoke.

“Hey buddy boy, I missed you, yea, hello.” He spoke to the dog, his backpack still on but the other bag was discarded to his right as he let your dog greet him joyfully. “You been takin’ care of our girl, right?” He said as he stood back up and you felt the breath you were holding release and suddenly you were launching into his arms. 

He let out a woah mixed in between a chuckle as he steadied himself and wrapped his arms around you to embrace you back. You both hugged for what felt like eternity, eventually he moved both of you into the house to avoid getting anymore wet from the rain. You still had your hands wrapped around his neck, your heads were next to each other when he whispered something to you.  

“What happened? I’m gone for a few months and you got that country shit playing?” 

When the laugh left your mouth it’s when you realized you were crying. 

“Hey, you’re not allowed to say that when it’s our song.” You pulled away so you could look at him now.

“See, country music’s got you crying.” His thumb moved to wipe your tears away, the smile on his face was big, he was happy to be home, happy to not be thinking about everything– anything. 

“I thought you were dead.” You said as his hands cupped your face. 

“I’m surprised I’m not.” His face hardened almost immediately as he shifted to talk to you seriously. 

“You back for good?” Staring into his eyes, you looked for an answer, but were only coming up with pain and exhaustion. 

“I’m back for good.” He nodded and moved to place his backpack down.

“It’s hard being home.” You said, hating to break the moment but you knew it was inevitable to talk about. 

“It’s hard being deployed.” Gilly answered.  

You looked into his eyes again, it was obvious to you that they were eyes that had seen a lot. You knew that since your eyes looked the same when you were sent home. The difference between him and you was he was there longer, whatever happened when you weren’t there was going to haunt him.

“Back for good.” You repeated his statement, trying to wrap your brain around what that meant, what you both were in store for but you were quickly interrupted by a kiss. 

As your eyes closed, you melted into the touch. His lips on yours brought you back in time, to your first kiss, your wedding day, then the day you were sent home, saying goodbye to him. But now he was home, and he was kissing you hello. 

“You and me, wild and free.” He said the lyrics from the song that brought you two here as he rested his forehead on yours. 

“I thought you hated country music.” 

“I fuckin’ do. But I also fuckin’ love you.”

#mayans mc #mayans fx #mayans mc fanfic #gilly lopez #gilberto lopez #gilly mayans #gilly lopez x f!reader #gilly x reader

[beardedmrbean]

In a function room on the edge of Moscow, something unusual is happening.

A group of women are publicly criticising the Russian authorities. Their husbands are among the 300,000 reservists mobilised by Russian President Vladimir Putin for the war in Ukraine in autumn 2022.

And they want them home.

"When will our husbands be considered to have discharged their military duty?" asks Maria. "When they're brought back with no arms and legs? When they can't do anything at all because they're just vegetables? Or do we have to wait for them to be sent back in zinc coffins?"

The women met via social media and have formed a group called The Way Home. They have differing views on the war. Some claim to support it. Others are sceptical about the Kremlin's "special military operation". What seems to unite them is the belief that the mobilised men have done their fair share of the fighting and should be back home with their families.

It is an opinion the authorities do not share.

In Russia public criticism of anything related to the war comes with a risk. Most of the speakers choose their words very carefully. They know there's a string of laws in place now in Russia for punishing dissent. Their frustration, though, is palpable.

"To begin with we trusted our government," Antonina says. "But should we trust them now? I don't trust anyone."

Members of the group are here to share their stories with a local councillor, Boris Nadezhdin. He has been critical of the "special military operation" from the outset.

Curiously Mr Nadezhdin is one of the few government critics who has been allowed onto national television since Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine. He's an occasional guest on TV talk shows.

Right now, the politician is trying to get on the ballot for the presidential election. He maintains that the war has damaged Vladimir Putin's domestic popularity.

"Putin was very popular in Russia because after the 1990s he brought stability and security," Mr Nadezhdin tells me. "Stability and security were the main reason for supporting Putin. Now more and more people have already understood that stability and security are finished."

Russian women campaigning for the return of their mobilised husbands, sons or brothers have come in for criticism from different quarters. Opponents of the war have little sympathy. They condemn the men for obeying the mobilisation order and for taking part in the war.

Supporters of the Kremlin portray the women as Western stooges.

In a recent interview with the Fontanka news site, Russian MP Andrei Kartapolov, who heads the Russian Duma's defence committee, claimed that the call for demobilisation was the work of "[Russia's] enemies". He appeared to suggest that the Ukrainian military or the CIA was behind it.

