#i would dance on his kneecaps

[diurnalrevelation]

sleuth jesters eclipse makes me want to throw a brick at him.

#im joking i would kiss him on the forehead but #he sucks!!! he fucking sucks!!! #but man does he suck in an interesting way!!! #every time i see or read about him i imagine picking up a big red brick and chucking it at his stupid flat ass head #i would dance on his kneecaps #eclipse #sleuth jesters #sorry for gumming up the main tag but also this is my blog #dreaming at dawn

[emmyrosee]

Geto doesn’t know how to respond to pet names.

It took him a long enough time to become used to the traditional “baby” and “love,” it was just recently when you started busting out these absurd nicknames for whatever thing you could be subjecting him too.

You were cooking once, and you called him “scnhookums” and asked him to pass the peppers. He dropped the tray.

Driving, you told your “stinky man” to take a left. He slammed on his brakes.

You’d been painting his nails and got some on his cuticle, and you asked your “little poop” to pass you some acetone. He just took his hands away.

It’s not that he doesn’t… like them, they’re just not quite what he expects. They’re so extreme, so left field that in a way, he feels as if you’re mocking him, making fun of him.

He doesn’t like that feeling.

But what he hates even more, is when you pause on giving him disgustingly sweet pet names. This, makes him feel like you no longer care, no longer wanting to take the time to come up with the gushy names that keep him in a shy state.

And you haven’t given him one in days.

He hasn’t been able to sleep. Nothing major, nightmares plaguing the dreams he thinks should be pleasant, 

“Shhh,” you soothe. “Stay asleep. I’ve got you.”

He merely nods and lets his head bury back into the pillows, your lips press against his temple before he lets his breathing even out once again.

As if your kiss soothed the monsters that dance, he’s able to sleep a few more hours, waking up disgustingly late and pouting to find your side of the bed cold.

He’s not proud of the pout okay, you’re just really good at scratching the affectionate itch that digs his brain. all he wants is his ‘pooky bear’ to cuddle their little ‘chickadee’ and let him fall back asleep in their arms.

He’s sure those names aren’t far in your arsenal of names.

When he finally does come to search you out, he’s not completely surprised to see you, stretched out on the couch and in a state of relaxation he finds envy in.

“What’re you watching?” He asks, shuffling into the living room. You smile up at him and say nothing, but instead pat your lap as an invitation for him to come and curl against you.

With a nod, he does just that, letting himself lay down on the couch with you, his head nestled in your thighs. Your fingers instantly start their magic on carding his loose hair, and his eyes slack slightly at the tingly feeling.

“Feel better?” You ask, and he hums contently. “I told you more sleep would help. You just never listen to me.”

He says nothing, merely letting his fingers gently trace the lines on your kneecap.

There’s a whirl of silence in the room, and he feels his eyes grow tired from your loving touch, the post warmth of his shower, and the cat that’s curled on his feet, keeping them warm under her rhythmic breathing.

“My handsome man,” you mumble, bending down to plant a kiss at his temple. his eyes widen as he cranes his head up to look at you, curved in surprise and a glimmer of love in his dark pools. “So pretty it hurts… my handsome, pretty man.”

That. That, he could get used to.

He smiles dopily and turns his head to nuzzle into your thigh, trying to hide the heating of his cheeks from you and your potential teasing by keeping his face buried.

But you don’t pick on him. Instead, you click your tongue adoringly and press another kiss to his temple. He feels your nose taking deep breaths of his scent, and your thumb strokes his cheek lovingly.

“Shut up”, Suguru says happily, as an acceptance, letting his sleepy eyes close and allowing your affections to swallow him whole.

Yes, he thinks to himself. It’s the fluttery feeling everyone talks about. The air filling his lungs and his head skipping beats just by the tone of which you call him handsome.

You call him your man.

Maybe pet names don’t always have to be sticky and sweet; but it just makes the most meaningful ones penetrate his heart that much more.

And this pet name, he hopes you decide to keep.

#don’t look at mE IM SOFT #geto suguru #geto suguru fluff #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x reader fluff #geto suguru x gn!reader #geto suguru imagine #geto suguru jjk #geto #geto fluff #geto x reader #geto x reader fluff #geto x gn!reader #geto imagine #geto jjk #jjk #jjk fluff #jjk imagine #jjk x reader #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x gn!reader #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x yn #jjk x y/n #jjk x you

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

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

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

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

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

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

It went something like this. 

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

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

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

The timing could have been more opportune.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, glancing at the door. 

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

“I don’t know his name—!”

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

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

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

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

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

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

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

“Coming to you.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was so quiet here. 

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

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

“No hello, then, Hart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

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

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

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

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

You are made of memories. 

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

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

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

Tall; formidable. 

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

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

“Join?”

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

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

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

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

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

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

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

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

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

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

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

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

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

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

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

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

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

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

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

There can be no failure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

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

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be seeing you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then so will I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

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

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

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

You loved each other. 

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

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

What should be. 

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

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

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be here.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wraith of lies and murder.

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

And now you have a positive ID.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

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

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

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

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

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

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

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

“Explain.”

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

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

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

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

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

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

Not you. 

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

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

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

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

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

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

Emmett was a snake. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

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

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

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

Where were you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

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

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

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

It’s nothing. 

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

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

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

You’ve gone through worse.

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

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

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

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was love—that was duty.

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

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

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

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

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

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

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

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

—

Day Three:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded like a choking fish.

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

Day five:

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

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

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

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

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

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

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

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

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

But this is something else. 

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

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

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

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

“Am I green, Laswell?”

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

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

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

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

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

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

Where was John?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

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

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

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

But the brain is a funny thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

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

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

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

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

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

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

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

Your chest is heavy. 

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

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

It’s a double-edged sword.

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

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

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

—

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

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

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

“Again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forget something, John?”

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

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

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

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

“Easy, Love.” 

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

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

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

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

Your eyes snap back.

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

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

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

“When do I get to go back?”

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

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

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

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

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

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

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

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

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

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

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

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

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

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

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

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

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

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

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

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

“I love you.” 

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

All that remained was the pesky words.

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

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

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

It’s there you had a revelation.

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

He’d always just been saying Heart.

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

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

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

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

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

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

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

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

#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #cod mw22 #call of duty x you #mw2 #mw2 2022 #cod john price #john price #captain john price #captain price #cod price #john price call of duty #john price cod #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #cod mw #cod x female reader #john price x female reader #x fem!reader #captain price x female reader #female reader #cod mw x reader #mw x reader

[veryace-ficrecs]

Batman Outsider POV Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

Wait... you're backup? by Ceciliedr - Rated T

When her team is captured by Lex Luther, Traci can do little more than cross her fingers for a rescue. When someone does crash the party, it isn't anyone she knows. Traci sincerely hopes the guy in the red helmet is on their side.

library card by mikkal - Rated T

Jason Todd, Red Hood, and the Park Row Public Library (and her librarians).

Finding a New Perspective by njw - Rated T

“I got this, Hood.” Red Robin sounds annoyed as he arcs and twists through the air, kicking one henchman into another and wrenching the gun away from a third while simultaneously retracting his grappling line and then launching it to catch another unwary henchman. Just, how?

“I can see you do,” Red Hood says, and wait. Was his voice always that deep? Is he… Maya squints. Is he staring at Red Robin’s ass?

She blinks, then studies the line of sight more closely. Maybe he’s just checking out Red Robin’s kneecaps, in preparation for shooting at them? That seems more his style. Sexual attraction is kind of confusing and she still doesn’t totally believe Tosh that it’s actually as big a thing as people make it out to be—seriously, do other people really spend that much time thinking about it? Sounds fake but okay.

But no, Red Hood’s helmet is totally pointed at Red Robin’s ass. Huh. That’s new.

Captain Marvel's Adopted? by Len_suilon_mellon - Rated T

When Captain Marvel sends out a distress call, the only League member available is Batman. Bruce comes to his aid, but he finds out that Billy is a 10-year-old homeless orphan with black hair and blue eyes. Obviously, he makes the only logical decision and adopts Billy. Because it's Bruce—who's allergic to revealing life-changing information—the League is left in the dark. This story is written as 5+1 story from the Justice League's POV as they attempt to define the weird relationship between Batman and Captain Marvel. 5 times they didn't realize Batman had adopted Captain Marvel, and the 1 time they did.

The Startling Secret Identity of The Batman by Nokomis - Rated T

Good evening, super-sleuths! Boy, do we have a treat for you today. We’re delving into one of the biggest unsolved mysteries of the modern era. The million-dollar question. The billion-dollar question, if one of these theories holds water. That’s right. We’re gonna risk life, limb and sanity by asking the question… who is The Batman? [In-universe Buzzfeed Unsolved accidentally stumbles on Batman’s secret identity. The Batfam reacts.]

playacting by nex_et_nox - Rated G

“So,” Jim said, “are you one of Wayne’s new kids?” Because only siblings acted that way toward each other, and it seemed like every time Gotham turned around, Bruce Wayne was adopting more kids. It was a reasonable question. “What?” Jay asked. “No, I’m—” He paused. Very slowly, his head tilted as he looked over Jim’s shoulder in the most obvious way he possibly could. Jim Gordon accidentally meets the "newest" member of the Wayne family.

5 times the Justice League catch Bruce acting domestically by TimesBeingWhatTheyAre - Rated G

...and the one time he lets them see it aka 5 times the kids torment Bruce, and the time that he actually arranges a meet-up and minds are blown

the politics of dancing by TheResurrectionist - Not Rated

After months of silence following his mysterious resurrection from the dead, the prodigal Wayne heir shows up at an unlikely meeting. “Where is Mr. Wayne?” Jason crossed his legs, cracking his neck. “He’s not coming.” “I was assured Mr. Wayne would be here.” “Tough. Looks like you’ll have to settle for me, huh?”

I Love My Gay Son(s) by reeby10 - Rated G

But the part that had everyone’s attention was the shirt, a plain white t-shirt with “I LOVE MY GAY SON” emblazoned across the chest in bold, rainbow letters.

Bat Out Of Hell by arguablysomaya - Rated G

Five times the Bats are weird, and one time that weirdness saves the world Or, the Bats are weird, everyone that’s even remotely aware of the superhero game knows this. But, odd as they are, they’re still humans. Which is why it should probably be impossible that they’re such forces of chaos. And when they’re all together? Well, most people are just glad they’re on the good side. And they are. Mostly.

The five times Flash came to Gotham for help and the one time he didn't need to (5+1) by Silver_Athena - Not Rated

Barry needs help solving a murder, he goes to Gotham for help. Though he's looking for Batman he seems to constantly run into new heroes. Why do they all seem connected to Batman? --- “You know where he lives?” “I practically live there myself, why is this so surprising to you? You’ve worked with him for- Oh… oh my God, you guys don’t know!"

A Break in Tradition by incogneat_oh - Not Rated

Gordon had seen something when he caught the canary yellow cape out the corner of his eye– something in the way the kid had moved. So he figures he should ask, “You doing okay up there, son?” AKA: The one where Jim Gordon minds a tiny vigilante until his bigger, scarier partner can collect him.

gotham aviary by pepperfield - Rated G

“I see you have a new addition to the family,” Bella says, smiling at the group pushing their father along toward the plaza stairs. “Yeah, we stole him from his backyard,” Jason tells her brightly.

“average billionaire adopts 1000 children a year” factoid actualy just statistical error. average billionaire adopts 0 children per year. Orphans Bruc, who lives in cave & adopts over 1 child each month, is an outlier adn should not have been counted.

what goes around by Goldmonger - Rated G

A civilian accidentally kills the Joker. It’s a confusing time for everybody.

artemis crock coming to the wrong conclusions by impravidus - Rated G

Nightwing has his hands outstretched, his palms opening and closing exaggeratedly. Red Hood shakes his head. “I am not gonna—” “Just one?” Nightwing interjects sweetly. “Please please please?” “You are such an idiot—” “Just ooone. C’mon, Hood. Don’t these arms look so warm and inviting?” “Inviting for a stab, yeah.” Artemis sees Nightwing being his affectionate (or as Red Hood would put it, extremely annoying) self and comes to the wrong conclusions.

#veryace recs #batman fic recs #batman #bruce wayne #tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #batfam #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3 #red robin #damian wayne #robin #dc robin #red hood #nightwing #the flash #barry allen #jim gordon #the justice league

[daisymylove]

Hi can we talk about how James Herondale is a jealous bitch (much like his mama mind you) but he handles it so gracefully that this trait of his personality goes pretty much unnoticed?

Modern society sees jealously as inherently toxic, but honestly, to me, it's a normal, healthy emotion, and what matters and defines whether or not a relationship is healthy is how a person deals with it, and James aces it with flying colours (and so does "young" tessa by the way)

It's actually comical cause Cordelia, who is fully aware of her feelings for him, isn't jealous herself.She knows a shit ton of girls swoon over James herondale and it is what it is, to the point of actually finding it funny when filomena says she wants to bite him.James on the other hand is like those fuckers are ogling my wife? I want to kick them on the kneecaps. Cordelia will have another husband, who will touch her and expect things from her? HATE THIS BITCH ALREADY AND HOPE HE DIES. Even Matthew's interactions with Cordelia made him unconfortable to the point of "oh yeah I'm going there" even before he knew matt had feelings for her.Like when they arrive together at curzon after seeing "wayland the smith", or when they are dancing together at James and Cordelia's engagement party. I'm actually 99% sure he cuts in in Choi and asks Cordelia to waltz with him after she dances with Matthew bc he was jealous

But he never makes it Cordelia's or anyone else's problem, so Cordelia (or anyone really) has absolutely no idea that he feels like this. I think from a narrative point this, along with horny JamesTM, was a great call on CCs part, bc Jordelia is the " fake couple" and she had to convince us of his feelings specifically.And anyway this is comedic gold and I've never seen anyone talk about it

@faithfromanewperspective I think you would like this discussion

#the last hours #tlh #james herondale #chain of thorns #tsc characters #chain of gold #chain of iron #tsc #cordelia carstairs

[neteyamsyawntu]

And So She Danced With Death

Chapter 3

Dark!Neteyam x Na'vi!Reader fic

👉Chapter 1 👉Chapter 2

👉Chapter 4

Disclaimer!: All canon characters in ATWOW that appear in ASSDWD are all aged up by 5 years.

Synopsis: After being captured by the RDA you try your best to press Neteyam for his motives, but it leads you down a dead end and a dangerous encounter with Quaritch that brings out Neteyams possessive nature

WARNINGS: 🔞MINORS DNI🔞, angst, SOO much angst, mentions of death, near death experience, evil! Neteyam, dom!Neteyam, suggestive language, SMUT, p in v, fingering, reader receiving oral

“Nice try Y/N” Neteyam growled, throwing your limp exhausted form over his shoulder, not failing to notice the pained wheeze that left your lungs in the process. As he turned around he glared down at the human solider who had shot you with the stun gun, who quickly stiffened meeting Neteyam’s harsh gaze. “I did not need your help tawtute,” he hissed “the next time you get in my way, I will crush your skull under my foot” he warned, ripping the stun probes out of your back and throwing it at his feet. Leaving the soldier visibly shaken Neteyam continued making his way to the hidden complex a little ways from the camp. 

Approaching the complex which was much more heavily guarded, the soldiers at the entry point quickly stepped aside allowing him safe passage onto the grounds. Ever since the RDA revived and initiated Neteyam into the recom program, it was clear to everyone there that even though his alliances had ‘changed’, that the man still had the blood of Toruk Makto running through his veins. A true na’vi warrior with a hard exterior, who would not hesitate to get violent with a human who offended him. A pair of soldiers learned the hard way first hand, a day into his recom training thinking they could mock him and come out unscarred, “Hey shit for brains!” one called out, as Neteyam steadied the mechanical bow on the target ahead of him. His ear flicked at the intrusion of his focused thoughts, but chose to ignore it. Surely they weren’t talking about him, “ ‘ey I’m talking to you fucker” the voice now closer, about a foot and a half or so from where Neteyam stood. Neteyam shifted his gaze to his peripheral eyeing down the jarhead who was beginning to make Neteyam loose his patience. 

The second offender standing with his arms loosely crossed behind the initiator, “it must really suck.. ya’ know betraying your whole race, your home” he continued to drag on making sure to put clear emphasis on his words as if Neteyam was hard of hearing, “your family” he smirked, giving his friend playful smack on the shoulder. The two giggling like two frat-boys. That was the last straw. Before either could blink, Neteyam sent his arrow flying into the kneecap of the soldier closest to him. “Holy shit!” one panicked as the other fell immediately, clutching his now broken leg. The uninjured human moved to aid his friend, but making little progress before he was grabbed by the throat and hoisted into the air, feet dangling and thrashing wildly, desperately clawing at the na’vi’s fist. At this point anyone else who had been practicing or slacking off in the training yard all now focused on the scene watching as steam practically emerged from Neteyam’s pores. At that moment Quaritch burst through the compound doors accompanied by men with stun guns and tranquilizers. With a bit of negotiating, Neteyam dropped the jarhead, making to leave the compound searching for solitude in the surrounding forest. Once his back turned, two soldiers with high voltage electrical batons came up from Neteyam, shocking him in unison, immediately sending the unsuspecting na’vi to the ground, writhing in pain. This would become a common practice for whenever Neteyam would loose his temper or begin to mentally waver. A ‘healthy dose’ of controlled shocks, to remind the warrior of his place…

Bringing you into the compound, still slung over his shoulder, Neteyam grabbed a pair of masks that would allow you to breathe the native air of Pandora, then leading you to the prison sector, finding the first available holding cell. Entering the small room, closing the door behind him, Neteyam placed you down positioning you to sit against the wall. Gazing up at him with heavy lids as he slid, the ‘oxygen’ mask around your neck, bringing the contraption up around your nose, as your wrists were still bound. You inhaled behind the mask, maintaining eye contact as your lungs became full with air. “What do they have on you Teyam?” You asked when he lowered it back down to your chest. He simply cocked a brow in response, continuing to stare blankly at you. You groaned in announce “Help me understand, Neteyam. Even if they brought you back, this cannot be what you want-“ “do not pretend that you know what I want” he jabbed back at you, jaw tightening. You rolled your eyes blinking in attempts to shoo away your irritation, “that’s why I say help me understand, skxawng”. Neteyam drops his head at this, his heavy braids falling into his face.  “You do not understand how difficult you are making this” he said coldly “Why come here? Hm? Do you crave your own death that much?” Neteyam spat looking up once more locking eyes with you before his gaze fell to the prominent bruise on your neck. “I came here for you, to bring you home” you shoot, offended at his words. Neteyam gave a low growl before standing to his full height glaring down at you, “Whatever feelings you hold onto for me, squash them… they will lead you nowhere. I am no longer yours”.

You scoff cocking your head to the said, “that’s not what you said earlier” you jeer, “in-fact I remember you saying that I was cruel for trapping you-” slowly still holding his gaze you start to stand, stepping closer to him “-that you craved me.” Another step “I know it must be so difficult for you, being here in this room with me” one more step, “no windows. My scent must be driving you crazy by now”. Neteyam eyed you up and down, before lifting his mask over his muzzle, refilling his lungs. “It must be frustrating how numbingly hard your cock gets just by smelling me..” you now stand practically nose to nose, “don’t think I didn’t feel it earlier, it was kind of hard to miss.” you whisper, your breath dancing on his lips. That did it. Neteyam snapped out of his trance pushing you backward until your back hits the wall, his strong thigh parting your legs. Neteyam had you pinned to the wall, arms placed on either side of your head locking you in place. His breathing was heavy, refusing to make eye contact. Once getting his racing thoughts somewhat under control Neteyam looked at you with a burning glare, nostrils flared. “Don’t flatter yourself too much, I could fuck you as easily as I could break you in half”, “Oooh so scary” you teased, pushing your hips against his thigh in defiance, purposely letting a small gasp fall from your lips due to the slight friction created between your legs. Neteyam gritted his teeth, averting his gaze once more as his breathing started to pick up again. Just as you were beginning to think you were winning, his hand parted with the wall and roughly pulled at the roots of your hair forcing your head back, a pained yelp emerging from you at his aggressive movement “you foolish girl, so stupid. Look at where you are. You are the one who is trapped” he growled, but he was right. You had found yourself surrounded by enemies and no one knew where you were. “do not forget who is in control here” he glowered, adjusting the strap on your ‘oxygen’ mask, securing it over your muzzle before he shoved you to the ground, then making his exit leaving your wrists bound behind your back. As Neteyam rounded the corner he nearly bumped into Quaritch who was leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, “Hope you aren’t letting this little girl distract you, son” he stated quizzically. “No sir- colonel” Neteyam corrected himself. Quaritch nodded  in acknowledgment, “good, try to keep your head clear. Remember- she may say some pretty words, but she’s no better than the rest of them” …

———————-

Hours passed as you sat on the floor staring at the wall. You refused to sleep or more so your instincts forbade you from being so vulnerable. Your wrists were incredibly sore and your arms were becoming tired of the restricting position. You suddenly hear the sliding of the door, to which you backed yourself up into the corner, baring your fangs at the intruder. Neteyam stood in the doorway, the same darkened look as when you saw him again for the first time two days ago. Rage induced. The look alone made you want to disappear into the corner. He stepped over to you, pulling you up by the bicep and pushing you forward, grabbing onto your kuru once he was behind you, “Walk” he ordered through gritted teeth. You did as you were told walking forward until you needed further directions, to which Neteyam jerked your braid slightly in the desired direction. The two of you soon arrived at a room with a tinted glass window splayed across on of the walls. Next to it was a door leading to the other side of the one-way mirror. In the center of the room was a large table and two chairs, supposedly made to accommodate the recoms to help them acclimate to their avatar bodies. Your nose scrunched in a snarl as your eyes fell on Quaritch sat in one of the chairs, waiting. You immediately went on guard, thrashing against Neteyam to release you, to which he responded by giving your kuru a painful tug “mawey” he warned. “Ah there she is, our surprise guest. Uh- son if you could..” Quaritch spoke calmly, motioning to Neteyam, who forced you to sit in the seat opposite the faux na’vi before loosening the strap on your mask, allowing it to fall to your chest and finally freeing you of your restraints.