Mr Kartapolov also invoked World War Two.

"Can you imagine a delegation of wives coming to the Kremlin in autumn 1942 and telling Stalin: 'Let those men who were called up in 1941 go home. They've been fighting for a year already.' No-one would ever have thought of doing that."

Maria Andreeva, whose husband and cousin have been drafted and despatched to Ukraine, finds Mr Kartapolov's comments insulting.

"He dares to liken the special military operation to the Second World War," Maria tells me. "Back then Russia's aim was survival. We'd been attacked. There was full mobilisation and martial law. It's the total opposite of what is happening now."

Maria says that she is not only campaigning to bring back her family members. She wants to prevent more Russians being called up and sent to the front line.

"We do not want a second wave of mobilisation," she says. "We're against civilians being used in a military conflict. And we want all Russian citizens to understand this could affect them, too.

"Some people act like ostriches. They stick their heads in the sand and try not to think about what's happening. I can understand them. It's hard to accept that, in your country, the state doesn't need you to be happy - it just treats you as biological material. But if people want to survive, sooner or later they need to recognise this and say that they don't agree."

How likely is a "second wave" of mobilisation in Russia? Last December President Putin appeared to rule it out - for now. Live on Russian TV the Kremlin leader claimed that in 2023 the Russian authorities had managed to recruit nearly half a million volunteers to fight in Ukraine.

"Why do we need mobilisation? As things stand there is no need," the Kremlin leader concluded.

Of course, "as things stand" doesn't mean "never going to happen". Situations can change.

For example, in March 2022 President Putin declared: "Conscripted soldiers are not participating and will not participate in the fighting. There will not be an additional call-up of reservists, either. Only professional soldiers are taking part."

"Partial mobilisation" was announced six months later.

To raise awareness Maria and other wives of mobilised reservists have started a new tradition. Every Saturday they don white headscarves and travel into the centre of Moscow. Near the Kremlin walls they lay flowers at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Red carnations are placed by the Eternal Flame. It is their form of peaceful protest.

On its Telegram channel The Way Forward explains that these flowers are for honouring "the lives of loved ones. To honour the memory of those killed in all wars. To honour the memory of our guys."

The group also believes that flower-laying is a way of saying "never again".

But how aware is Russian society? How much interest is there from the public in what the families of mobilised reservists are saying? Antonina says that since her partner was drafted, she hasn't felt much support from those around her. When he received his call-up papers in October 2022, he'd asked friends to keep an eye out for Antonina.

"They invited me to celebrate new year with them a year ago," she says. "But all evening they kept telling me that my husband was a total mug for going there [to Ukraine]."

Antonina claims that, despite being diagnosed with stomach ulcers, her partner was deployed to an assault unit in Ukraine. She says that he telephoned her on 4 December.

"He was crying. He was frightened. It sounded like he was saying goodbye."

She says he called again on 13 December. That was the last time she heard from him. Antonina says she's since been told that her partner was wounded in action.

"There are some people who want to fight. Who volunteer for it and sign contracts," Antonina says. "Let them fight. But send us back our husbands who don't want to be there. They've done their duty to the motherland. Send them home.

"I used to have enormous respect for Vladimir Putin. Now I'm more neutral. I still find it hard to believe that he knows this kind of thing is happening. But if he really does see us as traitors and outcasts for wanting our husbands back, I don't understand why he'd have this attitude towards citizens who once voted for him."

#nunyas news #difference between this and ww2 #is you attacked this time

[cassieuncaged]

Nyx Mortal Kombat Mechanics & Bio

Based on the MK character wiki pages. More beneath the cut.

About Nyx:

Born Rachel Rogers, she grew up in Colorado to a mother and father though her father died of cancer shortly after her younger brother was born.

Her mother struggled to make ends meet and worked multiple jobs to support her family. Rachel started selling drugs to help make more money. She was often arrested by local authorities and spent a lot of time in juvie.

Instead of going to college after high school, she enlisted in the military before assigned to special ops. She sent money home to her family.

After being discharged, Rachel found a hard time making ends meet and relocated to Los Angeles as began working for different underground crime syndicates to make ends meet.

Not much is known about her at this time other than she began working with Kano as a hired gun. She wasn't a member of the Black Dragon but spent most her time at the club and with other members.

She also had a short term casual relationship with Kabal.

Kano keeps her at his beck and call by black mailing her with her past, being the person who gave her tabula rasa. Because of this, Nyx feels like she has to submit to her boss.

Paths cross and she eventually meets General Sonya Blade of the Special Forces. Officially betraying the Black Dragon for immunity, Nyx hands over intel she's acquired over the years in an attempt to clear her name.

This puts Kano on the warpath who eventually enlists help from Outworld to begin a war with the Special Forces. Nyx's betrayal isn't the inciting factor but is more of the straw that finally broke the camel's back.

Appearance:

Has pale skin and has been compared to an uncooked shrimp by both Johnny and Cassie Cage. However, Nyx takes this in stride as she likes her ivory complection.

She has aquamarine eyes though she wears black, purple, and red contacts to add to a the mystique around her entire character. She also wears smoky eye shadow, black lipstick, and sports two piercings (one in her left eyebrow and a septum) as well as several on either ear (3 on each lobe, daith, helix, and industrial).

Skins:

Original - black leather pants, black combat boots, fingerless gloves, a plain black, white or red t-shirt under a black leather jacket decorated with goth band buttons (Sisters of Mercy, The Cure, Joy Division, etc.), a plain choker, a studded mask covering the bottom of her her face, half black/half white hair that falls halfway down her back.

Moshing - ripped black jeans over fishnet tights, checkered creepers, hair down accept for two small space buns on either side, all make-up and piercings on, long sleeved fishnet top covered by an oversized band tee (most likely Bauhaus or Joy Division) and a choker with an o ring.

Red Carpet -hair down, makeup but no piercings, hair down, wears long black velvet evening gown with one slit up the side with matching spike heels that are used as a special finishing weapon.

Powers & Abilities:

Nyx may not possess any supernatural abilities, but she does both military and underground street fighting training. She prefers using weapons from a distance as compared to hand to hand combat since she doesn't like blood (which makes any battles between her and Skarlet very interesting).

But she's practiced both Judo and Karate since high school before integrating Krav Maga into her regimen. Nyx is very elusive and can move in credibly fast which makes her practically untouchable. Kano used her as a hired gun for these reasons as her agility mixed with the cover of night (i.e. her code name) made her chances of escaping undetected that much higher.

Fighting Styles:

Krav Maga

Karate

Judo

Thrown Weapons

Tactical

Weapons:

Sig MPX K with a silencer

Ducati Panigale Matte Purple

flat kunai style throwing knives

herself

Fatalities:

Road Kill - Uses her Ducati to eviscerate her opponent's face with the front tire. Can be any distance from opponent to trigger.

Straight to the Heart - Throwing knife to the chest, far distance.

In My Sights - Uses her Sig with silencer and scope attachments from a far distance to effectively

Single White Female (special) - Similar to Straight to the Heart. Removes her black Stiletto before jabbing into her opponent's eye. Mid to close distance. Must be in Red Carpet skin.

Friendship:

'You're probably wondering how I got here' followed by a record scratch. Cut to Nyx playing The Cure on a record player before collapsing into a bean bag chair before inviting her competitor to join her.

Trivia:

has a white ferret named Ghost

practices yoga

secretly loves the color pink which Cassie mercilessly teases her about

despises going to Johnny's movie premieres but attempts to be supportive for her wife

enjoys vintage video games (specifically Dos Box games from when she was a kid) Her favorite was Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers

Was never able reunite with her mother after going underground. Eventually finds her younger brother Noah with whom she has a close relationship

Secretly misses her friends at the Black Dragon. She really only hangs out with Cassie and Jacqui on base which gets kind of lonely.

Never rides her Ducati without a helmet

favorite bands are Joy Division, Bauhaus and The Cure.

Has a collection of vinyl records. Her favorite is Bela Lugosi's Dead

Doesn't care for horror movies. Her genre of choice is neo noirs, likely for the vaporwave aesthetic.

Recovering alcoholic

Johnny Cage Announcer Names:

Daughter in Law from Hell

Elvira

#oc: nyx #mk nyx #mortal kombat #mortal kombat oc #mk oc #character game mechanics #character bio #ocs #my ocs

[sunnysideprincess]

Had to write a sequel to this from Natasha's POV:

—-—

She doesn't remember when the name appeared around her wrist. Red and gold. Too bright. Too visible. Colors that could be spotted from miles away, Melina had told her. But then none of it mattered anymore. Not when Maria Stark found her years later, listening to Bach in front of a lonely music shop. Her belly swollen and eyes pinched with worry for a homeless child dripping blood and bits of flesh on the tarmac.