Before you had a chance to lunge at your target, Neteyam gave a rough tug at your kuru once more, before leaning into your ear, “do not make any stupid moves” he warned  before moving to stand in the corner of the room by the door, next to the mirror. “Yes, no need for hostilities, I was just hoping you could help me with a few questions I had” Quaritch started, leaning back in his chair. “I would rather listen to the cries of an ikran in heat” you spat in your native tongue. Quaritch picked up a word or two, but turned to Neteyam for confirmation. “Voìk si (Behave)” Neteyam warned once more. You threw a small scowl at him before begrudgingly turning your attention back to Quaritch. “Now I won’t bore you with any details, but I think you already know what I’m gonna ask you.. where’s Sully hiding out?” He asked narrowing his eyes watching your movements carefully. You inhaled a sharp breath, hardening your own gaze keeping your lips tight. If they were smart enough to conduct their own search, they’d realize how close Jake and the rest of your family were hiding. Your upper fang dug into the skin of your lower lip, breaking the skin. Quaritch sighed as if the situation was mentally taxing on him, as he lifted himself from his seat, making his way around the table to lean on its edge, next to your seat. Your tail raised behind you as a warning. Neteyam tensed at the closeness between you two as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. You leaned away, fang digging deeper into your lip as it began to draw blood. “Y’know now that I can get a good look, I can see what Tey saw in you.” Quaritch inferred attempting to take a more empathic route. The insinuation behind his words made you want to gag.

“I’m not gonna ask you again..” he spoke a little more directly, leaning slightly into your personal space. Again you bared your fangs at the abomination in front of you, a firm hiss solidifying your answer. Quaritch sighed in defeat,

“Well until you decide to tell me what I need to know, we’ll just leave you here for the time being.” Quaritch informed you eyeing you down, before leaning to wipe away the blood that had emerged from your lip with his thumb. As soon as the contact was made you reeled back your jaws and bit down on the appendage, which was quickly drawn back. In an instant your head was pinned to the table by Neteyam, who had hastily moved from his spot against the wall and once again grasping onto your thick braid to ensure you didn’t attempt a second attack. Quaritch gave his own meek hiss before sticking his thumb in his mouth to suck the blood absentmindedly, getting a taste of your saliva in the process. His eyes floated from you to Neteyam who quickly avoidedeye contact, standing behind you with a clenched jaw, his breathing starting to become uneven. Quaritch huffed making his way toward the exit, “make sure she is tied up properly before you leave” he ordered Neteyam from over his shoulder, closing the door behind him. The faint sound of footsteps and a door closing was heard by both you and Neteyam from behind the mirror, signaling that any observers had made their leave as well. 

You looked up at Neteyam through the corner of your eye, as your head was still pinned against the cold metal table. He wasn’t looking at you, instead his gaze was fixed on the wall ahead of him. He was still, nearly frozen as his thoughts sprinted through his mind. He was pissed, that much you could tell. You narrowed your eyes, before nudging Neteyam with your elbow, “You can’t say you would not have expected me to react the way I did. I had a right to defend myself” you groaned. Neteyam immediately shot his own gaze to you, “that’s all you have to say for yourself?”He was practically steaming. “I know it was not smart to fight back, but-“ ,”-is that what you think this is about?” Before you had a chance to protest, Neteyam released his hold on you momentarily to pushed out your chair, enough to lift you up and place you on the table facing him. He leaned in close forcing you to meet his gaze, “the only person who should be tasting you is me” he said slowly, allowing each word to sink in. Your ears flicked at the realization, which Neteyam then took his opportunity to dig his nose into the crevice of your neck inhaling deeply, his nails gripping into your hips, as he let the intensity of your scent wash over him. “Neteyam-“ you called to him, but faltered when his flat tongue drug itself up your throat. Your breath hitched at the feeling quickly trying to shove him off of you.

You knew that at any moment someone could barge in the room and catch you. The chances of Neteyam getting punished terrified you as your movements became more desperate to get him away from you. “No” he simply stated, snatching your hands and moving to lay your back flat against the cold surface, pinning your hands above your head, then moving to drag his tongue down your neck to your collarbone. “Teyam, please if someone sees-“ ,”Let them see” Neteyam growled, “let them see that you are mine”. Parting from your skin, finally releasing your hands, he took a moment to lift your beaded top over your head and throwing it to the side, absentmindedly throwing your mask and expo-pack with it before moving back to his initial attack on your neck, then proceeding to drag his tongue down past the canyon of your spread breasts. A small gasp broke from your lips, back slightly arching off the table to press your body into his. “That’s my girl…submit to me” he growled against your skin, moving his head to take your nipple into his mouth, circling his tongue around the mound. You let out a breathy moan at the sudden contact. You couldn’t deny how much you wanted this, a sticky wet patch beginning to form on your loincloth while he continued his actions. Your bodies craved each other, begging for your bond to be reaffirmed. This was right. This was necessary. 

Neteyam’s hand crawled up your body, his eyes raising to meet yours as his thumb began prodding at your lips, to which you slowly opened your mouth allowing the digit entry. Detaching from your firm bud, Neteyam used his free hand to massage the breast he had neglected, finally giving it some friction, kneading it roughly. Your moans were muffled on his finger as you sucked on it feverishly. “Mmphuck I love seeing you like this.” He breathed, his thumb moving down along your tongue to have you open your mouth for him, to which you instantly obliged, “I want you to remember that my fingers should be the only ones in this pretty mouth of yours”. You nodded to which he hummed accepting your submission before removing the digit as he descended further down your body, leaving a string of kisses leading down to the hem of your loincloth. Without a second thought, as if falling into a past routine, you lifted your hips enough for him to be able to pull the fabric off of you. Neteyam chuckled looping his fingers around the straps to remove the fabric, “so eager for me to fuck you. Is that it?” He coos “I can’t help myself. You’ve left me for too long…” you say leaning to grasp his chin looking deep into his eyes, “my body hungers for you” the last part coming out as a soft needy whimper. A low rumbling emerged from with Neteyam’s throat as he eyed you hungrily. You are so mesmorized by his lips, yearning to press yours against his, you are caught off guard when Neteyam hooks his hands under your thighs and yanks your legs apart, creating more space for him. Neteyam eyed you as his hands came to massage the inside of your thighs, rubbing small circles into the muscle then, lowering himself to his knees. You sat up on your forearms following with your eyes as he became eye level with your leaking cunt. He slowly proceeded, running a finger from your inner thigh toward your center, than along your slit, Neteyam took a heavy breath longingly eyeing your sex. Your breath caught in your throat finally feeling him where you craved him most. “Whose pussy is this baby?” He asked, eyes meeting yours again. You whimpered at his words, insides throbbing at his bluntness, “please Teyam” you beg. Neteyam shakes his head slightly, leaning to the side to bite the inside of your thigh, a pained yelp emerging from your throat, “Try again baby” he hummed. “It’s yours… all yours Nete… please”. He smirked licking his lips “Good girl, yawntutsyìp” he groaned against your heat, finally lowering his face to your center.

Eyes practically rolling in the back of your head when you finally felt the heat of his eager tongue run along your slit finally stopping at your sensitive clit. Giving your clit a couple kitten licks to test the waters watching for your reaction, Neteyam proceeds to close his lips over the nub, sucking softly at the bundle of nerves. “Hah..ah, shit Teyam” you whine out, raising one hand to cover your mouth and letting the other close around his braids for leverage. Neteyam hummed against your cunt, before inserting two fingers into your hole. You pressed your hand to your mouth tighter as you release a muffled cry at the sudden stretch. “Shit yawne you’re so tight, I can hardly get my fingers in you.” He breathed curling his fingers upward as he started to pump the digits. 

Your mind felt hazy, you hardly registered the sweet names he called you. Names you thought he’d never use in his ‘reawakened’ state. Tears began to brim your eyes at the moment your core clenched around his fingers, Neteyam accelerating your climax by flicking your clit with his tongue. Just as your breathing began to pick up, feeling yourself near the tip of the iceberg, Neteyam pulled away wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Your head shot up at the loss of contact only to see Neteyam rising to his feet, lifting the oxygen mask over his muzzle, inhaling deeply. You watched him breathlessly, eyes floating all over his toned body before falling to the obvious bulge in his loincloth, which with a simple tug of the string from behind him, fell to the floor with a soft thud. Your breath hitched at the sight of his cock, instinctively spreading your legs for him. “Wider” he groaned pushing your knees up toward your chest and leaving you no time to follow his order. Leaning over you, Neteyam lined his tip with your entrance, placing his oxygen mask over your muzzle, “breathe in for me baby” he purred. As your chest rose beginning to fill your lungs with air, Neteyam grips your hips, pulling you onto his cock mercilessly. Your eyes shoot open, the pressure instantly taking you out of your hazed state immediately grabbing onto your mate for support as your sopping cunt takes him effortlessly, “Ahh f-fuck… ‘so wet for me” Neteyam mewls trying to get himself together “Oh Eywa I missed this… I missed you” he whispers, leaning down to finally capture your lips in a needy kiss, slowly stirring his cock in you while you adjust to his massive size. Finally feeling the longing ache in your gut return you begin to meet his hips, moving to wrap your arms around his neck “Mm ma’muntxa.. please I need you” you whine starting to feel desperate.