She thinks it was instinct that told Maria to take her home that night. And despite Howard's sullen nitpicking on the matter, he would never deny his wife the simple joys of braiding bright red hair into intricate, elegant buns while Natasha read Russian poetry to the unborn child.

Over the years, Maria taught her kindness, Howard taught her how to handle business and Peggy Carter taught her espionage. And later, when she ran into a sad looking war veteran dripping water and rum on her mother's carpet, he had taught her how to use her fists to fight preys twice her size.

Looking at Steve now, she reminisces about the man grieving the loss of his wife, his sudden discharge and a scorned friend. She recalls him finding catharsis in the darkest parts of hell that roamed their streets and Natasha joining him after a stray bullet erased Maria Stark's touch from this world.

Howard had no qualms about putting guns in their hands, grenades into their pockets and bullets on the table. Of all his flaws, he had loved his wife.

But Tony-Tony had been a different kind. Natasha was adopted. And Howard was bathing in blood and riches before he met his wife. They knew Maria's kindness and her sweetness. They knew Maria did not belong with their lot. Tony didn't either.

Didn't stop him from trying though. And god as witness, Natasha knew her brother could be vicious when the world demanded him to be. But- "He wears his heart on his sleeves," Howard had said once and she agrees.

He was his mother's son, through and through.

The last bit of Maria left in this world. A part of the woman who saved Natasha. A part of the woman who loved a Red Room reject.

He's a boy, just a boy who Natalia Alianova Romanov Stark has pledged to protect.

And someone tried to carve a hole in his skin. Someone tried to take her brother's heart.

Someone was going to die for that.

The sound of her stilettos alerts her audience. Steve nods at her, eyes hard and alert all at once. Tony blinks slowly, having a hard time catching up to his surroundings due to the drugs. The bandages around his chest are new. Bruce took care of it himself. She'll remember to be grateful when she allows herself to feel anything other than rage and melancholy.

"I found a guy," she tells Steve and watches him go still with his fingers still tangled in her brother's hair.

"An informant?"

"A sellout."

The Captain nods and lets go of Tony with a final caress.

"When do we leave?"

"Now."

Tony opens his mouth, eyes a little wild when he looks at Natasha. She already knows what's he going to say.

"Nat, Nat-"

"Be home soon, Tones."

Steve ducks out of the room, busy with the trusted glock, eyes averted towards the door like he's guarding it. Guarding them.

"DON'T -Don't go. Don't go, please."

"I have to, Tony. We need to know where this ends."

"And what if you..." He stutters and stops, eyes growing heavy and misty. He looks small, smaller with his head held low and shoulders hunched as if burdened by a greater pain. It hurts when all Maria ever taught them both was to keep their head held high.

"You're all that's left of-" He reaches out, choking on the words and it's years upon years of instict that makes her limbs thaw.

"You're all I've got."

He trembles in her hold, hiccups and sobs. Silent. So silent in his grief after three weeks of torture and a chest wound that hinders his breathing.

Natasha is meant to reassure him. The little boy wonder who came to Nat about his first tattoo, his first piercing, his first kiss.

She is meant to remind him of her presence in his life.

But in this moment, when her mark burns, all she thinks about is Steve. His hungry eyes never leaving Tony alone. How they were both draped around each other moments ago. She thinks about her team. About Bruce patching the wounds of this golden Prince even though he isn't that kind of doctor. About Sam cooking soup for the anemic in their midst. About Clint reaching out to his shadiest contacts. And Thor reaching out to his estranged brother.

She thinks about this broken, extended family she has grown to love and work with and smiles, only a little.

"I won't be once we're done with this."

#tonynat sibling au #siblings au #soulmate au #platonic soulmates #natasha romanofff #steve and natasha #tony stark #stevetony #silvertwink stevetony #older steve #younger tony #steve rogers #mob au #deb writes in between #ficlet #ficlets #natalia alianovna romanova #black widow #mcu #stony #avengers #team as family

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

28 DAYS: CHAPTER TWO

*Spoiler alert: he's not.

Summary: Dean Winchester is an addict and an alcoholic, a USMC veteran, a father, and an older brother. As Battalion Chief with Lawrence Fire & Medical, Dean comes under investigation when he makes a dangerous and impulsive decision, defying his superiors and abandoning the team he is supposed to lead. He is given the choice to go to rehab for 28 days, or jail. His lawyer insists on rehab, and Dean begrudgingly abides.

Chapter characters: Dean Winchester, Nick (Iblis), Zeke Gadreel, Missouri Moseley, Jack Kline, Pamela Barnes, Gabriel, Crowley, Meg Masters, Rowena Macleod

Chapter tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY, references to sexual activity (everyone is 18), references to underage drug addiction and prostitution, Dean’s heading into withdrawal, he’s injured and unmedicated

Chapter WC: 3,200

Author’s notes: Sunrise Bay is the fictional soap opera in which Schitt’s Creek’s Moira Rose starred. I couldn’t resist giving it to Rowena.

I don't have ample words to thank @brrose-apothecary and @stusbunker for their continued support and readings, but I will thank them and declare my undying love.

Text divider by @talesmaniac89

CHAPTER TWO

Dean’s chest is tight with panic. 

“It wasn’t my fault.”

John is furious, driving erratically, and hurling threats and accusations. 

“Of course, it’s your fault, Dean — you’re a man. Men don’t get to play innocent.”

If John had learned about Dean’s mushroom-enhanced threesome with Jamie and Carmen any other way than from Jamie’s pissed-off mom, he’d be slapping him on the back and handing him a beer for earning another couple of notches on his belt.

But nobody likes to be told they’re a shitty parent, especially not John Winchester.

“They were trippin’ and half-naked when I got there, I didn’t-”

“Gimme a break, kid. You went there to get high and get your dick wet. I was 18 once, too, ya know.”

Dean’s mind races as John speeds through town. “What about Sammy?” 

“What about him?! You gonna go home and tell him you got caught fuckin’ his English teacher’s daughter?! Ya think that’ll make him proud, somethin’ to live up to?!” 

John is roaring loud as he pulls into a parking spot in front of the USMC recruitment center. He kills the engine and turns to Dean, but Dean can’t look his dad in the eye.

John scoffs. “Don’t worry about Sammy, I think I can handle it.” 

Dean knows John can’t handle it. John doesn’t even know what time Sam’s school starts or how much money he needs for lunch. John barely even knows what day it is half the time.

Dean’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “They’ll send me to Afghanistan, Dad.” 

He’s afraid — for his own life and to leave his little brother behind. He doesn’t want to go to war, and he doesn’t want Sam to have to navigate his teenage years, dodging bullets from John. 

Dean doesn’t realize he’s crying until his tears drop to his hands in his lap. 

“Oh, man-the-fuck-up, Dean,” John growls, wrenching the door of the Impala open. “Let’s go!”

Twenty-four hours after waking up in the hospital with multiple injuries and the acrid contempt of his little brother, Dean is informed he’s being transferred to a rehab facility.

He isn’t allowed any real pain medication, and he’s riding a class VI hangover, even with fluids being pumped into his body. His head, shoulder, ribcage, and hips are throbbing. He’s starving, too, but he knows there’s no way in Hell he’d be able to keep any food down.

In the early afternoon, he’s escorted to Discharge by hospital security. He wishes he’d showered because his skin is itchy, and he knows he looks like hammered shit. When the guards walk him outside, he sees Nick and Zeke, waiting for him in Zeke’s 4Runner. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters under his breath.

Sam undoubtedly hand-picked the Green Berets to transport Dean’s sorry ass to Kansas City. Not only do Nick and Zeke not give a single shit about other people’s drama, but they’re also brick fucking walls of defense.

The security guards disappear back inside the building, leaving Dean no other choice than to limp toward his former teammates. As he nears the vehicle, Nick climbs out of the passenger seat and opens the back door. 

Dean floats an attempt at good humor, which promptly falls flat on its face. 

“You two suck at Roshambo, or what?” 

Nick’s silent, answering smirk is devoid of any trace of mirth. 

Dean purses his lips and bobs his head before ducking to gingerly slide across the backseat next to his familiar duffle. He immediately pictures his Dopp kit inside the bag with his trusty bottle of pills. 

With the combination of his injuries, this epic fucking hangover, and his escorts’ chilly reception, he could really use a Vicodin or two right now, but Sam’s no idiot. He chose Nick and Zeke for more than their lack of investment in bullshit or their multiple factors of intimidation; Dean can only assume that everything in that bag has been thoroughly searched and stripped.