Neteyam breathily chuckles, pulling your legs up over his shoulders “you better hang on, sevin” he smirks, pulling his hips back until all that’s left is his throbbing tip, only to plunge back in,  throwing your head back from the sheer force. Neteyam kept up a pace of hard rhythmic thrusts admiring the strained noises that emerged from your throat as you desperately tried to keep yourself quiet. It was almost too much for you to take. You could almost feel every vein of his length as your tight pussy milked him relentlessly “Yes-fuck yes you’re squeezing me so good baby.” Neteyam moaned nestling into your neck, biting down as he rocked his hips into you. A hand leaving your hip coming up to snake around your backside, pulling your body firmly against his. Pulling back to lower your legs from off of his shoulder only to wrap them around his waist instead, you suddenly felt your body lift from the flat surface of the table, Neteyam held you securely against his form as he bucked his hips up into you, ears flattening at your sweet moans in reaction to the new angle. “Tey! Teyam-ah!” “That’s right.. hah… say my name, baby mmng you’re mine.. all fucking mine” he growled, nails painting your backside with deep red streaks. The pressure building and building in your core as his thrusts massage your walls, tip bruising your cervix “Shit Nete.. I’m so close” you whine desperately clinging to Neteyam creating your own scratches in his back. Neteyam carefully shifted his stance, moving to sit on the chair next to you, forcing you to straddle his hips. His cock fully bottoming out in you. “Go ahead love.. ride my fucking cock.. make yourself cum”. Your ears flatten at the immense pleasure wasting no time in rolling your hips against his, grinding his cock into your g-spot. Your breaths becoming quick as you bounced on his cock, coaxing your orgasm out. “Just like that.. don’t stop yawne you’re doing so well” Neteyam moaned, his face visibly red from his risen body heat, as he met your thrusts nearing his own climax. “Nng- Nete!” You scream as your orgasm washing over you spilling out of you and down Neteyam’s balls, with Neteyam following closely behind, his rhythm becoming messier with each thrust. Riding out your high, your mind started to go numb listening to the sound of your wet juices sloshing with each thrust, accompanied by the sound of Neteyam’s heavy breaths and eager moans. Your ear flicked toward the door as you could hear quiet footsteps growing closer, instantly enabling your fight or flight “Neteyam- Teyam wait-“you call to him, desperately trying to push him away,  but Neteyam was too lost in his own lust and high to hear you clearly, continuing to thrust into you, holding your hips down against him in a bruising grasp as his orgasm finally hit, shooting hot spurts of cum into your womb with a low growl, hiding his face in your neck as he attempted to catch his breath, holding your body close to his… only the the sound of the door creaking open behind you, snapped him out of his trance...

Thank you all for being so patient with me while I got this chapter together. It definitely took longer than expected, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless

Tag-list:

@tiredmamaissy

@jakexneytiri

@neytris

@jake-sullys-whore

@live-laugh-neteyam

@zynn4

@eywascall

@christinechickiee

@fanboyluvr

@afro-hispwriter

(Sorry for the late tag guys!)

#avatar #avatar the way of water #avatarsmut #neteyam #neteyam sully #avatar twow #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam x na'vi!reader #dark neteyam #love hate relationship #neteyam smut #neteyam sully smut #And So She Danced With Death #ASSDWD

[rebelspykatie]

Rushin' through me like a fire Part 2

A Steddie Club AU

AO3 | Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

“Well I do. I don’t even know your last name or how old you are, but you want to get in my pants already?” 

Austin rolls his eyes. “Is that all it takes? It’s Lim and I’m thirty-four. Now can we move this along?” 

His gut is telling him this guy is bad news, to run in the other direction and never look back. Unease settles in his stomach. He stares at the guy for another moment before he says, “I’m not going to sleep with you tonight, if that’s all you want.” 

Another eye roll, but this one is with his whole body, pulling him off his bar stool and sipping up the last of his mojito. He leans down to say directly into Steve’s ear, “Go somewhere else if you want romance, honey.” 

As he walks away, Steve slumps back against the bar, the tension he didn’t even know he was holding draining from his body in one fell swoop. This was such a bad idea. Why did he think a bar would be the best place to meet someone? He’s all too aware of what most of the people in this room are looking for, it’s why he sticks close to Robin when they come here. Without her as a buffer, he’s left to the sharks. He thought he was ready to dive into those waters, but maybe not.

“Rough night?” An unfamiliar voice asks from behind him, startling him off the edge of the bar.

When he spins around on the stool, he’s met with a pair of brown saucers staring back at him, glittering orbs, on a face Steve’s never seen before. He thought that they knew every bartender here, but clearly that wasn’t true. Although, this guy isn’t wearing the standard all black attire or a waist apron. 

Instead, he’s donning an intricately cut band tee for another one of the groups Steve’s never heard of, something about a priest. On it, there’s a robotic looking tiger that’s about to pounce and what Steve assumes is the band’s logo surrounding the image. He’s got on black, skin-tight pants with artistic rips at knee level. Steve’s practically swooning over a little kneecap like he’s a Victorian maiden seeing an ankle in the streets. 

Scars litter his skin, snaking up his neck and down his left arm. His long, curly hair is pulled back into a ponytail, putting them on full display and Steve wants to run his fingertips over the ridges. He doesn’t let his eyes linger too long, even if he’s not looking at the scars so much as the expanse of neck he wants to sink his teeth into. Rings adorn his fingers, glittering in the lights around the bar, and a smattering of tattoos are inked onto his forearms. He just thought that Austin was hotter than the sun, but he has nothing on this man. Mouth dry and heart beating uncomfortably in his chest, he shakes his head, refocusing on what the guy said. 

“You could say that,” Steve huffs self-deprecatingly and shrugs. “I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Didn’t look that bad from here,” he leans against the bar, “seems like it was that guy’s loss.” 

His stare is intense, burning against Steve’s skin. He’s not quite sure what’s different about it, but his gaze doesn’t feel as predatory as Austin’s, or any other person in the room. It’s striking, a little playful and flirtatious, but not overly hungry. It’s been too long since someone flirted with him just for the sake of flirting. 

“Are you new here?” Steve asks, unable to tear his eyes away from this guy’s face, trying to memorize the dimples and sharp cheekbones. 

That makes him laugh, a sly smirk popping up that intrigues Steve. “No, and you’re not either, dancing queen. Does that line work on most people?”

He sputters for a second, thrown by the question. “I- that wasn’t a line. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before and I come here all the time with my best friend.” The dancing queen part of that statement finally clicks. Was this guy watching him? Had he been watching him? 

That makes him laugh harder and Steve is so lost. He must recognize the look on his face because he finally says, “I’m Eddie. I own the bar.” He waves a hand at the bottles. “And you’re Robin’s Steve.” 

“How do you know who I am?” 

“You do know there are cameras in here, right? I make it a point to keep an eye on all the regulars. Especially when they start showing an interest in my best friend.”

Steve feels about ten paces behind this conversation, brain moving like molasses to put the pieces together. “Wait, you’re Chrissy’s Eddie.” 

“The one and only.” He nods and gestures to Steve’s drink, “You want another one?”

“I think I need it after this,” he mutters.

Eddie chuckles and starts mixing him another round. He adds a flourish onto the end, doing a trick shot to pour the drink from the shaker to the glass. It’s impressive.

“She never said anything about you owning the bar.” 

“Probably a weird thing to work into a conversation,” Eddie leans against the bar, sliding the drink across it, looking like he has all the time in the world to spend on Steve. The other bartenders move around him, filling orders from other patrons. But Eddie stays right there in front of him, ignoring everyone else.

“How have we never seen you in here before? We come here all the time.” Maybe he should dial it back with the twenty questions. Steve sounds a bit accusatory, but he’s curious about how he’s never caught wind of Eddie.

“I’m a bit of a recluse. Came into some money after my parents died, used it all on medical bills and bought this bar to employ all my friends when we couldn’t get out of this podunk town. Crowds and sweaty bodies make me break out in hives.” He shudders, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to the floor. “I stay in my office or work on inventory once the club starts to fill up. I’m only out here on lighter nights.”

Ah, that’s why they’ve never seen each other. Steve and Robin come in on the weekends, when the bodies are packed elbow to elbow on the dancefloor. He’s only here on a Wednesday because he felt sorry for himself. It’s a lighter crowd than he’s used to, easier to spot prying eyes and wandering hands between writhing bodies. And apparently the way to meet the owner.

AO3 | Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #katie writes

[chrollohearttags]

3, 5, 7, 8, 12, & 14

they all don’t have to be in the same story but that was the most i could narrow down 😭

oh no, these are perfect! Thank you bae 🤭 just gave me a good idea with this!

cw: hotel sex, dirty talk, choking

“And you told me you weren’t gonna come see me…what happened?”

“Well, turns out..what they said was true. You really are one of the best voices of our generation..your shows are actually pretty entertaining.”

words and glances exchanged between two secret lovers in the middle of the hotel room. Bodies only inches away from one another and lust rising from your auras like steam from a hot shower..this was the scene that reoccurred and played out so many times in the not so distant past. Messing around with and becoming the sneaky link to a world famous musician wasn’t something you’d ever foreseen yourself doing. You knew the industry types all too well and how they collected girls of your variety like the awards they accrued from their labors. Even still, the attraction between (y/n) and EJ The Don was one that could only be described as fiery, passionate and whirlwind. The two of you had quite a long conversation the other night and he could tell by the end that you were playing to hard to get; not wanting to give him too much as other girls had done prior. When asked if you’d come see him perform while he was on tour, you’d respond dryly with a: “we’ll see.” Of course, he knew you were merely giving him the cold shoulder just so he could have a bit of a motivation to make it impossible for you to leave later on. Faint traces of his cologne and weed smoke hit your nostrils as he leaned forward and brushed over your arms.

“I’m glad you think so…and I’m very..very glad you showed up. I mean, I saw you dancing around. Looking all good and shit.”

the compliment making your heart flutter; feeling him run a finger underneath your chin and licking his lips. Currently, he had you up against the wall, kneecap nudging open those thick thighs that were exposed by the revealing fishnet dress you were sporting. Tall heels supporting that curvy body and all he could think about was how you lucky he was to have you on his roster. Hell, he’d clear up all his prior engagements if he got to fuck on you all the time. Batting those pretty little lashes, you’d gaze up at him and move closer.

“Yeah? You think I look good?”

questioning with only a hair’s breadth in between you two. That pearly white smirk on his face, chain hanging from his around his neck and two silver bands on his tattooed fingers as he cupped them around your chin. He couldn’t get enough..he craved you so badly, he could practically taste it. But luckily, he wouldn’t have to wait too long to do so. You were all alone, in private and free to express all the filthy thoughts plaguing your minds. Cupping your beautiful face between his fingers, Eren would tease his lips against yours before initiating a series of steamy kisses. Smacking your tongues and twirling them together.