“D’you pack my SpongeBob toothbrush? It’s my fave.” Dean asks from the back as Zeke wordlessly pulls away from the curb. 

“Packed what was on the list and nothing that wasn’t, Chief,” Nick replies, confirming Dean’s suspicion. 

Dean nods, slipping his phone from his pocket to thumb out texts to Gordon and Lydia, letting them know where he’s going. He tells them both that he’ll be in touch soon, each for different reasons. Then finally, he pulls up a video game and slumps into the seat for the longest 50 minutes he’s ever endured.

The facility looks like a high school in a John Hughes movie, but with a bunch of weird-ass people standing around outside, hugging and singing and chanting. 

Dean rolls his eyes and hoists his bag onto his good shoulder with a wince. Every second of consciousness reminds him of broken bones, twisted ligaments, and fragments of self-loathing that thrive under his itching skin. The last thing he needs right now is a round of kumba-fucking-ya. 

He peeks over his shoulder to see Nick hanging out the window with a savage grin. “Go on.” He waves Dean off like he’s shooing a fly. “Have fun, and make lots of friends.” 

Dean scowls before turning back to face the entrance and trudging inside, careful not to move too fast. His hip is killing him even more than his slinged shoulder or his ribs, probably because he’s injured it twice before. Fidgeting in the backseat of Zeke’s ancient SUV for almost an hour didn’t exactly help.

Once the facility’s revolving door spits him inside the bright lobby, a warm, welcoming voice calls to him from the centered reception desk.

“Dean Winchester?”

The voice belongs to a pretty, middle-aged black woman in a nurse’s uniform, rounding the desk to greet him. He continues forward, eyeing her sideways. 

“Yes, ma’am?” He doesn’t know what he expected from rehab admittance, but kindness was not it.

“Sam called. Wanted to make sure you got in OK. Nice boy.” She looks him up and down, and her brow furrows. “Let’s get you checked in so you can get settled and rest up.” 

The warmth of her tone and gaze hug him like a thick, soft blanket.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean responds.

Her ID badge reads ‘Missouri’. Dean doesn’t know if that’s her name, or where she’s from, but it doesn’t matter much to him because she’s already soothed his senses more than anyone he’s spoken to in the last 36 hours.

“Come on, right in here,” she says, showing him to an open office space. 

Inside the room is a male orderly who helps Dean unload his bag before pulling it open and searching its contents.

“Not gonna find much more than Visine in there, buddy. Crocket and Tubbs already got to the good stuff.”

The orderly remains focused on his work, and Missouri focuses on Dean.

“You mind your manners, boy, and let him do his job,” she says. 

Dean drops his eyes to the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the orderly continues his examination of Dean’s belongings, Missouri rattles off some basic rules.

“There’s no fraternizin’ with other patients, no phone calls ‘cept once a week for 10 minutes at a time...”

Dean nods along as she speaks. He flicks his gaze up to watch the orderly drop his iPhone, its charger, and his AirPods into a plastic bin, and Dean shakes his head but remains silent. When the orderly finds the Swiss Army knife Emma bought him last year for Father’s Day, his heart clenches in his chest. 

“You’ll get that back when you check out, Dean,” Missouri assures him, warmth seeping into her tone and eyes. “Now, just a quick pat down, and I’ll show ya to your room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean nods. He’s relieved to realize that he likes Missouri. She’s a bright spot in this quagmire of misery he’s brought upon himself, and that’s a gift.

The orderly pats him down and checks his sling for anything else the place doesn't allow, and once he’s been stripped of all things sharp or shiny, Missouri leads him through the building, pointing out public sitting areas and restrooms. He’s fucking exhausted and beginning to suspect his hangover is actually withdrawal, which he’s been dreading since he woke up this morning.

Before long, Missouri pauses a few feet from a recreation room with several round table and chair sets, some mismatched lounge furniture, and finally, a single flat-screen TV on a low table. 

“Folks, this’s Dean Winchester,” Missouri says.

Dean takes note of three people piled onto a small couch, another guy next to them in a side chair, and two petite women settled on pillows facing the screen. Some Marvel movie is paused on the screen, by the balding man in the chair. 

“Pills,” he says with an accent, narrowing his gaze as the corner of his mouth twists upward.

Dean’s eyebrows and lips quirk.

“Hmm... sex and booze,” declares the tiny, familiar-looking redhead on the floor. She also has an accent, and Dean wonders where all these Brits are hiding in the middle of America.

“Sex and anything he can get his hands on,” says the bright-eyed brunette from the center of the couch. Her gaze sparkles and dances in a way that makes Dean instantly begin to calculate how to get around the no-fraternizing rule.

“You guys’re good,” he says.

The brunette rakes her appreciative gaze over Dean and licks her lips, as a goofy-looking blonde guy reaches across her to grab a large bowl full of popcorn from the lap of some floppy-haired kid.

“Well, kiddo, since your roommate’s here, I’ll take this off your hands. And, uhh, my money’s on coke,” says the blonde guy as he burrows back into his corner of the couch.

The kid brushes his hands along his thighs before standing and turning to face Dean and Missouri. As he approaches them, he holds up a single hand like he’s swearing to God.

“I’m Jack.” 

Dean darts his eyes to Missouri, who’s smiling reassuringly at the boy.

Dean wants to ask, what kind of crack therapy team thought it’d be a good idea to pair a literal fucking child up with the likes of himself? 

Instead, he waves back at the kid with a weak smile. 

It’s awkward, and Dean is far too undermedicated and stressed to have to deal with a kid. The anxiety makes his heart race and his stomach roil. 

“I can introduce him and show him to our room,” Jack offers with a blush.

Everything about this kid and this room and... everything is making Dean’s skin crawl.

“That’d be real helpful, Jack,” Missouri replies, then turns back to Dean. “This’s your roommate — Jack Kline.”

Dean glares at her before drawing a shallow breath. “Yes, ma’am. I gathered that.”

“I’ll head back to the desk, now,” Missouri says with a pointed look before walking away.

Jack motions toward the group and begins introducing everyone. 

“That’s Pamela,” he says, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Mother of two and meth addict. Next to her is Gabe. He’s a compulsive liar and gambler.”

Gabe salutes as he cheerfully munches popcorn with his mouth full. Dean shakes his head, amazed that Pamela and Gabe seem perfectly comfortable with this little shit airing their dirty laundry all over the rec room.

“Crowley’s on the end, in the chair,” Jack continues. “He’s an alcoholic, and usually very cranky — probably because he killed one of his patients—”

“That was two years ago, you twat,” Crowley drones with an eye roll back to the screen in front of him as he presses play.

“It’s part of your story,” Jack adds matter-of-factly before gesturing to the two women sitting on the floor with their backs against the couch. 

“Meg...” Jack says, and Meg waves. “...was a prostitute and heroin addict — like me.”

Dean’s heart jumps into his throat, and he thinks he might throw up right there. Jack can’t be a year older than Emma. He’s a fucking minor, for christ’s sake.

Meg throws Jack a wink before chiming in.  “I second Pamela’s bet — sex… and anything else he can find.”

Meg holds Dean’s gaze for several beats, and Dean feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room. The buzzing in his ears almost drowns out Jack’s last introduction until he hears something familiar.

“...a retired soap opera star and opioid addict—”

“Rowena Macleod,” Dean says with a small huffed laugh. “My, uhh...” He snaps a few times, shaking his head, trying to jog free fond memories from decades before. “My babysitter watched Sunrise Bay. You were amazing.”

“Ohh,” Rowena coos and Pamela chuckles as she nudges Rowena’s delicate shoulder with her toe.

“Seriously, so much of my childhood is wrapped up in those episodes.”

He remembers Spaghettios and hot dogs, animal crackers, and cherry Kool-aid. His babysitter used to paint his toenails, even though he’d make her take it off before John got home.

“Why thank you, darling,” Rowena preens. “‘Twas so long ago, I barely remember a thing anymore—”

“Might be the morphine,” Gabe mutters, and Pamela smacks the back of his head.

Rowena ignores them both in favor of reminding Jack to bring his “new friend” to dinner.

“Don’t forget, Jacky — four-thirty sharp.” She bats her eyelashes and fusses with her jewelry. 

Dean gives her a warm smile even though he feels hollowed-out, heavy and hot. His skin’s tight and prickly, yet he feels like he’s falling apart. He knows what’s happening, and he fucking hates that he can’t do a damn thing about it but get through it.

“Do you want to go get settled and cleaned up first?” Jack asks, startling Dean to attention.

Jack’s eyes are so wide and so blue, Dean thinks he might fall in and drown. He wants to fall in and drown. Anything but this.

Instead, he nods in answer and follows Jack to the staircase.

It isn’t long before they arrive at their room.