“Of course..but I think you’d look so much better with my hands around your neck..” “You might be on to something.” lightly asphyxiating your breathing as he fed you those sloppy pecks. Ones that had you melting in his grasp and made it even easier to get you out of your clothes. “EJ..” “I know, baby. I know you want me to fuck you..you’ve been so patient with me.” One by one, he’d strip you of those tiny little articles of clothing until both of you were rendered nude. Ravaging one another like wild animals until he hoisted you mid air, prompting you to put your arms around his neck. Holding you in those toned, tattooed arms. And once you did, he’d begin to bounce you up and down on that thick cock. Slamming up into you with full force..dripping wet only a few strokes in. Your nails clawing into his back and those balls slapping against your entrance. Creaming all down his cock and making a mess everywhere. Something you had been waiting on for a while.

“Ooh shit!…”

“God..you feel so fucking good. This pussy’s ‘s so good.” Grunting into your ear like a man deprived. That dick swelling inside of you and stretching that entrance open. You’d find yourself burying your face into the crook of his neck and moaning out for more. “No, don’t look away..keep your eyes on me. Let me see how much you love this dick.”

#cherry’s asks 🍒 #prompt games #prompt fic #aot x black reader #black fem reader #musician x influencer au #black reader #eren x black fem!reader #black reader smut #musician eren #aot smut #aot imagines #aot drabbles #eren x black reader #eren x black y/n #eren smut #eren jaeger x black reader #snk eren #eren jaeger imagines #eren jaeger smut #eren jaeger fic #eren jeager smut #black fanfiction #aot au #smut drabble #imma def incorporate all of these into a fic w him cause what #ugh i need him #cw smut #cw sex mention #cw choking

[ceilingfan5]

make it count

"problem" for @taznovembercelebration

Kravitz thought he was already having a weird night, but the guy tumbling out of his closet was, honestly, a real surprise. 

“AUGH, FUCK,” Kravitz says, flawlessy parried by closet guy’s “FUCK, AUGH.”

Kravitz steps back. Too far. The bed catches his ass, which hopefully looks like he sat down intentionally and didn’t reverse kneecap himself. Closet guy straightens up, long, gorgeous hair all over the place, and he spits hair out of his mouth and eyes Kravitz, steely, but also nervous, like Kravitz might be angling to kick his ass. 

Kravitz might. He hasn’t decided yet. He’s a little panicked, and he doesn’t like, WANT to call the cops, obviously, but there’s a fuckin’ dude in his closet and he’s been home for like three hours now. He’s played dad rock as high as his phone could go and danced in his boxers, and showered, and changed into pajamas, and eaten popcorn like both a horse and the tender but misunderstood delinquent girl feeding that horse and maybe that’s not necessarily something he wanted some kind of malignant fucknugget to witness.

“Who the fuck are you and how did you get in my apartment??” he demands, grabbing the nearest heavy object and brandishing his shitty lamp that makes an annoying noise when it’s on like it’s some kind of newfangled glaive-mace. 

“Who the fuck are you and where am I?” closet guy retorts aggressively, in a funny accent Kravitz can’t really place. Maybe it’s fake. Is this guy fucking with him? He’s too tired to be fucked with. He won’t allow it. 

“My apartment, asshole, keep up!” 

“Answer the first question!”

“You first!” Kravitz juts with the lamp, which is unfortunately a little flaccid, what with its flexible spine and all. He should have grabbed a shoe and just chucked it. 

“I don’t remember what you said!” the guy admits, which, okay, Kravitz kind of gets it, and it’s sort of hard to stay serious, even with his hackles up as they are. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“I’m in my pajamas!” Kravitz says, defensive. He knows the old, old Death Note t-shirt and Jack Skellington pants, which he got from the defunct K-mart mumble years ago, are not like. Flattering. BUT!! Listen. His vintage monogrammed pjs are in the dirty pile. And the dirty pile has gotten a little big, cause things have been nuts at work, and he’s worn out and exhausted and other words for fuckin’ wiped. What is it people say now. Eepy? Baby you’d best believe he’s eepy to the core like some kind of fucking blood disease. 

Man. Maybe he should get his vitamins checked. 

But also fuck you, closet guy, he’s in his own home, and no one was supposed to witness him tonight. He’s done being seen and perceived. You hear him? Done!

“Is that…so.” The guy squints at him. Kravitz would be assuming what the fuck he’s judging Kravitz on, but he kind of got lost in the attractive freckles and his long elegant fingers, and the gap in his teeth. And the hair, despite the fact that it is still all over the place, isn’t a minus. “I am Taako, prince of the elves.” 

“Oh, okay, and we’re back to zero,” Kravitz says, cheerfully realizing he’s going to have to fucking call 911 because he truly cannot figure out what the better option is. Except. He’s going to get strangled in his fucking Death Note t-shirt from 2013 because his goddamn Jack Skellington pants don’t have pockets and his phone is in the kitchen, actually, and they may not put that in his eulogy but everyone is going to know anyway, because of cringe osmosis. 

He doesn’t usually believe in cringe. Funny what imminent death does to your philosophy. 

“Why is that?” Taako squints at him, tucking hair behind his ears. And, shit, maybe he’s done costume work for whatever the fuck this is, maybe he’s had some insane plastic surgery, but his ears truly are crazy pointy. Not even elf in a movie pointy, like ten, twelve inches long, and they flick when Taako touches them. Kravitz reorients some facts, none of which add up, and he struggles.

“I’m Kravitz,” he says, against both his good judgement and his judgement he uses when his good judgement is dirty. 

Taako squints at him harder. Kravitz wonders if he should put the lamp down, especially considering it knocked over his wifi router which is blinking frantically like some kind of crying electric beast, but honestly whatever at this point. Like, is he going to die? Shit, then at least he doesn’t have to work tomorrow, you know? Sorry mama, he promises he cares, mostly. 

“Assistant head of sales,” he adds. Taako considers this at length. 

“I think I took the wrong portal,” he decides. He turns back to the closet, which reveals that he has a tail, actually, for real, as far as Kravitz can gather, and puts his hands on his enticing hips in frustration when he finds Kravitz’s bullshit mess of Work clothes, Dress Up clothes, Play clothes, and Nobody Can See Me Fuck Off clothes. And also four wigs, his heated blanket, the printer he’s mad at, an embarrassing amount of hangers,  and two paper boxes full of dumb garbage he can’t let go of from two moves ago. And some glitter. Shut up is why. 

"What the fuck is going on?" Kravitz demands. 

"Well," Taako says, with deep conviction, and doesn't finish. He turns back to face Kravitz. That tail flicks dismissively, still somehow incredibly appearing to be legitimate. Kravitz eyes him over, takes in his elaborate and scrumbled suit-gown of purple and gold gossamer and his thighs high boots and his golden eye makeup and also the way he keeps glancing at Kravitz's pajama pants. 

"Well?" Kravitz prompts. "You realize you're in Austin, Texas?" 

"Nah, uh," Taako looks a little pale now. "Chaboi was in Phandolin, in uh, Faerun, the fuck is a Texas?" 

So true. 

"Don't you dare tell me you hopped through a portal in my closet like reverse Narnia." 

"Narnia?" 

Man. Maybe Kravitz will hit him with the lamp. Shame he's so pretty. 

"I don't have time for this," he mutters. "You always watch those fantasy movies and they just handle it, but I don't have- what am I supposed to do, call in an elf prince personal day? If I'm going to take an elf prince personal day you can bet- sorry, I…" Kravitz winces. Just because he wants this to be fake doesn't mean there isn't a situation at hand. 

"I mean, Taako is all for an elf prince personal day if it means what I think it means." Taako grins, showing surprisingly sharp teeth, which Kravitz feels totally regular about, no details thanks. "I was running from some assholes who wanted to murder me. I mean, I don't necessarily think monarchy is the way of the future either, but you don't see me assassing about it." 

"Well, no monarchy here." Kravitz can't help but be glib. He finally puts the stupid lamp down. Just on the bed. No way he's sleeping anytime soon. This makes the cord pull taut. His sad router just slumps onto the floor. Taako jumps and inspects its flashing lights, alarmed but also kind of fascinated. 

"No?" He glances at Kravitz, and back at the lights. "Sick. That sounds easier."

"Well, it's not like there's no- we don't have to do politics. Hey, Taako, if I take this as nonfiction, which I am not committed to, and do not faint, which I am also not committed to, what the fuck am I meant to do next?"

"I mean either we take that elf prince personal day, really make it count, or uh, you magic me back home, mister?" 

"Magic isn't real!" Kravitz runs his hands down his face, excruciatingly aware of the comedy of the situation. 

"Ah," Taako says, really tasting the gravity here. "Guess there's no option but to fuck me." 

"Now hang on," Kravitz says, struggling not to laugh. 

"No, I'm right, probably." 

#taz #tazb #taakitz #the adventure zone #the adventure zone balance #fan5fics #taz balance #taakitz fic #taz nc #taz november celebration

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

It Takes a Mob pt.8

First

Previous

Ao3

It took all of Bill’s nerves to keep his eyes strait ahead. Lesser men would be following the boss as he paced around them. The sound of his steel toed boots clanking against the metal floor of the office.

But Bill refused to be one of those men. He has been earning his keep in Gotham’s underbelly since he made it through high school. He has went toe to toe with the bats in too many situations to let himself be scared shitless by a man he remembers meeting in pixie boots.

Red may have changed a lot since then, but he was still the same kid under all that body armor; dramatic sure, but still a good kid.

“Let me tell you guys a story. The big boss of a group of merry men decides to take a couple days off from his job.”

Marv was not keeping his cool as good. Out of the corner of his Bill could see him twitch with each turn Hood took.

“And everything is good! He gets to hang out with his family, catch up on the media read a couple books.”

It felt like a weird time to want to laugh, but Bill was finding it harm not to.

Between a dramatic monologue, a twitchy cohort and the small hands that were shoving themselves repeatedly into his armpit; Bill wasn’t surprised that he was loosing the battle.

‘This is my fucking life’

He tuned himself back in at a growl from the boss as he loomed over him.

‘Christ, what had daddy B been feeding him? he used to come up to my waist…’

“So what’s so funny Overbeck?”

“Oh nothing Boss, just the fact dat if we had really fucked up then you wouldn’t’ve pulled us to the side.”

Bill snarked as he tried to subtly discourage some nosy hands,

“I think we both know that you would’ve just gut us as a spectacle.”

“Is that so?”

“Like a bunch of pigs.”

The brief silence was thickening before the boss let out an ugly snort and let the tension release in his pose.

“Fuck all…”

“If you wanted information you could’ve skimped on the one act.”

With a graceless flop Red hood draped himself into one of the chairs and gestured for the two to do the same.

“Got to keep up the appearances, you know that Bill.”

And leaned forward as the two henchmen got comfortable.

Bill had to resist the impulse to smooth his hands down the kids back. Danny wouldn’t’ve minded if he did but it was best to keep minimal contact with the hidden protrusion less he wanted to bring them to the spotlight.

“So,”

Red asked his jaw on his knuckle,

“who found the kid?”

Bill time began to crawl as he felt the color try to leave his face.

Marv stood up with a jolt,

“What kid? Why are we bringing up kids?! Boss, you know we would never-“

“Jesus, will you sit down? I’m not accusing you of C.P. or some shit. There’s only so many things we use insulated boxes around here and I’m pretty sure Me-Mah would only be disappointed and mildly pissed if it was something food related.”

Marv caught Bill’s eyes with a panicked little glint,

‘Sometimes I forget that the big man was a detective.’

Bill tried to give a look that hopefully told the big oaf next to him to keep quiet.

‘Alright Red, we’re dancing now.’

“Yeah okay you caught us. There was a kid, we found them the other day while bar hopping.”

Red casually sat up and rolled his shoulders,

“Race, and description.”

“Young, couldn’t be any more than one. Caucasian, looks like one of the birds you know?”

“So why the fuck was I not informed about this?”

Ooh, that’s a dangerous tone. Not loose a kneecap tone but definitely toeing his patience.

The little old man in his head was taking a drag of a cigarette.

“Play it smart Bill or don’t play at all.”

He advised with a puff.

Bill remembered hearing those words a lot when he was younger.

The first time he heard them was after he got the snot beaten out of him in his first fight.

The last time was when he slung a bag over his shoulder and slammed the door on his old man’s face.

“Been thinking about the old guy a lot more than usual. Have no clue what that’s about.”

Bill huffed as he tried to mentally phrase his next words,

“Well quite simply it’s not an “you” problem boss. Listen, what happened to the kid was horrible, fuck whoever did it with the barrel of my gun, but you were taking a couple days off with family. What did you want us to do? Call you in the the middle of the night like “Eyy boss how’s the kids? Yeah well we found one of our own while you’ve been away! Yeah in the trash with no identification or contact information at all! See you next Tuesday!” What good would that have done other than pissing you off?”

Bill crossed his arms to try to hide some of the kid’s squirming. Looks like he got a little worked up as well during his lecture.

Hood let out a mechanical sigh,

“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t’ve been informed.”

“And you would’ve,”

Bill drawled,

“Do you honestly believe we could hide something from you forever? Might has well tell me the Joker has given up a life of crime to be a hooker.”

Both of the other men choked and Bill mentally patted himself on the back.

It was hard enough as is to get any emotion out of the boss’ when he wears his crimson dome.

‘Alright Bill, distraction successful, bring it all the way home.’

“I’m just saying, it wasn’t like this was an organized crime of dumping babies. There isn’t greasy fucktard hitting in a warehouse goin’ “you know what this city needs? Traumatized garbage collectors.” This was someone making a shitty choice an’ getting away with it. The kid is safe, an’ is goin’ to be well taken care of and isn’t that what matters in the end?”

There was pause in the air after Bill finished.

For a moment it almost felt like he had gotten away with it.

“Bill?”

“Boss?”

“What’s with the jacket?”

“Fuck.” Bill did not like where this was going.

“I let myself go boss.”

A pause of disbelief filled the air as Bill tried to keep his panic off his face. Red was meeting his eyes behind his helmet, its dead stare giving a sense of deadpan as the seconds ticked by. Marv had the chair armrest in a white knuckled grip as he frantically shifted his eyes between the two.

“A little too much takeout an’ a little less cardio than the doc ordered…”

“Bill…”

“You know how it is boss-“

“Bill.”

“Yes?”

“Take off the coat.”

“Hey now-“ Bill flung himself from his seat “you’re a great guy boss but I’m not that type of worker!”

The boss was sadly was not going to let him get away with a joke.

Marv got up from his seat as Hood began to approach,

“Cut the shit Bill. I’m not mad, just need to know-.”

Whamp!

“Marv!!”

“What?!?”

The hoodlums tags part 1

@boredomfarie , @aconitewolfsbane , @withoutcontxt @onyxlightdragon , @satanicrutialspecialist , @phoenixdemonqueen , @vixen-uchiha , @skulld3mort-1fan , @bytheoldwillowtree , @illusionwolfwriter24r8 , @thewondersoflebanon , @vipower001 , @autumnwulf , @alice-hazelwood , @fisticuffsatapplebees , @f4nd0m-fun , @markus209 , @latheevening226, @dolfay, @basilf1res , @jotaroslooseeyebrowhair , @skirter01 , @bun-fish , @ascetic-orange , @thegatorsgoose , @sunflowershine03 , @ladythugs , @firegirl108 , @glitchedchaos , @rangerhorsetug , @mimilikey , @booberrylizard , @lehana37 , @dragongoblet , @flamey-comet , @mandyne-1001 , @starscreamlover , @moonfirearc, @bae-graphomaniac , @mewzaque , @wolfeyedwitch , @idfk-man10, @demon-cat-goes-woof , @undead-essence , @jaguarthecat

#dp x dc #writing prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #dc x dp #it takes a mob

[the-phantom-author]

Wilbur Soot | Dadbur

Dadbur, dadbur, dadbur

These took like four days, and keeps getting deleted so there's more but I can't bring myself to rewrite them. Enjoy.

@starsyoubreaklikesugardust

As stated before, Wilbur could not hack being there during the actual birth, he is very supportive of you having whoever in there with you. You can bet that he is all in his head full of worry until he see the both of you. When he does he is in tears, like his two favorite girls are right there, healthy and okay.

He wants his daughter to be sleeping in your room for as long as possible, the crib is on his side of the bed, easy access for him when she wakes up in the middle of night. He does this because A) he’s worried something will happen in the middle of the night, and wants to be able to get to her as fast as possible and B) He wants to do everything for her as he can, the first couple of months are hard, both because a newborn is a lot and you’re still healing and trying to feel like a normal human person again.

He wants to keep his baby bubble as long as possible, he’s just in love with the sight of you and your baby, his baby, and he has this selfish desire to preserve that sight and feeling for himself (“No Tommy you can not come over-”). The moment that you suggest letting some people over he’s inviting everyone he knows. He loves to show off his little family, to anyone really, still doesn't love posting about it online (Wil and his weird sense of privacy).

GIrl scout dad (does the uk have girl scouts???). The most competitive person with it as well, he’s Planting trees? Science Projects? He’s doing it all.

He loves telling people stories about his daughter, If he’s waiting in line at the store, meeting a fan, or in an interview. He really can not help himself in interviews. “Yeah, with the new album we actually had my kid be the first person to listen to them, she loves them all.”Sometimes its just talking about arts and crafts that they’ve done recently.

He adores doing her hair, he’s really bad at it, but he loves that quality time. It becomes the main reason why he becomes a morning person. Once she starts going to school she goes to you to do it, but only after Wil has tried.

I also feel like she never left her “why” phase. Like you can overhear conversations that are just “What’s that” “A coffe maker” “What do?” “It makes Coffee” How” and it would just go on until either wil or you can’t explain it anymore.

Family trips, to science museums, petting zoos, aquariums, butterfly houses, and libraries.He really tries to make any outing memorable for his girls, because you both deserve the best.

When he leaves to go on tours, she always gives him her favorite stuffed animal, and tells him to take care of it. And he does, he’ll take out to any resturant or cafe or venue he’s in and takes pictures of it so you can show your daughter. He also picks up one stuffed animal every tour he’s on for her, and a bunch of small trinkets one from every city.

She likes her dad carrying her because he is 6 '5 and she likes to feel tall. She also expresses her desire to be tall by climbing on everything, couches, fridges, counters, tables, trees, honestly if you can name it she’ll get on top of it.

Wilbur likes to dance with her, no matter how old she is, he wants to dance with her. When she’s a baby, he likes swaying with her. When she’s up to his kneecaps he has her stand on his feet and does a poorly executed ballroom type dance. She gets enrolled in a dance class when she’s young and it’s one of his favorite activities to do with her.

She also likes to collect things with the both of you. Flowers mainly, she’ll always have someone press/preserve them. When she gets older she likes to send them to people with letters. She also likes to collect postcards and will demand that you go to the post office in every city you’re in.

He gets super into dress up, always gets proper outfits (Chefs uniforms, Princess dress, fFeather boas). He even gets his daughter to put makeup on him, this always comes with him making sure that she knows that she does not and will not ever need makeup and how it's only being used because it’s fun and pretty. He will always compliment the final look and make you get a picture of it.

He always hates when she has to go to the doctor's office with her. He gets really nervous, and is constantly sending you text messages about how it’s going and what the doctor is saying. Heaven forbid she gets sick while he’s on tour, he is constantly face time with you and he does make an effort to give her a shout out at every show. “This show tonight is for my daughter, who is unfortunately riddled with a really bad case of an achy tummy.”

There are several “official” recording of every song he has helped make, where in reality its just him holding her close to a mic as she babbles in babyish something that sorta sounds like the lyrics.

Wilbur can’t really cook, we know this, we know that he has bad taste buds, which means that he is no help in the kitchen. This being said he will absolutely hold his daughter on his hip, narating whatever it is that you are doing.

I am a firm believer that he grows a garden with his little family. Sunflowers, azaleas, whatever his two girls want. He’d be out there desperately trying to teach her how to plant flowers and grow a proper garden.

#wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur x y/n #mcyt x reader

[sharkface-daydreams]

No, but, OK- Chilchuck and Church would literally be that joke of not liking each other until the moment they both tell everybody else to shut up at the same time and they share a moment- "We are the same... finally, somebody who GETS me". Tex is legit impressed with the union work Chilchuck has set up, she wants to get in on this, does he need a bodyguard?

Laios and Caboose are vibing. Laios also thinks Locus is So Cool, and they're both socially inept in opposite ways, but in the sense that it kinda fits together.

Tucker is over there trying to hit on Marcille and Falin, no need to be jealous ladies, plenty of him to go around, and he'd never want to ruin such a great friendship, just gals being pals. Kai is also flirting by she Knows.

Grif wants Senshi to adopt him (and Senshi is 100% cool with that, this poor boy is so hungry), and he has to ask Simmons- "Dude, is this how you feel about Sarge? Like, all the time?". Simmons is trying to math-hack all the fantasy rules.

Carolina just killed a dragon (what, like it's hard?). Wash is like- "Well, at least nothing is gonna run over me here in wacky magic land", and then the first car in this world ever hits him. Doc is having a FUN time learning about all the weird flora and fauna here, O'Malley is already trying to become some combination of dark wizard/necromancer (but he's not good at it).