“Curfew is at 8 PM, but I usually read until Lights-Out at 10.” Jack stops in front of their open door, and Dean peeks inside.

The bare bed closest to the door holds a stack of folded bedding and a single pillow. The nightstand is donned with a non-descript lamp and a pad and paper.

“That’s me.” Jack motions to the far bed, which is neatly made with what appears to be a furry dragon dead center of his pillow. On that nightstand is a short stack of comic books and a bag of Milky Way candy bars.

Dean is sure he’s being Punk’d at this point.

“Nice dragon. What’re you, four years old?” Dean asks, pushing inside the room and dropping his duffle to the floor beside what is now his bed.

Jack stands in the hall with his furrowed brow. “I’m 17. And that’s a gryphon; dragons don’t have fur, Dean.”

Dean huffs an ironic, pained laugh and shakes his head before dropping his chin to his chest and letting his heavy eyelids close. 

“My bad,” he mutters, rubbing his burning eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his good hand.

Maybe if he goes to sleep, he’ll wake up, and this’ll all be over with. Maybe he can find someone somewhere in this place with something, anything, to put him to sleep so he can wake up without feeling like a bag full of broken glass.

“It’s OK,” Jack replies with a shrug as he wanders inside the room toward the toy in question. “Not a lot of people know what a gryphon is. They’re guardians of the divine. My mom bought it for me before I was born because she wanted me to always be safe. She died in childbirth, and I never knew my dad-”

“Kid,” Dean interrupts Jack’s monologue of fantastical tragedy. “Can we save the overshare for when I’ve had at least a few hours’ sleep and some food?”

Jack absently pets his stuffed guardian, curiously eyeing Dean. “Openness agitates you. I noticed downstairs that hearing everyone’s stories made you... uncomfortable.”

Dean scoffs. “Well... yeah. I don’t need to know everyone’s dirty little secrets — especially not on the first day.”

Jack shrugs, and Dean watches him carefully replace the plush toy atop his pillow. 

“You’ll get used to it. Honesty is the first step.” Jack looks up as he rounds the foot of Dean’s bed on his way back to the door with a wide, satisfied grin.

Judging by his posture and careful pronunciation of the word, Dean has a feeling that learning the importance of honesty was a big lesson for Jack. Dean isn’t ready for any lessons right now. 

“I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready. Just follow the signs. The dining hall isn’t far.” 

Jack disappears out the door and around the corner, and Dean sighs with relief to finally be alone. 

As he unpacks his clothes and puts them in the dresser, he tries to ignore his runny nose and full-body chills. He distracts himself by wondering how long the kid’s been in this place, which leads to speculating what landed him here, and then he’s chewing the inside of his mouth bloody thinking about the fucking pieces of shit who sell dope to kids, and — worse — the kind of sickos who pay to touch them.

He slams his dresser drawer hard enough to rattle the mirror on the wall beside it, closes his eyes again, then inhales in through his nose and exhales out his mouth. 

Tessa, one of the nurse practitioners in the Medical division of the department, taught him breathing exercises. He went to see her under the pretense of managing work-related stress, but really he just wanted an in to meet the hot newbie. Turns out, Tessa isn’t just good-looking; she’s also great at her job because the stupid exercises work.

He and Tessa also talked about spirituality from time to time. She’s been trying to convince him for weeks that asking the universe for help doesn’t make him weak. He’s not so sure he agrees with her, but at this point, he’ll try anything to help him get through the next few weeks without losing his god damned mind.

“I feel... fucking ridiculous doing this,” he starts, quiet as a whisper. “But I’m fresh outta ideas.”

He breathes in deeply and out again, dismissing the sharp pain in his chest that every breath brings him, yet tears begin to flood his closed eyes. 

“C’mon, Dean, you got through two tours in Afghanistan, for fuck’s sake!” he berates himself.

Maybe the universe is punishing him for going overboard. Maybe if he promises to reel it in, he can do this without his usual vices to lean on and places to hide.

“Listen, I swear to dial it back when I get out. No more all-night parties, no more mixing- just, please. Gimme somethin’.” 

He sniffs and wipes his eyes, still shivering, cramping, and swallowing back bile, but at least he has a plan. 

“OK, you can do this,” he tells himself, grabbing his Dopp kit and heading to the bathroom for a hot shower.

As the steam from the shower fills the stall and he stands under the hot spray of water, he continues to tell himself that he can get through the next 28 days without imploding. 

Chapter 3

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