Donut meets Evil Aslan, and is just- "OK, I'm just gonna skip ahead and kill you right now. I've been through this song and dance with demon-gods, I know how it goes".

Lopez can eat living armor. like, just "raw" or whatever.

There. RVB-Dungeon Meshi crossover. I got that out of my system

ok it's still airing so my watch buddy won't watch with me yet and i have yet to sit and read the manga so im taking notes

chilchuck is a chad, got it.

caboose immediately gets a new friend, that tracks XD <3 love that for him

simmons is me in an isekai, i hate this, thank you <3

of COURSE carolina kills a dragon. of course <3 i love that for her ('what like it's hard?' elle woods has done so much for this world thank u goddess 🙏) but wash omg 😭⚰ it would happen to him. someone invents THEE first like motorized soap box derby car and itjust fuckin. smashes his kneecaps and keeps going RIP king 🙏

i love. i love all of this. question for you though. i love the implications of Lopez eating living armor raw which i know nothing about. does this count as cannibalism do you think? or do you think lopez sees himself as the ghost within the shell, separate from his armor? (or do you hc there's an android in the armor? :o i do when it's convenient for fic alsdkjflkfd)

also. this makes me think of something i want to share finally. (ill put under a cut bc adding 13 pics is a lot)

a long time ago when this picrew was first available (it's only patreon now i think? ppl kept stealing the assets💢 and such so the artist got understandably mad and took it off picrew site :( i made... RVB RPG PORTRAITS!!!! (they still have an rpg maker one but its very different)

also dont kill me but its taken me 3 years to realise i didn't make tex 😭

Red Team:

Blue Team: (had to put Church between them or they'd fight ☺)

And the mercs <3

#my writing stuff #kind of #this would be a different fantasy au #we just got a letter #rubykgrant #<33333333333333333333333 ruby i love it ty #sorry it took forever i got it JUST as i was gonna put my phone away and go to sleep last night 😭😭 #but aaaaaaaaaaa i love these im so sad the picrew is gone but im even more mad at fuckers who steal art #dont fucking do that!! #dungeon meshi #am i allowed to put that in this tag? its a crossover #rvb #red vs blue #red vs dungeon #hm. or purple vs dungeon #red vs blue vs dungeon? #aaaaaaaaaaanyway #i think my ritalin kicked in. lol. lmao #FUN RVB THINKS #i just remembered my AU tag 😭

[love-toxin]

Yandere fruity four with an angelface who was an experiment like El & has powers.

They can’t stand doctors or being trapped, if they see a needle they’ll break it instantly. When you’re sick or injured the four have to play nurse, and while it stresses some of them out (Nancy and Steve) they’re all either high key or low key happy for the excuse to dote on Angel and they’re all overjoyed when they realise what a show of trust it is.

And they have to use all their charm and persuasion and manipulation to convince them to stay inside, both out of possessiveness and their safety, and when they do go out they stick to angel like glue.

Angelface is incredibly resistant to capture or confinement, they may even be claustrophobic in particularly clinical or windowless rooms, and the thing with this Angel is that they can’t realistically keep them contained with force, especially if they had escaped the lab on their own. They can’t fight them or hold them down, they could potentially drug them but as soon as they sober up their trust is lost and they’re gonna bounce. I suppose they could keep them doped up, but the amount of intoxication needed to stop them from using their powers would essentially rob them of everything they love about Angelface, they wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation, or dance with them, or even understand the plot of a movie they stuck in front of them cuz they’d be so out of it.

Of course, this causes a fair bit of insecurity for our yan!fruits, cuz even a lil bit of sus behaviour sets off red lights in Angel’s head, at the beginning some of Nancy & Steve’s more controlling behaviour set them off and they almost ran for it, it took no small amount of begging and tears from Eddie & Robin (+ maybe Chrissy) for them to stay. So instead they turn to manipulation and bribery. Eddie/Robin/Chrissy have already deployed tears and they worked, Nancy & Steve maybe exaggerate any lab-related activities to compel them to stay inside, they all bribe them with food they never had, Rob/Steve bring back movie after movie from work insisting that they need to find Angels favourite, Eddie has to be very careful when introducing them to recreational drugs as they have that clinical trauma but teaches them how to enjoy themselves and relax, and I think they’d all use sexual bribes or use sex as a way to wear them out so they’re too tired or sore to want to go outside.

Not that Angel needs much persuading, they find crowds overwhelming and wants to avoid unwanted attention as much as possible, tho whenever they do go out they’re always with someone and more than likely wearing everybody else’s clothes which is a huge bonus.

They fucking love playing with their hair as it starts to grow out, they loved petting their hair when it was shaved but when it gets longer they get to brush it and help them style it to look nice, all of them making competitive jokes about whose hair they should copy or who styles it best.

Angelface starts out pretty naive and innocent (as innocent as someone w so much trauma can be), the world is unfamiliar and they’re still figuring out their individuality but their own inner possessive/protective/clingy yandere slowly emerges. The guys at work being patronising and demeaning to Nancy? His car ends up in a ditch on the way to the next story they were gonna steal from under her. Billy using dirty tactics against Steve during basketball? Get ready to eat it at the next game asshole, enjoy the twisted ankle. Someone calls Robin a d*ke at work? Sounds like someone who doesn’t need kneecaps, don’t come back. Eddie goes to do a deal and they decide to beat him up instead of paying him? An unseen force crushes both their hands and Angel dares them to tell anybody. TF4 don’t even fully realise it at first but over time Angel gets more blatant. Of course they want them to be careful and lightly scold Angel for it but they’re also hella flattered.

When it came to affection in the beginning they were pretty guarded, simultaneously touch starved and touch averse, the most they would do was lean into them when they sat/stood beside them, they mostly had to initiate. Now though? They can hardly get away from for a minute, if one of them needs to detach themselves from them they have to hand them over to someone else to tangle with. Nancy can now do paperwork with Angel cuddled up to her or laying in her lap, Eddie has figured out how to play guitar with Angel fully sitting on him, Robin and Steve will serve customers with a straight face with Angel clinging to their backs. They love it.

(Bit creepier but when Angel get nosebleeds from using their powers they low key fight over who cleans it up and they keep whatever bloodstained cloth they used afterwards, like a keepsake.)

- 🎃 bet you thought you saw the last of me

WROW THIS IS.......MNGH......!!!

ok but lowkey i wanna be their little unnerving-human-experiment-pet 🥺 the thought of skirting around them because you don't know how to socialize or how to differentiate good touch from bad touch, and they seem nice but you know you can't trust anybody, no matter how friendly they seem. like you said, breaking needles or even those soft syringes filled with cough syrup when they try to give you medicine, refusing to be taken to the hospital even when you're on the brink of passing out because of your nosebleeds, and just in general choosing to take care of yourself rather than trust anyone else cause you just can't bring yourself to be that vulnerable.

but when things start getting comfortable and you explore a little more, it gets so much easier. you wander over to the tv and start flipping through channels one day, you tentatively try some of the new foods you've never experienced, like boxed mac and cheese and fresh fruit. and when the four keep treating you nicely and giving you things you would have considered rewards every single day, you can't help falling in to their devotion. you learn how to love from them, you find out that it means protecting the people you care about no matter what. which is what causes you to turn that thinly-veiled anger and aggression towards others, bad people, who deserve it. in your opinion, bad people treating your loved ones badly is an unspoken agreement, one that they don't even really know they're agreeing to--because if they hurt your loves, then they forfeit whatever you deign to destroy. their property, their livelihood, their bones, whatever punishment fits the crime. and how are they gonna get away? who's gonna believe them? you'd love to see them try after they run with their tails between their legs--you won't be too worried though, because you'll be too busy cozying up to your partners with a pout after they gently scold you for committing a crime. but you don't get punished like you would at the lab, and they swear they'll still love you forever no matter what you do.....so maybe it's not too bad to get away with whatever revenge you feel is necessary.

#fruity four #fruity four x reader #st 4 #stranger things #ellie chats #🎃 anon #anons

[tropes-and-tales]

Hi! Hope you feel better soon! Being sick blows! 😩 I would like to request please: unintentionally caressing each other + drunk dancing with Horacio Carrillo. Thanks! Again, get well soon!

The sight in front of Javier is enough to pull him short, make him stand gape-mouthed in the shadows near the entrance to the bar.

It’s a little tucked-away place in a quiet neighborhood.  Not the sort of place he’d usually go to, but he wanted a bit of quiet after the past few weeks of nonstop work.

He didn’t expect to find Colonel Carrillo here…and he certainly didn’t expect to find you here.  The sight in front of him is so incongruous, it takes his brain a long moment to realize what he’s seeing.

The Colonel sits at the bar, a cigarette smoldering and forgotten in an ashtray in front of him.  You sit beside him.  It’s not shocking that you’re together, really, but it’s the intimacy of the scene that Javier would have never expected.  You and Carrillo work together, Search Bloc and DEA, but neither of you have shared even a single smile or joke in front of him. 

Here?  The two of you are swiveled in your bar stools towards each other, heads bent close.  Carrillo’s hand is on your knee, possessive, but even from his vantage point, Javier can see how the Colonel sweeps the pad of his thumb over and over your kneecap, almost unconsciously.

And you have your own hand on him, making a casual circuit between kneading the small muscles at the back of his neck, then tracing your fingertips over the knobs of his spine, just under the edge of his collar.  

It’s an entire secret relationship given a little breathing room in this moment, and Javier suddenly feels like a voyeur.  An intruder.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, frozen on the spot, but he watches the two of you murmur to each other, smile at each other.  Once, Carrillo leans back into the palm of your hand, into your touch, and he shuts his eyes as you push your fingers into his hair.  He says something that makes you laugh, shake your head, and you lean forward to kiss him lightly on his mouth.

Javier turns to leave just as you both climb off your stools—you a little unsteady, Carrillo more fluid than usual, the small army of empty glasses on the bar top a clue to your mutual inebriation.  And then the Colonel takes your hand in his, leads you to the little dance floor off to the side.  Even though the music is bright and fast, the two of you sway to your own beat, lost in each other, your own little world separate from everything else.

#ask game #horacio carrillo #colonel horacio carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #narcos #tropes and tales

[mothgodofchaos]

So you know the whole "all egos live in one house" idea, right? Well, a Y/N who's TECHNICALLY hired help, but is treated like "one of them," but they keep to themselves, and are honestly pretty shy, but some egos have taken a liking to them (Yancy, Damien, Eric, Illinois[separate]), and so one day, they walk in as Y/N's working in the kitchen, and is singing "The Masochism Tango," headcanons would be amazing, thank you!

Due to lyrical choices I'm not going to include any of the song, so insert your favorite concerning song here. Personally, I like Bust Your Kneecaps by Pamplamoose. /lh

Yancy:

Walks in to put his dishes into the dishwasher

Knows the song by heart, starts harmonizing with you as you sing

The two of you "dance" around each other in the kitchen, working in sync with one another

Ends with him pulling you into a dip, giving you a quick peck on the cheek, and running out with you chasing him

Damien:

Absolutely flustered that you would know that song at all

Little goodie two shoes man? Know that song? Absolutely not

He's completely silent in the kitchen while making his tea, letting you work

He stays turned away from you to hide his blush

But he does look up the full lyrics once he's in the safety of his study

Illinois:

To say he raises an eyebrow at your song choice is an understatement

Darling, you're not leaving the kitchen at this rate

(I personally headcanon Illinois as a bit of a chef boy, so this is his domain)

Why don't you show him what other songs you know while he fixes you something, as a "thank you"

Anything to hear you sing more is a good enough excuse to him

Eric:

If you think this boy would do anything other than just disintegrate, you're wrong

You don't realize he's there until his prosthetics hit the tile floor as he falls

You spend the next couple hours trying to get the boy un-flustered enough to function at least somewhat

Does not help that you keep touching his face to make sure he's okay

He'll survive, not like he can complain

#100 follower event #damien #wkm damien #damien x reader #damien markiplier #wkm damien x reader #mayor damien x reader #illinois james #illinois james markiplier #ahwm illinois #ahwm #illinois james x reader #markiplier egos #yancy markiplier #ahwm yancy #yancy x reader #ahwm yancy x reader #eric derekson #eric derekson x reader #meek mayor #pantry dweller #strong songbird #starshine son #chaosanswers #chaoscanons

[violettduchess]

Violet! I hope you're taking care and drinking plenty of water! If not I'll steal your kneecaps <3

I don't know if that's okay (if not feel free to ignore) but I wanted to know if you'd be okay with this request?

Yesterday I came home from ballet really sad because I work really hard to get good parts, and this time I didn't get it :,) So I felt really shitty and like a total failure. And I wanted to know if you could maybe write a small headcanon of how Chevalier, Yves and Light would comfort a MC in my situation?

No pressure, take your time and looking forward to this!

A/N: Sweet Marie, I hope I was able to do this justice and I hope you remember that while it may not have worked out this time, there is always another part waiting for you @maries-gallery 💜

Suitors x f! reader

WC: 1777

You sit in front of the window, staring out at the bright blue sky, wondering how such a beautiful color can exist when the world inside your heart feels so cold and gray. The window seat offers you a stunning view of gently rolling hills, green as emeralds, soft as silk. But even that doesn’t move you. Listless, you raise your arm to touch the cool glass, the ache in your muscles reminding you with every movement how hard you worked. Dancing through the evening and into the hushed hours of early morning, your feet blistered and sore, your body vibrating under the strain of continuation. And yet you pushed on, your mind conquering all as you focused on how it would feel to have a hundred pairs of eyes following you. You, storyteller without words, the embodiment of emotion, lifting hearts and bringing people to their feet with tears in their eyes and gasps on their lips. All you needed was to be given a chance….

But despite your blood (literally your feet bleeding through every step), sweat (your body crying under your determined, exhaustive training), and tears (please, please, please pick me….)

You were not chosen. 

And your heart feels like it is breaking under the weight of disappointment. Some dreams do not come true. Sometimes you do your best….and it is not enough. 

Your ballet shoes now lie on the floor, haphazardly tossed there when you stumbled into your room, struggling to draw air into your lungs, your chest heavy with the lead weight of failure. 

You're so enveloped in your misery, you don’t notice the opening of the door:

Licht

The sight of you in pain alarms him. He notices the slope of your body, the way you are curved inwards, away from the world, eyes glassy with tears yet to fall. The recognition is instant. He knows when a body is holding tight to something harmful. Your treasured dance shoes lay on the floor, their ribbons messy and tangled. They tell him all he needs to know about how your audition went.

He walks over to you, sliding his hands over your hunched shoulders. “Come with me?” It’s a question, not a command. He would never demand anything of you. Because it’s him, because you love him so, you force yourself to rise, using the grip of his hand on yours as a lifeline that keeps you following him, through the palace, out through a heavy wooden side door, into the fresh spring air, towards the stables. 

He slips off his coat and helps you put it on, oversized as it may be. He smiles softly at the sight of you in his colors, reaching up to adjust the collar tenderly before he disappears into the stables. A few moments later you find yourself seated atop his favorite horse, her shiny, pale mane almost silver in the spring sunlight. Licht is behind you, holding the reins, keeping you cradled within the circle of his arms, keeping you safe.

He urges the horse forward with a click of his tongue, a urgent squeeze of his legs and you’re moving, away from the palace, away from the stone walls and curated garden, through the iron gate. And then you’re flying, the world bursting into streaks of green grass and above you, an endless reel of wild blue sky. Your heart gathers itself, rising with every hoofbeat that thunders across the earth, healing as the wind whips through your hair, your laughter erupting from within, unbridled and joyful.

As wild as the ride feels, Licht has complete control over the animal, making sure you are safe as you gallop across the stunning hillside. You continue laughing, bright and loud, and he smiles as the brilliant sound tumbles through the air. All he wanted to was to make you happy again and he believes he can call this a success.

Yves

No, this cannot be. No. He will not accept the sight of you, head in hands, silent tears streaming down your face as you lean against the cold glass of the window. There must be something he can do. He closes the door to your room without announcing his presence and stalks his way to the one place he believes he will be able to make a difference.

The kitchen has a few staff members lingering as they work on dinner but they stay out of his way, used to him being down there with them when he is struck with the urge to cook or bake. Now he is working with razor-sharp focus as he searches for the ingredients he needs: creamy butter, the sweetest, reddest strawberries, milk, sugar, flour. 

He works with the concentrated precision of a man on a mission. The kitchen staff can only watch in awe as he chops and mixes, kneads and stirs. A streak of white flour decorates his cheek, his fingertips are red with strawberry juice. On a whim he takes a handful of round, succulent blueberries, adding them to his creation. Time is measured in spoonfuls and ticks away with the chopping-sound of his knife. He has no idea how long he’s been working but when the clock strikes five and the kitchen is filled with the alluring smell of strawberry, he knows he is finished.

He selects only the most perfect tart, the golden brown one with its perfect yellow custard, decorates it with tempting red strawberries and one perfect blueberry. Setting it on a small, shell-shaped white plate, he adds several deep green mint leaves on the side, wanting the plate to look beautiful. Then, with the plate in one hand and a cup of warm tea in the other, he makes his way back towards your room. He knocks with his elbow and it takes you longer than usual to open but when you do, he’s rewarded by the light of surprise in your eyes. “Yves?”

He brushes past you, walking to the bed where he sets the tart and tea down on your nightstand and motions for you to come join him. Curiosity wins over melancholy and you do as he asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Well, go on. Try it.” He gestures toward the tart, the white ruffle of his sleeve flapping like a tiny flag in the wind.

You reach over, immediately noticing the beautiful plating, the care with which he arranged something so simple. The silver fork breaks the crust with an audible crunch and warm custard and strawberry filling spill out, the scent heavenly. You slide your fork under the filling and lift, his blue-eyed gaze following every small movement. 

“Oh……” That’s all you can manage. Strawberry tarts are your favorite and he knows it. You can taste the effort he made to produce something that would bring you joy. There is love in every crumb, affection in every sweet forkful. He has taken what he has trouble putting into words and turned it into something palatable. The sweetness of his gesture fills you with a warmth that lifts your heavy heart. Turning, you lean over to place a strawberry-flavored kiss right on his cheek. “Thank you.”

His adorable pink blush is all the answer you need.

Chevalier

The first thing he notices are your beloved dance shoes, tossed to the side instead of carefully nestled in the box they belong in. You would never leave them in such a state unless….he raises his gaze to you, noting the way you are leaning sadly against the window, your face pale and tear-streaked. He steps further into the room and you hear him, jumping as you quickly try to rub the tell-tale tears away from your cheeks and eyes. You know it’s useless, he will already have seen them and knows what happened but it’s a reflex, a knee-jerk reaction to getting caught so steeped in sadness. He sits down slowly on the end of your bed, silent as he runs his gaze over you. It is a few moments before he finally speaks: “Dance for me.” 

His words send a jolt through your sore muscles, surprise spreading its wings and taking flight. “Sorry?” “Dance for me.” He will not repeat himself again. His words are clear, cut as precisely as diamonds. 

It’s the last thing you want to do. And yet your body is moving. You gather your dance shoes and slowly lace them with trembling fingers. The woolen shawl slips from your shoulders and ends up clinging perilously to the edge of the window seat. Your bedroom is large enough for you to perform the same dance from earlier today, if modified slightly. Hesitation snakes its way through you, your arms shaking as you struggle to raise them above your head. “Close your eyes.” His words brook no argument, cutting off the head of the snake with swift certainty. Drawing in a deep breath, your eyes close slowly. It takes a second. But then...you can hear the soft music in your mind and then your body knows what to do.

You move through the dance as easily as a swimmer through water. The bedroom melts away into the darkness of your vision and you float, your body taking you through the journey that is dance. A reed in the wind, you bend and turn, rising and falling to the music. You become something more than simply a human. You transcend the very limits of what that means as your body becomes pliant clay in the hands of emotion. You are joy. You are yearning. You are sorrow. And then, the music fades into the darkness like the glittery, tail-end of a comet streaking across a black velvet sky.

Blinking, you return to yourself, slowly lifting your body from the deep bow it ended in. Chevalier has not moved, not one millimeter. You find yourself caught by the deep blue of his eyes, a small ship drifting in that endless blue. As the silence stretches on, you feel a heat rising to your cheeks. It must have been worse than you feared.

“That was perfect.” 

Your lips part in surprise and the light returns to your eyes. “Really?” He leans forward, reaching out for your hand. You place yours in his, his strong fingers curling around you, pulling you towards him. He settles you onto his lap, holding you firmly in his arms. “Are you questioning your King?” There it is. Your smile. The one he knew he had to find again. The gray fog of sadness dissolves completely as you wrap your arms around him, laying your head on his shoulder. “No,” you finally answer, relishing the feel of his embrace. “Good,” he murmurs, uncharacteristic gentleness threaded through his words as he turns his head to press a kiss to your forehead. “Only a simpleton would do so.”

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri chevalier #chevalier michel #ikepri yves #yves kloss #ikepri licht #licht klein #ikemen headcanons #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #otome fanfic #violettwrites